ROUGHING IT IN SOUTHERN INDIA 45 



to where a tragedy was being played out ; he would then 

 give what help was possible — in most cases a merciful 

 shot. 



He never shot monkeys for sport — few sportsmen do ; 

 monkeys are too human, and their moans are heart-rending 

 when wounded. One morning, riding by the jungle-side, 

 we heard such moans, and looking about came upon a 

 mother monkey shot or shot at by some one, for she had an 

 arrow in her neck, and was mortally hurt, and dying ; her 

 baby was hugged close to her in death, and was sucking milk 

 with all its tiny force. I need not say she was put out of 

 pain without delay ; we took the baby, handing it over to 

 a syce's wife, who nursed it by turns with her own infant, 

 and it throve well. We had that little thing for years ; 

 it became a well-known and somewhat dreaded — or shall 

 I say respected — person, for it could be very spiteful, 

 though never was so to its friends and familiars. 



Another time it was an even sadder chapter in monkey 

 life that was disclosed to us when we heard piercing 

 Rachel-cries resounding through the jungle, and found 

 a mother monkey crouching over her dead little one, beat- 

 ing her poor hairy breast and dabbing leaves and mud 

 on the little body where an arrow had found its mark. 

 We could do nothing here. There seems little difference 

 between the mother-grief of a monkey and that of a 

 human being, but the monkey not having as yet reached 

 the hope that bears up the other perhaps suffers the more ; 

 perhaps she forgets sooner too. — Who knows ? 



