7 8 Leaves from an Indian Jungle. 



Perhaps it would be the tinkle of bullock carts ; or the 

 flicker of a roadside fire, lit by belated villagers returning 

 from a distant market ; or the steady rtib-a-dtib-dub of a 

 village tom-tom rising on the still air. It is comforting, 

 when the night comes down, to gather nearer the goings of 

 man ; and few of us lie far afield during the hours of dark. 



I had picked up some useful wrinkles while a youngster 

 with the herd, and now every day brought its experience. 

 We learnt what to shun, and what was harmless. Bullock 

 carts laden with chattering natives might pass and repass 

 us closely ; but let one inch of a suspicious or skulking body 

 show itself for an instant, and we were off. 



One afternoon a fine buck joined us, youngsters, which is 

 unusual but a long scar showed fresh on his haunch. 

 And a sulky beast he was ! 



We had occupied the centre of an extensive cotton field 

 that afternoon, and were most of us standing about, too lazy 

 save for a chance nibble at the young leaves of the cotton 

 plants. All to be seen of our morose friend were the 

 points of his long horns, which protruded from the palati 

 stalks. 



A figure emerged from behind some babul trees and 

 strolled casually and confidently in our direction. It was 

 certainly not a villager, but its advance was so careless, so 

 artlessly guileless, that it had approached fairly close, and 

 was passing on, when something prompted our long-horned 

 acquaintance to rise and display all his black and white 

 glory, as with proudly poised head he regarded the intruder 

 in astonishment. I now recognised the figure of a sahib, and 

 led a swift flight, the big buck bringing up the rear ; when 

 again came that dreaded sharp crack, and the laggard gave 

 a lurch, but, pulling himself together, turned at right 

 angles, and limped swiftly down the furrows of the cotton, 



