ROUND THE CAMP FIRE. 



The fire-undermined logs suddenly fall together, send- 

 ing a plume of yellow sparks flying upward against the 

 black night sky. We wrap our cloaks more tightly, and 

 draw up chairs to the blaze, spreading appreciative hands 

 towards the attractive light and warmth. 



Behind us stand the white tents, in whose comfortable 

 shelter a good dinner has set us at peace with all the 

 world. Further off, the small fires, over which our 

 attendants are preparing their evening meal, throw a flick- 

 ering light on the motley equipage of an Indian camp ; 

 while above our heads hang the dark hollows of the huge 



ancient mango trees of M . Once more have we 



pitched camp at the old place. 



Our last visit was paid during the fiery month of May, 



and a very different place was M then. But now it 



is Christmas week, and one revels in the perfect weather 

 of the winter months in Central India, 



Hark ! There is the sharp whistle of pinions, as a com- 

 pany of duck wings its swift path through the cold still 

 air, high over the camp. The well-known sound of the 

 pintails conjures up pleasant anticipations of sport to come, 

 with duck and snipe, in the familiar old localities. Over 

 beyond the fire there, in the darkness, lies the dim line 

 of the jungle's edge a small piece of forest reserve, 



