BLOWING THE HOEN. 
herewith arranged, and as it will be necessary to 
blow two horns, or twice in the morning, the first as 
A orfc of warning to prepare, you will have to get 
up^at a little before five, an hour sooner, in order 
to sound the first blast. Of course you can 
turn in again after the first horn, but take care you 
don’t go T,o sleep and be too late for the second,” 
Our friend’s heart sank- Why, this was worse than 
ever ; instead of getting up at a quarter to six, it was 
now an hour sooner. 
But the plan did not seem to answer. The coolies 
declared they never heard the first horn, very likely 
on the principle of the old Scotch proverb, “ There’s 
nane so deaf as them that winna hear.” So the 
senior issued a fresh order. Just a little way in front 
of die bungalow was a small round knoll or rising 
ground, about fifty yards off. Without consulting 
the junior at all, it was arranged that at five in the 
morning he should proceed to the top of this knoll 
and blow the first horn. Now this rising ground was 
inside 'he coffee, and any one who has had any ex- 
perience knows full well what it is to walk through 
cofie-j trees early iu the morning with the night’s dew 
still on, or, it may be, after noct'irnai rains. 
One may just as well walk through a pool of water. 
Of course our friend was often laie, he would look at 
bis watch and find the hands had a good deal passed 
the dead hour of five, it w^as nearer six. What if 
the senior should awake and call out, as he had often 
done before, ‘‘I Sciy, Jimsou, what o’clock is it.’’ 
So he makes a rush fcr it in shirt, trousers and 
slippers. On his return he was as wet as if he had 
tumbled into the river. There was nothing for it, 
but to pui on dry clothes, which was no sooner done, 
thin it was time to go out again to muster the people, 
after which ho returned to the bungalow, evidently 
very much in need of a third change. “Jimson, it’s 
time you were olf,” but there was no response- ihe 
senior turns round and sees him bending on his chair ; 
his hands are over his face, drops are seen trickling 
through his fingers. Can it be possible! or is it only 
the wet trickling down from the rain-soaked hair. 
In scarcely audible tones he is heard to murmur : 
This is coftee planting: what a wretched life. If 
she saw me now what would my mother think.” 
The senior was touched, he knew what was the 
matter, for he had come through it all himself, and, 
although now he was seared and hardened, yet still 
he respected Jimson’s feelings and went out into the 
verandah, in order to leave uim alone. He knew his 
young friend would have several repeated attacks and 
relapses of this complaint, but that they would gradu- 
