for the deer, and my No. 16 shot-gun, loaded with birdshot, for jungle-fowl. Not a very heavy "battery," certainly, when compared with the formidable array of double rifles from the 4-bore, throwing a four-ounce ball, down to the double .577 Express rifle as the least deadly weapon which every genuine English sportsman in India possesses and carries with him when after big game. It takes twenty-nine of my Maynard bullets (calibre .40) to make a pound.

We hunted all the forenoon, and found a herd of axis deer feeding in a glade, but I had not enough energy to make a successful stalk, and so that chance was lost. In fact, I did not care much whether school kept or not.

We strolled through the Government Forest until nearly noon, when, just as we were about returning to camp, we heard a fearful growling and roaring a few hundred yards in advance, which set us instantly on the qui-vive. We hurried in the direction of the sound, which continued at intervals for some minutes. I said, "Tiger, Vera?" and he replied, "No, sahib, panther. Shall we go for it?" "Of course;" and on we went.

Presently we heard trumpeting and branch-breaking half a mile beyond us, and then Vera said the low roaring, or growling, noise had been made by the elephants. On our way toward the elephants, to have a quiet look at them, we came to a little nullah, and there, in the level, sandy bed of the stream, was the trail of a large tiger.

The men carefully examined the huge tracks in the wet sand, compared notes a moment, and declared the trail was fresh. Then I examined it for myself, looked wise, and said, "Oh, yes, it is; very fresh indeed." Vera looked anxiously about a moment, examined the bore of my rifle doubtfully, tried to measure it with the end of his little finger, and finally asked me very seriously whether

I would dare to fire at a big tiger with that small rifle. I said, Yes, certainly; just show me one and see." I did not for a moment allow myself to hope for such good luck as a meeting with the animal that made those huge tracks, and a shot at him. But without a moment's delay we started to follow up the trail.

The little creek ran through perfectly level and very open forest. Its bed was about eight feet below the level, forty feet wide, and almost dry. The tiger had gone loafing leisurely along down the bed of the stream, walking in the shallow water every now and then, crossing from side to side, and occasionally sticking his claws into the bank, as if to keep them in practice. Vera led the way, as usual, I followed close at his heels, and we stole along as silently as shadows.

We had followed the trail about a mile, when we came to a clump of bamboos growing in a sharp bend in the stream. Vera stopped short, grasped me by the arm, and pointed through the clump. He had the habit of grasping my arm with one hand, and pointing with the other, whenever he discovered any game, and I could always tell the size and ferocity of the animal by the strength of his grasp. This time he gave my arm such a fierce grip I knew he must have found a tiger.

Sure enough, there was Old Stripes in all his glory, and only thirty yards away! The mid-day sun shone full upon him, and a more splendid object I never saw in a forest. His long jet-black stripes seemed to stand out in relief, like bands of black velvet, while the black and white markings upon his head were most beautiful. In size and height he seemed perfectly immense, and my first thought was, "Great Cæsar! He is as big as an ox!"

When we first saw him, he was walking from us, going across the bed of the stream. Knowing precisely what I

wanted to do, I took a spare cartridge between my teeth, raised my rifle, and waited. He reached the other bank, sniffed it a moment, then turned and paced slowly back. Just as he reached the middle of the stream, he scented us, stopped short, raised his head, and looked in our direction with a suspicious, angry snarl. Now was my time to fire. Taking a steady, careful aim at his left eye, I blazed away, and, without stopping to see the effect of my shot, reloaded my rifle with all haste. I half expected to see the great brute come bounding round that clump of bamboos and upon one of us; but I thought it might not be I he would attack, and before he could kill one of my men I could send a bullet into his brain.

Vera kept an eye upon him every moment, and when I was again ready I asked him with my eyebrows, "Where is he?" He quickly nodded, "He's there still." I looked again, and, sure enough, he was in the same spot, but turning slowly around and around, with his head held to one side, as if there was something the matter with his left eye. When he came around and presented his neck fairly I fired again, aiming to hit his neck-bone. At that shot he instantly dropped upon the sand. I quickly shoved in a fresh cartridge, and, with rifle at full cock and the tiger carefully covered, we went toward him, slowly and respectfully. We were not sure but that he would even then get up and come at us. But he was done for, and lay there gasping, kicking, and foaming at the mouth, and in three minutes more my first tiger lay dead at our feet. He died without making a sound.

To a hunter, the moment of triumph is when he first lays his hand upon his game. What exquisite and indescribable pleasure it is to handle the cruel teeth and knifelike claws which were so dangerous but one brief moment before; to pull open the heavy eyelid; to examine the

glazing eye which so lately glared fiercely and fearlessly upon every foe; to stroke the powerful limbs and glossy sides while they are still warm; and to handle the feet which made the huge tracks that you have been following in doubt and danger!

How shall I express the pride I felt at that moment! Such a feeling can come but once in a hunter's life, and when it does come it makes up for oceans of ill luck. The conditions were all exactly right. I was almost alone, and entirely unsupported, and had not even one "proper" weapon for tiger-hunting. We met the tiger fairly, on foot, and in four minutes from the time we first saw him he was ours. Furthermore, he was the first tiger I ever saw loose in the jungle, and we had outwitted him. I admired my men quite as much as I did myself. They were totally unarmed, and they had seen me miss spotted deer at sixty yards; but, instead of bolting, as I should have done had I been in their place, they stood right at my elbow, like plucky men as they were. What if they had been of the timid sort? They would never have consented to follow the trail of that dangerous beast.

I paced the distance from where we stood to the dead tiger, and found it to be just thirty yards. My first was a dead-centre shot, striking him exactly in the left eye, scarcely nicking the edge of the lid. I had intended that that bullet should enter his brain, but, owing to the narrowness of the brain-cavity, it only fractured the left side of the cranium. However, it rendered him quite powerless either to fight or run away, and he would have died very soon from such a terrible wound. In fact, I now think my second shot was really unnecessary. Owing to the position of his head, I could not possibly have placed a bullet in his forehead so that it would have reached the brain, but had I been using a regulation "No. 8-bore rifle,"

throwing a two-ounce ball, I could have blown the whole top of his head off very neatly (!)-and utterly ruined him as a specimen. My second shot struck one of his neck-vertebræ and cut his spinal cord, killing him instantly, a favorite shot with me when I can catch an animal at rest.

He was a splendid specimen every way, just in the prime of tiger-hood, fat, sleek, and glossy. Up to that time I could not make myself believe that a tiger can pick up a man in his mouth and run away with him as easily as a terrier does with a rat. But when I measured that great brute, I saw and realized just how it is done.

POEMS OF HUMOR.

The poetic literature of America is somewhat abundantly supplied with the mirth-provoking element, and, in addition to the versified fund of the "lords of laughter," such as Lowell, Holmes, and Saxe, there are many chips of amusement afloat upon the tide of literature, a few of which we have gathered here. They are perhaps not the best that could have been found, but they are sufficiently diversified in style and subject to make, we hope, a sunny rift in the clouds of life. First comes one of the most popular bits of humorous verse in our literature, Albert G. Greene's funny compound of clothing and philosophy, entitled

OLD GRIMES.

OLD GRIMES is dead,-that good old man;

We ne'er shall see him more:

He used to wear a long black coat,

All buttoned down before.