XIII 



THE PANTHER I DID NOT SHOOT 



It was January 13 of a good many years ago, in 

 those happy days that have " gone glimmering 

 through the dream of things that were." The sun 

 had scarcely risen, and I was sitting in the cosy 

 cabin of my yacht enjoying my " chota hazree," 

 which, being interpreted, means " lesser presence," 

 and in Anglo-Indian speech signifies an " eye-opener " 

 of tea and toast — the greater presence appears some 

 hours later and we call it breakfast. I will not say 

 that the view from my cabin windows was enchant- 

 ing. The placid waters of the broad creek would 

 have been pleasant to look upon if the level rays of 

 the sun in his strength had not skimmed them with 

 such a blinding glare, but the low, flat-topped hills 

 that bounded them were forbidding. 



The people said truly that God had made this a 

 country of stones, but they forgot that He had 

 clothed the stones with trees of evergreen foliage 

 and a dense undergrowth of shrubs and grass, to 

 protect and hold together the thick bed of loam 

 which the fallen leaves enriched from year to year. 

 It was the axes of their fathers that felled the trees, 

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