The wild tribes of Central India have often told the writer that at certain seasons of the year they are made aware of tigers being in the neighbourhood by horrible ‘caterwauling’ sounds emanating from the jungle; and doubtless this is correct, for we all know the agony of mind we often labour under when a conclave of our domestic cats are holding a palaver on the garden wall.
There is an almost universal belief that the lion roars when he is hungry, and in a wild state when in search of prey; but the writer ventures to say that, like the bear’s hug and other almost proverbial expressions of the kind, the idea is altogether erroneous. Probably certain verses in the Bible, more especially in the Psalms, such as ‘The lions roaring after their prey, &c.,’ and passages of a similar nature, have given rise to this impression. But, let it be asked, would so cunning an animal as the lion, when hungry and in search of his dinner, betray his approach and put every living creature within miles of the spot thoroughly on the qui vive, by making the forest echo again with his roaring? Assuredly not; for a more certain method of scaring his prey he could not possibly adopt. All quadrupeds, more especially the deer tribe, well know and dread the voice of their natural enemy. Even domestic animals instinctively recognise and show fear on hearing the cry of a wild beast.
In India, the sportsman when out in camp during the hot-weather months, often finds himself far away from towns and villages, in some wild spot in the depths of the jungle. Here, the stillness of the night is constantly broken by the calls of various creatures inhabiting the neighbouring forest—the deep solemn hoot of the horned owl, the sharp call of the spotted deer, or the louder bell of the sambur. But these familiar sounds attract no notice from the domestic animals included in the camp circle. But should a panther on the opposite hill call his mate, or a prowling tiger passing along the river-bank mutter his complaining night-moan, they one and all immediately show by their demeanour that they recognise the cry of a beast of prey. The old elephant chained up beneath the tamarind tree stays for a moment swaying his great body backwards and forwards, and listens attentively. His neighbour, a gray Arab horse, with pricked-up ears, gazes uneasily in the direction the sound appeared to come from; while the dogs, just before lying panting and motionless in the moonlight, spring to their feet with bristling back and lowered tail, and with growls of fear disappear under the tent fly.
Some few years ago, one of the dens allotted to the tigers was tenanted by a fine specimen named ‘Plassey.’ The writer first made the acquaintance of this animal many years ago when quartered with his regiment at Lucknow; and there is a story connected with Plassey’s history, the account of which should read a good lesson, and yet another warning, to too eager sportsmen when tiger-shooting on foot. Two officers of the Irish Lancers, then stationed at Lucknow, were out shooting in the Oude jungles. Captain T—— fired at and mortally wounded a tigress with two cubs. She dropped apparently dead, but with just sufficient life left in her to strike a last blow; and becoming aware of the near approach of her enemy, she suddenly recovered her legs, and in a moment sprang upon him and inflicted the most terrible injuries on the unfortunate sportsman. The tigress was speedily despatched, and the wounded man carried into the nearest station, where everything that could be done for him was done, but in vain, for after lingering several weeks, he succumbed.
Plassey and his brother-cub were taken to Lucknow and reared in the lancer messhouse, where they became great favourites. But time passed; the small harmless cubs grew into large powerful animals—and, as is usually the case, on attaining to a full size they speedily became troublesome and dangerous, so were first chained up, and later on confined in cages. Eventually, Plassey was brought home and presented to the Regent’s Park Gardens, where he died somewhat suddenly in the prime of life. Many valuable and rare animals brought from foreign countries, at great expense and trouble, to our shores, though at first, to all appearance, in the best of health, yet before even reaching middle age, gradually pine away and die. Nor is this to be wondered at when we remember how unnatural it is for them to be cooped up in cages, in place of a wild, unrestrained life, with liberty to wander where they will.
J. H. B.
WHERE THE TRACKS LED TO.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
It was indeed as Winny had said. I was as stunned by her words as though a heavy blow had actually fallen upon me, and for a few seconds could scarcely think, much less speak; but recovering a little from this confusion, I asked her for some explanation. I called it ‘explanation,’ when I spoke to her, but I felt her statement was true; their manner, their looks at parting, were sufficient to tell me all.
Godfrey Harleston had seen Winny going to and from business, and had contrived an introduction to her—this preliminary acquaintance was but slightly glanced at in her story—then, to show that his views were honourable, he had early proposed marriage, but had explained that he wished it kept a secret until some unpleasant matters which were troubling him were settled. This referred at first to the quarrels between his mother and himself, with Mr Thurles, and afterwards, to the affair of the forged bills, respecting which, to my surprise, he had spoken freely to Winny and given a tolerably correct account. Of the burglary he had said nothing, and until my speech, Winny knew nothing of it. She was startled at finding I was sent for by Mr Thurles; but when she learned it was not for the forgery—the messenger saying nothing about that—she was reassured. On that very evening Godfrey had told her that his difficulty was now settled, and, as naturally following upon this, he proposed now making their marriage known. They were talking on this subject when they met me.