THE RAINS 127 



at a distance, the cry is not altogether unpleasant : it 

 has a weird, melancholy cadence, even slightly melo- 

 dious, but on nearer approach the melancholy, wailing 

 cry changes to a sharp, yelping bark of intolerable 

 discord ; it suggests almost the idea of a legion of 

 fiends. As with the frogs, the amount and loudness 

 of the clamour is out of all proportion to the number 

 of the animals. These packs do not usually consist 

 of more than five or six jackals. To judge by the 

 noise, one would suppose them scores. 



According to native belief, each pack of jackals has 

 its chief or leader, and their cry is interpreted into 

 a conversation between the chief and his followers. 

 The chief calls out, " Soopna men raja hooa " (" I am 

 the king in the night," literally " in the sleep-time ") ; 

 and then the other jackals reply, " Hooa! hooa! hooa!" 

 ("You are! you are! you are!"). With a little imagin- 

 ing, the cry, if not heard too near, does really appear 

 to fit the words. 



Slowly, wearily, with its damp, exhausting heat, the 

 month of August passed away. Towards its termina- 

 tion some indications appeared of the approaching 

 advent of the cold weather. The first indication was 

 not altogether agreeable : it consisted in the torpidity 

 of the flies. In this condition they were terrible: the 

 waving of the fan was powerless to drive them away, 

 and when they alighted on the hands or face the 

 sensation of their damp, clammy bodies was something 

 to excite a shudder even in recollection; but the annoy- 

 ance did not long continue. Each day the flies were 

 fewer ; in the course of a week or ten days they had 



