vely horseshoe lake, and embosomed in a grove of trees
of great rarity and beautiful foliage. It had been built long before
the days of overland routes and Suez canals, when a planter made India
his home, and spared no trouble nor expense to make his home
comfortable. In the great garden were fruit trees from almost every
clime; little channels of solid masonry led water from the well to all
parts of the garden. Leading down to the lake was a broad flight of
steps, guarded on the one side by an immense peepul tree, whose hollow
trunk and wide stretching canopy of foliage had braved the storms of
over half a century, on the other side by a most symmetrical almond
tree, which, when in blossom, was the most beautiful object for miles
around. A well-kept shrubbery surrounded the house, and tall
casuarinas, and glossy dark green india-rubber and bhur trees, formed a
thousand combinations of shade and colour. Here we often met to
experience the warm, large-hearted hospitality of dear old Pat and his
gentle little wife. At one time there was a pack of harriers, which
would lead us a fine, sharp burst by the thickets near the river after
a doubling hare; but as a rule a meet at Peeprah portended death to the
gallant tusker, for the jungles were full of pigs, and only honest hard
work was meant when the Peeprah beaters turned out.

The whole country was covered with patches of grass and thorny jungle.
Knowing they had another friendly cover close by, the pigs always broke
at the first beat, and the riding had to be fast and furious if a spear
was to be won. There were some nasty drop jumps, and deep, hidden
ditches, and accidents were frequent. In one of these hot, sharp
gallops poor 'Bonnie Morn,' a favourite horse belonging to 'Jamie,' was
killed. Not seeing the ditch, it came with tremendous force against the
bank, and of course its back was broken. Even in its death throes it
recognised its master's voice, and turned round and licked his hand. We
were all collected round, and let who will sneer, there were few dry
eyes as we saw this last mute tribute of affection from the poor dying
animal.

THE DEATH OF 'BONNIE MORN.'

Alas, my 'Brave Bonnie!' the pride of my heart,
The moment has come when from thee I must part;
No more wilt thou hark to the huntsman's glad horn,
My brave little Arab, my poor 'Bonnie Morn.'

How proudly you bore me at bright break of day,
How gallantly 'led,' when the boar broke away!