Accordingly, I crept from my room, wakened him and my sister, and told them to get up, to bring their guns, and follow me, as the back veranda was full of wild animals, who might at any moment break into the house. They were both singularly uninterested in my information (indeed my brother only sleepily murmured "let them break" and went to sleep again) but I insisted, and at last he rose in a very bad temper and came to inquire into the cause of my alarm.
Of course, the noise he made tumbling about and opening the door scared our visitors, and when he went out, the veranda was empty. A few scathing remarks about my powers of imagination were all the thanks I received for thus saving the lives of the family. Ingratitude, thy name is brother-in-law!
After that my visitors came frequently, but I felt that I would rather die than risk more sarcasm, and when I found they had no evil intentions I grew rather to enjoy watching them. Their marvellous quickness, their caution, and the silence of their movements seemed to give a faint suggestion of what jungle life must be, though, of course, the jackal compared with the nobler animals, is no more than "Jacala, the belly that runs on four feet."
After a while, our visitors were inspired to show their gratitude by nightly serenades. Gratitude is always delightful to meet with in man or beast, but I wished their's had taken some other form. A jackal's voice is powerful but unpleasant, and has a mournful effect upon the nerves.
Of dead beasts I saw many. The jungle round Remyo seemed to be a perfect menagerie, and a noble panther, tiger or bear was often borne in triumph into the station and deposited in the centre of the Club compound, to be admired of all beholders.
When no time could be spared for an organised shoot, a reward would be offered for the carcase of any panther or cheetah which might have been annoying a neighbouring jungle village, and the animal, when killed, was always brought in to be shown to my brother by the claimants of the reward. It was a little startling at first to have bears, panthers, etc., casually brought and deposited at one's front door, but we grew accustomed to it after a while, as one grows accustomed to all things but hanging. On one occasion some natives brought in the body of a huge leopard which had killed and eaten a man near their village (a most unusual proceeding for a leopard), and a terrible looking animal it was, with huge claws and teeth, and a sneaking deceitful face. The whole incident was disagreeably gruesome.
On another occasion we were presented with two live bear cubs, whose parents had been killed. They were dear little fluffy brown creatures, and we longed to keep them, but they generally become a great nuisance when older, as they are always treacherous, and capable any day of trotting into the village and killing half a dozen people as a morning's amusement.
I was strangely lucky (or unlucky, I hardly know which to call it) in the matter of snakes, for I did not see a single live snake during my visit. I constantly expected to meet one in the compound or jungle, but I never even found one coming up the water-hole in the bath-room, or coiled up in my bed. The creatures never came near me, even though I spread out the skin of a huge rock snake in the compound, in the hopes that its relations (as is invariably the custom with snakes in books) might be induced to assemble.
The most wise looking creatures (always excepting the elephants) which I saw were the Burmese bullocks. Their grave, thoughtful, placid faces reminded me of the images of Gaudama. As they crawl along their way drawing the creaking bullock carts to the bazaar, or trot merrily through the jungle, taking gaily-attired Burmans to attend a Pwé, they have ever the same patient, quiet, abstracted expression, as though this menial work is to them a mere appendage to the deeper life of meditation. This is what their expression conveys to me; some think it denotes stupidity.
The cattle belonging to the Burmese appear to be most independent animals. Each morning they wander away into the jungle at their own sweet wills, returning at night of their own accord for the milking. We were much astonished one day, when, in answer to our request that the milk might be brought earlier in future, the milkman replied with much "shekkohing" and humility that it could not be, as the cow did not wish to return earlier from her walk. The Burmans are very casual in their treatment and care of the cattle, numbers of which fall victims to tigers and other rapacious beasts.