HUNTING AND SHOOTING IN CEYLON 



in his ears may take up his morning lair farther inside the 

 forest. He may, too, restrict his nightly roaming to feed- 

 ing grounds more remote than the previous night when he 

 sent his challenge across valleys of patna as he fed towards 

 his rival in the open. Anyhow, the master has probably 

 harboured a stag for this particular morning. He has 

 taken a stroll round the edges of a mile or so of patna, 

 where the green fringe of short grass shows recent and 

 continuous grazing, or the rubbed and scarified bark of a 

 rhododendron bears conspicuous testimony to the presence 

 of a stag, either getting rid of his velvet, or rubbing his 

 well-worn and polished antlers as they approach the season 

 of their shedding. By the pale light of stars, or perhaps 

 a moon, the master will jog out with his pack, afoot of 

 course, and with an eager and pressing crowd at his heels. 

 No couples for this sport, if you know your hounds and 

 your hounds know you that is to say, no couples going to 

 the covert side. A good long thong to your hunting-crop 

 is all you want, and the name of each hound, even in the 

 dim light of early morning, at the tip of your tongue. 

 The air is crisp and cold, and the hoar-frost is lying 

 thick on the grass ; your dog boys walk gingerly, as their 

 bare feet become encrusted with this unwonted covering 

 of rime. At 7000 feet elevation, a late December or 

 January morning on the Horton Plains before sunrise is 

 something to remember, and who does not feel a thank- 

 fulness to be about on such a morning has an evil liver or 

 a guilty conscience. It was 5.15 by the master's watch ten 

 years ago that we left the rest-house with a strong pack 

 at our heels and 3^ couple of seizers led by the dog boy. 

 Down by the stream and all over the Gem Pit Flat the 

 hoar-frost lay white and lovely in the soft moonlight, and 

 as dawn broke and we topped Chimney Hill, each leaf on 



