bring my growing convictions sharply face to face with my decreasing
practice, and thus to quite frown the latter out of existence. It
happened in this wise: One day, not far from sunset, I was walking
idly along behind the chapaya, in which Bhima Gandharva was dreamily
reclining, when suddenly a pair of great _sáras_ cranes rose from the
low banks of a small stream and sailed directly across the road. Quick
as thought--indeed, quicker than thought; for if I _had_ thought, I
would not have done it--I fired, and brought down one of the monstrous
birds. As I started to approach it, Bhima Gandharva said, in a tone
just a trifle graver than usual, "Stop! wait a moment," and at the
same time halted the chapaya. The mate of the bird I had shot, seeing
him fall, alighted on the same spot, then flew up, then returned,
flew up again, returned again, with an exhibition of sad and lingering
affection of which I had not dreamed, and which penetrated me beyond
expression; so I stood half stolid outwardly and wholly ashamed
and grieved inwardly. "The sáras," said my friend, "is the type of
conjugal affection among the Hindus. The birds nearly always go
in pairs; and when one is killed, the other invariably makes those
demonstrations of tenderness which you have just seen."

As we journeyed along in the dusk came notes from another pair of
feathered lovers, "chukwa, chukwi," "chukwa, chukwi," in a sort of
mournful alternation. They were the branning ducks, he on one side,
she on the other side of the stream, as is their habit, whence they
are fabled to be a pair of lovers who must yearn unavailingly through
the long nights from opposite banks of the river.

That night, when Bhima Gandharva was asleep, I gently arose, took my
double-barrel--thou dear Manton! how often has not Jonesville admired
thee returning from the field at late evening slanting at a jaunty