232 The Hunting Grounds 



clouded sunset threw a rich purple haze over the 

 whole scene, and the many-tinted foliage of the sur- 

 rounding woods glistened with golden tints in the light 

 of departing day. 



The tuneful songsters ceased their warbling, and 

 the woods no longer resounded with the sharp 

 strokes of the woodpecker ; but the night-hawk was 

 on the wing, and darted swiftly to and fro after the 

 moths, which at that hour were flitting about in great 

 numbers. The air became redolent with the fra- 

 grance of numberless flowering shrubs, which seemed 

 to emit a double perfume towards the close of day. 

 The evening deepened into twilight, the twilight 

 darkened into night, and the stars with their mild 

 radiance seemed as if they strove to eclipse the 

 lingering rays of sunset. At length the mighty forest 

 became silent, and no sound reached our ears save 

 the occasional chirping of a cricket, the dismal hoot- 

 ing of the horned owl, the howling of troops of 

 jackals, or the melancholy booming of the great hill- 

 monkey. As the night wore on, the tall trees could 

 hardly be distinguished one behind another, as they 

 loomed darker and darker against an indefinable 

 background. 



Time passed slowly, the night air became chilly, 

 and at last I began to fancy the tiger, having satiated 

 his thirst with blood, had no intention of returning 

 for the flesh (a frequent occurrence) ; so I wrapped 



