name for a dog is Kutta, pronounced Cootta, but the Tazi has certainly been an importation from the North-west, hence the Persian name.  The wandering Caboolees, who come down to the plains once a year with dried fruits, spices, and other products of field or garden, also bring with them the dogs of their native country for sale, and on occasion they bring lovely long-haired white Persian cats, very beautiful animals.  These Caboolee dogs are tall, long-limbed brutes, generally white, with a long thin snout, very long silky-haired drooping ears, and generally wearing tufts of hair on their legs and tail, somewhat like the feathering of a spaniel, which makes them look rather clumsy.  They cannot stand the heat of the plains at all well, and are difficult to tame, but fleet and plucky, hunting well with an English pack.

My neighbour Anthony at Meerpore had some very fine English greyhounds and bulldogs, and many a rattling burst have we had together after the fox or the jackal.  Imagine a wide level plain, with one uniform dull covering of rice stubble, save where in the centre a mound rises some two acres in extent, covered with long thatching grass, a few scrubby acacia bushes, and other jungly brushwood.  All round the circular horizon are dense forest masses of sombre looking foliage, save where some clump of palms uprear their stately heads, or the white shining walls of some temple, sacred to Shiva or Khristna glitter in the sunshine.  Far to the left a sluggish creek winds slowly along through the plain, its banks fringed with acacias and wild rose jungle.  On the far bank is a small patch of Sal forest jungle, with a thick rank undergrowth of ferns, thistles, and rank grass.  As I am slowly riding along I hear a shout in the distance, and looking round behold Anthony advancing at a rapid hand gallop.  His dogs and mine, being old friends, rapidly fraternise, and we determine on a hunt.

‘Let’s try the old patch, Anthony!’

‘All right,’ and away we go making straight for the mound.  When we reach the grass the syces and keepers hold the hounds at the corners outside, while we ride through the grass urging on the terriers, who, quivering with excitement, utter short barks, and dash here and there among the thick grass, all eager for a find.

‘Gone away, gone away!’ shouts Anthony, as a fleet fox dashes out, closely followed by ‘Pincher’ and half a dozen others.  The hounds are slipped, and away go the pack in full pursuit, we on our horses riding along, one on each side of the chase.  The fox has a good start, but now the hounds are nearing him, when with a sudden whisk he doubles round the ridge encircling a rice field, the hounds overshoot him, and ere they turn the fox has put the breadth of a good field between himself and his pursuers.  He is now making back again for the grass, but encounters some of the terriers who have tailed off behind.  With panting chests and lolling tongues, they are