And now I want to tell you something about the forest, which, as we have seen from the river, practically covers the country.

We all enjoy our English woods, but these, lovely though they are, convey no idea whatever of the luxuriant and bewildering beauty of a forest in the tropics.

How shall I give you an idea of it? It is so big, so magnificent, and at times so solemn. Everywhere you are surrounded by trees of many kinds and immense size, whose huge trunks, springing from a dense mass of undergrowth, rise 200 feet or more into the air. All are bound together by a tangled mass of creepers, which mingle their foliage with that of the trees to form one huge canopy of leaves, in which birds of bright plumage and beautiful song live out their happy lives. Monkeys also make their home there, and strange insects and butterflies of rare beauty flit among the flowers, or hover in the few stray sunbeams which penetrate the gloom.

It is all very impressive, very beautiful, and still, except for the drone of insects or soft note of the songbird. Perhaps the silence may be broken by a herd of wild elephants crashing heavily through the canes, or the shrill cry of the squirrel startles the forest and warns its fellows of the nearness of a snake.

Bewilderment and wonder grow upon anyone riding through the forest for the first time, but after a few days one gradually becomes accustomed to these luxuriant surroundings, and is able to appreciate the forest in detail.

How beautiful the undergrowth is! Palms and bamboos wave gracefully above a mass of flowering plants, among and over which climb convolvuli of many kinds, tropÆolum, honeysuckle, and a variety of other creepers, forming natural arbours, with whose blossoms mingle those of the festoons hanging from the trees.

Teak, india-rubber, and cutch trees rise high above the undergrowth, and in turn are dwarfed by such giants as the pyingado and the cotton-tree. These grow to an enormous size. The pyingado, straight and smooth, often rises 150 feet before it puts forth a branch, and I have seen ponies stabled between the natural buttresses which support the huge trunk of the silk-cotton tree, sometimes 250 feet in height.

Orchids of great size grow upon the boughs, and add to the wealth of foliage, in which the large-leafed teak or rubber trees contrast with the feathery pepper or acacia; and it is interesting to notice that most of the feathery kinds bear thorns.

Though generally straight and tall, the trees are often twisted into curious joints and elbows, which give them a very fantastic appearance; but most strange of all are the creepers which bind these forest growths. Some are very large, and stretch for immense distances, linking tree to tree in twining loops, from which their hanging tendrils reach the ground, or perhaps crossing some forest glade or stream to form an aerial bridge for the lemurs or the monkeys.

One creeper in particular I must tell you about. This is called "Nyoung-bin" by the natives, and is a very strange plant. It very often springs from a seed dropped by some bird into the fork of a tree, where, taking root, it sends its suckers downwards until they become firmly bedded in the ground, then, growing upwards again, it slowly envelops the parent tree until it is entirely enclosed by the new growth, which kills it, but which in its stead becomes a new tree, larger and more lofty than the one which first supported it. This is one of the many species of ficus, of which its equally strange cousin, the many-trunked banyan, is another common feature of a Burmese forest.

Naturally these forests are alive with birds. Parrots and parakeets live among the tree-tops, and doves and pigeons, jays and mynahs, and a great variety of small birds, find their home here. Woodpeckers are busy among the tree-trunks, sharing their spoil of insects with the lizards and the tree-frogs, and among the lesser growths tits, finches, and wagtails rear their young broods.

The birds are not the only occupants of these wilds, however, for in no country is there a larger variety of game than in Burma. Herds of wild elephants roam the forests, in which are also tigers, panthers, and bears. Many kinds of deer are there, to be preyed upon by man or beast, from the pretty little gyi or barking deer to the lordly sambur. Wild pig also are very numerous, and lurking in the dank undergrowth or fissures of the rocks are many venomous snakes and large pythons.

But though so abundant, all these wild creatures are shy, and one may travel many days without adventure, and any sense of danger is soon lost in admiration of the beauties of these wilds.

Riding through such a forest is very fascinating in the early winter months. Then the ground is fairly hard, and riding would be easy were it not for the thorny vines and fallen tree-trunks which lie among the thickets. At this time, also, foliage and flowers are still luxuriant, and all kinds of wild life abundant.

But from May to October the south-west monsoon, bringing in the heavily-laden rain-clouds from the sea, pours upon the country its torrential rains, which change this beautiful forest into a swamp. The quiet creeks become turbid rivers, while the hill-sides are torn by innumerable torrents, which, washing away the earth from the roots of the trees, cause them to fall crashing among the dripping undergrowth. Bridges are swept away, and the paths become morasses. Travelling in the forest is then wellnigh impossible, though it is this time that the native woodman and the large number of young Englishmen engaged in forest-work find the busiest of the year.

Gradually the rains cease, and with the return of sunshine birds and flowers spring into renewed life, more beautiful than ever, and at no time of the year is the forest more lovely than immediately after the monsoon rains.

Presently the hot weather of March and April comes to strip the trees of their leaves, while the dak and other flowering trees are a blaze of crimson among the autumn tints. Then, when everything is dry and withered, forest fires break out in many parts of the country, consuming all but the larger trees, and leaving a blackened waste where once was a paradise of flowers. It is sad to ride in the track of such a fire, but this is no doubt Nature's way of cleaning the country, and destroying a vast amount of decaying vegetable matter and keeping in check many venomous insects and reptiles. The forest appears to be dead until the advent of the next monsoon restores to the sun-bleached skeleton its usual luxuriant vegetation.

But I hear some one asking, How do you live and travel in such a country? All through India and Burma at intervals along the main routes of travel dÂk bungalows have been erected for the use of travellers. These are small houses, containing two or three rooms, raised on poles above the ground. They are built of timber, with matting walls and thatched roof, much like the Burmese dwellings I have described. Native custodians are in charge of them, and although specially intended for the use of Government servants, any traveller may use them. In the forest similar houses, called "tais," smaller and often built of bamboo, are erected, though sometimes very small huts indeed, formed of bamboo and reeds, are the only shelter available. These are draughty dwellings, and even the best-built "tai" is partly open to the air, and affords little protection from the night cold, which is often so intense that sleep is almost impossible.

After a scanty breakfast by candlelight, a start is made in the early dawn, when the air is cold and damp, and the heavy dew dripping from the reeds and kine-grass quickly soaks you to the skin. The sunrise is curiously sudden, and very soon the sun is hot enough to compel the traveller to leave the open glades and seek the shelter of the denser portions of the forest. Hardy little ponies, sure-footed and willing, are our mounts, while elephants carry the stores and provisions, cooking utensils, and bedding, which every traveller must take with him.

In distinction to the working elephants, those employed on a journey are called "travellers," and are used for no other purpose. Their drivers are called "ouzies," and sit astride the animals' necks, with their legs hanging down behind their ears. There are several ways of mounting, each pretty: sometimes the elephant will hold up its fore-foot to form a step for its driver, or will drop upon its knees and bend its trunk to form a step, by which the "ouzie" is able to reach his seat.

When travelling they have a shambling sort of gait, half walk, half amble, but manage to get over the ground very quickly, and for such cumbersome animals are very nimble-footed. It is almost ludicrous to see the huge beasts picking their way along a narrow "bund" or crossing some ditch by a bridge of fallen logs, but they always do so successfully.

Soft and boggy land, however, is a great trouble to them, their great weight causing them to sink deep into the mud; and elephants will often show their dread of such places by loud trumpeting and great unwillingness to attempt the passage. Occasionally they will tear up tufts of reeds or boughs of trees to make a foothold for themselves, and I heard quite recently of a case where a friend of mine, while out shooting from elephants, came to such a marshy place, which at first they refused to cross. Then, before anything could be done to prevent it, his elephant seized the driver with his trunk and, placing him in the mud, used the poor native's body as a "stepping-stone." The driver was, of course, crushed to death, and my friend only escaped a similar fate by scrambling off his elephant by the tail. Generally elephants are docile enough, but are not always fond of Europeans and very much dislike a rider to approach too closely; but they rarely give trouble to their drivers, for whom they often have a genuine affection.

Roads in the forest are few, and at best are only bridle-tracks, difficult to ride over, and through which a way has often to be cut with knives, so rapid is the growth.

Travelling is slow and often difficult, and towards the great heat of midday men and animals are glad to rest, while another march in the afternoon brings us, towards sunset, to our next halting-place. Then fuel for the fires must be collected to prepare the evening meal, beds made ready, and the animals attended to. The ponies are tethered underneath the "tai," while the elephants, wearing a wooden bell called "kalouk," are turned loose into the forest, where their drivers quickly track them down again in the morning by the sound of their bell.

About sundown a strange hush comes over the forest, and the leaves hang limply after the great heat of the day. Insects and birds give up their activities, and are preparing to roost or lying in the various hiding-places they frequent. All Nature seems to be tired, and little wonder when the thermometer has shown 105° of moist heat!

Suddenly with the cooling of the air a shiver and a rustle passes over the tree-tops as the sundown breeze brings relief to the tired world. Immediately the forest is alive again, but with new inhabitants. The dancing fireflies weave rings of bluish light around the tree-trunks, already half lost in the gathering darkness; crickets and tree-frogs contribute to the growing sounds of the woody solitude; while the stealthy tread of some prowling animal is faintly heard among the withered debris of the undergrowth. It is no longer safe to wander from the camp-fire, whose flames, shooting upwards in straight tongues, light up the nearer trees in contrast to the blackness beyond, in which many a dangerous wild beast lurks. Within the circle which our camp-fire lights is safety, and in the now cold night air its warmth is grateful. No one who has not experienced it can at all appreciate the romantic pleasure of a forest camp, never more enjoyable than in the hour before "turning in," when, in the light of our blazing logs and surrounded by the dark mystery beyond, the last pipe is smoked while listening to many exciting tales of adventure, before we stretch our tired limbs in bed.