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that thou shouldst ask me that?' I of us, my sister? Dost thou not questioned. love us?'

'Men always insist on remaining ignorant,' she retorted and went on with her story. 'I learned cooking, serving dinner, how to dress for cooking, then how to dress for dinner after cooking. The garment of the kitchen may be worn only after an arduous bath and the cleansing of the body. Once the cooking is done, the garment of the kitchen must be put away and the garment of the feast donned. I was not allowed to rest in the afternoon in the dress of the feast - Oh, there were a thousand little things that the woman-mind picks up as a miser gathers his pennies: there was the evening toilet, the meditation - all these things was I taught as well as the work of pleasing a husband. But now I seek only to please God,' she concluded.

'How much Sanskrit dost thou know, sister?' I asked.

'A few hymns. The one I love most is: "Those who with steadfast love worship Me, seeking Me in all things, and all things in Me, shall attain the supreme Light." I weary of all this; I hunger for the stealthy one - Death.'

Something in her voice made my brother who had been silent all this while ask gently, 'Dost thou weary

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THE IBEX AND THE ELEPHANT

BY DOUGLAS BURDEN

AFTER wintering in the tropics, it was a relief beyond anything that I can hope to describe to get up into the vale of Kashmir. From the heat-laden plains around Delhi to Rawal Pindi, the jumping-off place for Kashmir, is less is less than twenty-four hours by train. A day and a half more by motor and one has reached the famous valley. Such a contrast to the dusty plains, such scenery, such fresh color, and such air are too much for mere words. In no time one is walking around with one's head literally in the clouds, and one's spirit soaring over the great mountains to the Tibetan steppes.

Shikaries and coolies were obtained and at last I was slipping away on the quiet waters of the Yelum in the shadows of the Himalaya range. At Bandipore we outfitted. The last dusts of civilization were printed in the snow of the virgin forest that surrounded the Dak Bungalow of Tragbal, and there, after a night's rest and a little climb before dawn, I was standing on the summit of a 12,000-foot pass. Quite a contrast it was to the heat of Delhi. Forced marches carried us through the Burzil pass, fearful with its threat of snow slides, majestic in the silent grandeur of the moonlight. The only safe method at this time of year was to travel by night so as to cross the pass before the sun could awaken the tremendous power that lay hidden in the harmless-looking sheets of snow. Eventually we descended to the village of

I

Los on the right bank of the Astor River and, after spending the night in the beautiful orchard of the Lombador, or headman of the village, we pushed on a half day's march further to my nullah.

Within an hour after camp had been pitched I found myself in something of a predicament. We were just going to 'take a little look' on the markhor ground and therefore, without bothering to put on grass shoes, we started off following the chota-shikari, attired in the usual chaplis - hob-nailed sandals. Presently we came to some cliffs but, since no markhor were to be seen, Jumma Khan scrambled down. Even though the cliffs were precipitous it looked easy when the Dard went down. I therefore started to follow, but soon discovered that there was something radically wrong. The chaplis were useless so I took them off. Rahima, I noticed, did likewise. Then I continued the descent, getting into a worse and worse fix the further I went, until at last I found myself completely stopped. This was not any fun at all. I looked down and the view was distinctly good so good, in fact, that I had to force myself to look away and study the cliffs at hand.

I failed to see any feasible cracks into which I could take a step either forward or back. This business of hanging onto a rock face I cannot call exactly boring, but long before Jumma Khan came up to my rescue I was quite

convinced of the care for it a bit. rived I was able, by dint of using his shoulders as a foot-step, to manœuvre the descent, but it took a long time. Rahima also, I am glad to say, required help. On looking back up to the cliffs I said to him, 'Do we have to go on this sort of ground every day?' 'No,' he answered, 'every day little, little bad; every day not very bad.' From the way he said it, I was not reassured, for I have never entertained any delusion that I was a mountaineer. On this sort of going I was as bad as a child learning how to walk.

fact that I did not When at last he ar

A few minutes later we were creeping up very cautiously to look over some more cliffs. Just as I peeped over, I heard a strange sound, and saw two female markhor going down the mountain. Markhor going down a mountain are a sight worth seeing. It seemed to me that they went down over the rocks just as fast as antelope run on a level plain. I had no idea that any animal could go over such frightfully steep rough ground at such a pace without coming to grief, and, had I not seen it with my own eyes, I should not have believed it possible.

Markhor, although of the goat family, do not seek safety in height. On the contrary they will almost always run down hill, unless wounded. Rahima told me that quite frequently, even when shot at from below, they will come right down past the hunter, thereby giving him a chance for a second shot. Markhor are constantly on the watch, looking both up hill and down, and the smallest falling stone attracts their immediate attention. Furthermore they have good eyesight and good noses. A markhor is by far the most difficult animal to bag that I have ever hunted.

It is easy to see why an old solitary male, with his grand spiral horns,

his long beard, and shaggy underlock, is the much prized trophy that he is. Among Kashmir big game the markhor ranks first, and quite rightly so. In the case mentioned above I do not believe that the two females got our wind. It was a good day, and in good weather, as a general rule, the wind blows up the mountain by day and down by night. In bad weather the wind may blow anywhere and everywhere and that line of Kipling, 'Where the baffling mountain eddies chop and change,' applies only too well.

There are many stories in which some grand old animal, usually with a head of heads, is hunted for days or weeks or months or, sometimes, even for years; and the interest in the story and the value of the animal increase in direct ratio with the time required to bring him to bag. For example, an English sportsman a good many years ago located a record markhor in the Kajnag. On a two months' leave he failed to get him though he hunted nothing else. The following year, on a three months' leave, he was no more successful. The third year, determined to get that markhor, he came back on a six months' leave. On the last day, when it was due only to the persuasive powers of his shikari that he went out at all, he shot the markhor. It had a sixty-inch head. That, where one has the opportunity, is the real sport in hunting; spying out some grand old wary king and going after him. Be it deep in the jungle or up among the crags, it makes no difference; the prize is worth the chase.

Following my markhor hunt we went after ibex; for two weeks we had been after one strange-looking, solitary old ibex with a wild head, and my shikari had ceased to eat. (This apparently is a shikari superstition in Kashmir as well as in China.) "Too many days going behind this ibex' he

said.

'Never before I see ibex like this.' By which he meant that ibex are as a general rule easy to get. It is well known that in the Rocky Mountains it is simply a question of climbing to get your old 'Billy.' The same to a lesser degree is true of ibex. They have the Billy's instinct of going up in case of danger so strongly developed that if you can get above them and shoot down, even though they be out of range, they are apt to come up to you. The difficulty that we had with the old ibex was due both to his unusual craftiness and to the frightful ground that he inhabited. Abadabur Nullah is a markhor nullah, and markhor ground is almost certain to be bad ground; but, whereas markhor stay comparatively low down, the ibex goes right up among the peaks. Thus it is pretty safe to say that when you propose to hunt ibex in a markhor nullah you have your work cut out

for you.

Rather than go through the painful account of the two weeks' chase I will simply tell of the last three days, for they are typical of the others. A certain evening is very memorable chiefly on account of Rahima's great faith in a benevolent God. The usual fruitless attempts had been made throughout the day. Jumma Khan had been sent away early with orders to move camp, so we had no local guide to take us down one of the few possible routes by which we could get to camp, and Rahima was on this occasion, I thought, a very poor substitute. Already the virgin slopes and the forbidden pinnacles of ever beautiful Nanga Parbat were bathed in a flush of color by the evening sun. There she was, serene and perfect, raising her head above all worldly things. I could have sat and looked at her for hours, but even now the deep chasm below was growing darker. Rahima plunged ahead over

the rocks and before I knew it we were in trouble, so that I soon forgot all about the beauties of Nanga.

I shall always remember that descent of two thousand feet over what seemed to be an endless series of cliffs. Several times the thought flashed across my mind that it was all up with little me, but always the tiffin coolie who was clambering dexterously around in bare feet would come to my aid. Sometimes I did not think it possible even for the tiffin coolie to effect a descent. These particular ledges were all shelving at a rather steep dip. Also, the rock was friable and therefore likely to give way at any moment, and that was the worst of it. I have already stated that I did not care at all about hanging around the edge of cliffs and I repeat it now. At best it is not too pleasant a sensation to be flattened out against a wall of rock and to realize that one little slip means that you must say good-bye. Nevertheless, although I was frightened, I found that my mind was perfectly calm, and when studying the ground for the next step it worked carefully and deliberately. Also I could look down without the slightest feeling of dizziness. But my legs behaved very badly. Several times as I hung stretched out along the rock face, carefully balancing on bent knees while preparing for the next move, my knees would begin to shake most horribly as if they had the ague. I saw that Rahima and the tiffin coolie noticed my ailment, and it was most embarrassing: for although I realize now that I must have been very frightened, yet at the time I was sure that I was not scared. Whenever I had a good grip with my hands I was all right. Rahima on the other hand had to get a sure footing before he felt safe, so that in some places where I had great difficulty Rahima found no trouble, and others which were comparatively easy for me caused Rahima

considerable embarrassment. It was all easy for the tiffin coolie.

The descent lasted several hours so that it was some time after dark when we came down around under a ledge of rock into camp. Then I sat down by the fire and told Rahima just what I thought of him for bringing me down over those cliffs. 'Damn foolishness' I called it. Then I explained to him that I came all the way to Astor to hunt and to have a good time and not to break my neck. To which he replied by way of a mild compliment - meant to appease 'God always taking care of good sahibs. Sahib not falling.' I answered in no unmistakable terms that God had had nothing to do with my not falling from the cliffs and that on no account was he to take me again over such ground. Then Rahima tactfully changed the subject to the ibex which it appeared had been seen just before dark. The ibex, they said, was now lying down about two thousand feet above camp where he could keep a good eye on the enemy.

Before daylight next morning we crept up after the ibex, but it was all wasted energy for he had slipped away, and, when we got there, only his fresh tracks were to be seen. These we followed about a mile into the snow and then saw him about a thousand feet above us circling back. He saw us too and turned. This time he selected a position from which he commanded a wonderful view of all the ground, and then lay down. Any attempt at a stalk was useless, so we sat behind some rocks and watched him. Late in the afternoon he got up to feed and we made another attempt. He looked up and caught us in the act of crossing a snowslide; so we just sank slowly down in the snow, hoping that he would begin to feed again. But he had no such intention and stood with his eyes glued on us. So we waited and waited there

in the snow until I thought I should go distracted.

After about an hour of this absurd performance the ibex did not interest me in the least. The only things I could think of were how cold I was, and a couple of lines from Kipling: 'Do you know the long day's patience, belly down on frozen drift,

While the head of heads is feeding out of range?'

And yet for a long time I held myself in, for there was Jumma Khan lying motionless in front of me, with bare feet in the snow and the goose flesh standing out all over him; and I marveled at the toughness of the man. At last I told my shikari what I had been wanting to tell him for a long time and I can leave it to anyone's imagination as to what was said. Long since have I been convinced that at least as far as patience is concerned man cannot compete with a wild animal. When we did finally get up I lost all dignity and reserve and began jumping around and poking Jumma Khan. The latter was fairly beside himself from the painful wait and at each poke exploded as if all the pent-up forces of a volcano were inside. In this way we restored ourselves to normal human beings and then made our way slowly back to camp.

The following day we got up before daylight again. It was always the same this getting up before daylight -and I loathed it. Russléon, the tiffin coolie, had found out that the only way to wake up the sahib was to bring him a cup of tea and to sit there till he drank it. Russléon would hold my clothes ready for me to put on, so then I would simply have to get up and dress by candle light. It was awful getting out of a nice warm furry sleeping-bag into the cold air and darkness and in a minute I would have to rush to the fire. Coolies would immediately

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