at night he
chased through the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking
his ears. He went down to the river and blared across the shallows
where Deesa used to wash him, but there was no answer. He could not
find Deesa, but he disturbed all the elephants in the lines, and
nearly frightened to death some gipsies in the woods.

At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He had been very drunk
indeed, and he expected to fall into trouble for outstaying his
leave. He drew a long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the
plantation were still uninjured; for he knew something of Moti Guj's
temper; and reported himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj had
gone to his pickets for breakfast. His night exercise had made him
hungry.

'Call up your beast,' said the planter, and Deesa shouted in the
mysterious elephant-language, that some mahouts believe came from
China at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were
masters. Moti Guj heard and came. Elephants do not gallop. They move
from spots at varying rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch
an express train he could not gallop, but he could catch the train.
Thus Moti Guj was at the planter's door almost before Chihun noticed
that he had left his pickets. He fell into Deesa's arms trumpeting
with joy, and the man and beast wept and slobbered over each other,
and handled each other from head to heel to see that no harm had
befallen.

'Now we will get to work,' said Deesa. 'Lift me up, my son and my
joy.'

Moti Guj swung him up and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look
for irksome stumps.

The planter was too astonished to be very angry.

POETRY

THE NATIVE-BORN

_We've drunk to the Queen--God bless her!--
We've drunk, to our mothers' land;
We've drunk to our English brother
(But he does not understand);
We've drunk to the wide creation,
And the Cross swings low for the morn;
Last toast, and of obligation,
A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them,
But not their hearts that roam!
We learned from our wistful mothers
To call old England 'home';
We read of the English skylark,
Of the spring in the English lanes,
But we screamed with the painted lories
As we rode on the dusty plains!

They passed with their old-world legends--
Their tales of wrong and dearth--
Our fathers held by purchase,
But we by the right of birth;
Our heart's where