After the numerous books that have been written on Sport in India, a chapter on this subject might at first sight seem superfluous. So might, at first sight, another novel full of what has been written thousands of times before about love. And yet we never tire of hearing or reading of either, and naturally, for both appeal to the imagination, and carry the mind far away from business or carking cares, or, in other words, that proverbial smoky chimney with which every house is provided. And if the mere reading of love or sport makes men and women feel better because it takes them away from themselves (we should have no mirrors in our rooms), what must the reality of either be? For both dart through the system with electric and delight-yielding force, and produce effects which, to those who have not experienced them, are wellnigh incredible. And, as regards big game shooting in particular, the effects are so astonishing that one almost ceases to believe in them till another experience proves over again that sport, or even the prospect of sport, can effect miracles, or at least that it can cause an alteration in the system through the action of the mind. And, some eighteen months ago, I realized this most vividly when feeling much out of sorts, and indeed unfit for anything. For just at the time of my deepest depression, news came in that a tiger had killed two cattle in my plantation, and, what made the news much more acceptable, two trespassing cattle--animals which are the plague of a planter's life. The news acted like a charm. I at once felt slightly better, better still when I arrived at the spot and saw the traces of the cattle having been dragged along the ground, and the bodies of the slain--one more than half eaten and the other untouched--and almost well when I returned to the bungalow to make preparations for hunting up the tiger. There is no tonic half so good as news of a tiger, and I feel that even news of a bear would rival in a great many cases all that a doctor could do for me. But, though tiger shooting is a valuable and delightful sport, it is equalled if not eclipsed by stalking on the mountains amidst the beautiful and splendid scenery of the Western Ghauts, when you traverse the forest-margined open lands rifle in hand, feeling that everything depends upon yourself, and followed by a tried and experienced shikari on whose keen sight and coolness you can thoroughly rely. There are natives of course and natives, just as there are Europeans and Europeans, but there are natives who have been gifted with the greatest daring, coolness, and the promptest presence of mind, and who are capable of much personal devotion to those who know how to treat them. I was fortunate enough to have one of these in my service, and to no sporting scenes in life can I look back with greater pleasure than when I was able, with my trusted native follower, to spend delightful mornings and evenings, and at certain times whole days, in