102 MODERN PIG-STICKING 



only spectating ; but my excuses are received with 

 the contempt they deserve. 



Having pacified our Hon. Sec, we once more 

 continue our way, and reach the hunting-ground, 

 a strip of mimosa a mile long and a quarter of a 

 mile broad bordering the banks of a bourrh gunga. 



The grass here grows in tufts and patches, some 

 of them fifteen yards in diameter, almost im- 

 penetrable, and forming a famous lying ground for 

 pig. Apart from sport, the beat is not devoid of 

 charm. The thickness of the jungle renders the 

 progress of the line slow. We have ample time to 

 enjoy the scenery, the deep blue sky, the yellow 

 grass with its palm-trees and its thorns, and the 

 quiet stream on our right with its silky reeds and 

 silent pools, their surface, here broken into ever- 

 widening ripples as a mugger sinks noiselessly, or 

 there churned into violent commotion as some big 

 duck rises hurriedly and flies quacking away. 

 Pervading all is the faint sweet smell of the mimosa's 

 golden flowers. Rightly is it called " Mimosa 

 Land." 



Sport here is disappointing. On our left they 

 run a pig which turns out to be a sow, while the 

 heat across the stream ride a hog who has crossed 

 far for'ard, giving them only a momentary glimpse 

 of him. They have a long gallop, but never find 

 him. Such luck as there is befalls us in the centre 

 above the stream. We put up a fair pig who dodges 

 in and out of the bushes on the edge of the water 

 but is too stupid to cross. He fights well, though 

 sadly hampered by the thickness of the jungle, and 

 so dies. 



We all then cross by a ghat, one member causing 

 some amusement as his horse dives in the deepest 



