207 



A TIGER-DRIVE. 



IT is grey dawn on the banks of the Perak river. 

 The little Malay owl has uttered its last ku-hup; 

 in every tree small birds are twittering and fluffing 

 their feathers to warm themselves, and on all sides 

 the jungle-cocks are shrilling a cheery defiance to 

 one another. Sunken under an accumulation of 

 ghost -like mists, the wide expanse of river lies 

 pallid, drear, and chill. A faint saffron light in 

 the east enables one dimly to discern upon the 

 river bank a number of scattered dwellings, such 

 as constitute a Malay village, and at the water 's- 

 edge a long line of tethered house -boats, prahus, 

 and dug-outs. One by one Malays rouse them- 

 selves from sleep, and, with eyes and brains still 

 heavy with slumber, pull a scanty cotton cloth 

 over shivering, rounded backs, and make their 

 way to the river, where they perform their morn- 

 ing ablutions and repeat the morning prayer of 

 the Muhammadan. 



A few minutes later a glory of gold touches the 

 saffron sky, tinges it, suffuses it, absorbs it and 

 there is day. The sun springs above the horizon, 

 shows his clear disc above the distant forest-covered 



