24 Leaves from an Indian Jungle. 



After a deep draught and a roll in the damp sand I felt 

 better, and stood listening. It was indeed good to live again 

 to feel once more the grand unbroken solitude of my native 

 wilds to smell the resinous perfume of the salai trees stand- 

 ing in their ghostly array up the hillside to see the hills 

 slumbering under the moon, and hear the jungle stir in its 

 sleep the distant call of some wakeful night-bird, or the 

 rustle of a dried teak leaf, as it floated, twirling, lightly to 

 the ground. 



I did not fully recover from this day's trouble for many 

 long weeks and lost condition. It was difficult to get at 

 the wound and keep it clean of flies and maggots, 



I thought deeply also on the hind's bark that had work- 

 ed so nearly fatally on my curiosity, and have since learn- 

 ed that the cry of our species can be fairly well imitated by 

 the Korkus, who hold a leaf of the pa Ids totheir mouths and 

 blow on it : this I have from my old pal Bhalu, the black 

 one, whom I found the other morning digging out an ants' 

 nest. We are good friends, and it is only during the mhowa 

 season that our interests clash. Bhalu is quick-tempered, 

 and when we see his shaggy coat moving at midnight under 

 the mhowa trees and hear him sucking and slobbering 

 over the luscious flowers, we know better than to poach on 

 his preserves, although, after all, his angry demonstrations 

 are little better than a pretence, and laughable at that. 



He keeps us merry too on moonlit nights, when he and 

 Mrs. Bhalu fall out and wrangle, and the gubars, the tiny 

 owls, wake to chortle and hideously chuckle as they sit 

 demurely side by side in the branches overhead. 



One more adventure, Sahih, and I have done. It concerns 

 those vile little foes of ours from whom there is seldom 

 escape the wild dogs. When I tell you that forest reserva- 

 tion has so increased their numbers that for every one 



