238 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
I have seen many wonderful sights from an 
automobile,—such as my first Boche barrage and 
the tree ferns of Martinique,—but none to com- 
pare with the joys of vision from prehistoric 
tikka gharries, ancient victorias, and aged hacks. 
It was from the low curves of these equine rick- 
shaws that I first learned to love Paris and Cal- 
cutta and the water-lilies of Georgetown. One 
of the first rites which I perform upon returning 
to New York is to go to the Lafayette and, after 
dinner, brush aside the taxi men and hail a vie- 
toria. The last time I did this, my driver was so- 
old that two fellow drivers, younger than he and 
yet grandfatherly, assisted him, one holding the 
horse and the other helping him to his seat. 
Slowly ascending Fifth Avenue close to the curb 
and on through Central Park is like no other ex- 
perience. The vehicle is so low and open that 
all resemblance to bus or taxi is lost. Every- 
thing is seen from a new angle. One learns in- 
cidentally that there is a guild of cab-drivers— 
proud, restrained, jealous. A hundred cars rush 
by without notice. Suddenly we see the whip 
brought up in salute to the dingy green top-hat, 
and across the avenue we perceive another vic- 
toria. And we are thrilled at the discovery, as 
