The Gónd--he who lives back in the hills, far off from the
neighborhood of the extensive planting districts, which have attracted
many of those living near them to become at least half-civilized
laborers in harvest-time--is a primitive being enough.

"Only look," said Bhima Gandharva, "at that hut if you desire to see
what is perhaps one of the most primitive houses since ever the banyan
tree gave to man (as is fabled) the idea of sheltering himself from
the elements artificially." It was simply made of stakes driven into
the ground, between which were wattled branches. This structure was
thatched with grass, and plastered with mud.

The Gónd, like the American Indian, has his little patch of grain,
which he cultivates, however, in a fashion wholly his own. His sole
instrument of agriculture seems to be the axe. Selecting a piece of
ground which presents a growth of small and easily-cut saplings--and
perhaps, by the way, thus destroying in a few hours a whole cargo
of teak trees worth more than all the crops of his agricultural
lifetime--he hews down the growth, and in the dry season sets fire to
the fallen timber. The result is a bed of ashes over a space of two or
three acres. His soil is now ready. If the patch thus prepared happens
to be level, he simply flings out a few handfuls of grain, coarse
rice, kútki (ponicum) or kódon (paspalum), and the thing is done. The
rest is in the hands of the god who sends the rains. If the patch be
on a declivity, he places the grain at the upper part, where it will
be washed down by the rains over the balance of the field. Next year
he will burn some more wood--the first burning will have left many
charred stumps and trunks, which he supplements with a little wood
dragged from other parts of the forest--on the same spot, and so