people thought of us, we were called, to our faces, 'jungle-wallahs' (jungle-folk), and such indeed we were.
Plenty of books have been, and will continue to be, written on Anglo-Indian social life–some true, or partly so. I only write of our lives, and how they ran, as I have said, in untrodden ways. Should our experiences seem tame to others, I can only say that they were not so to us, or to those who shared them with us at the time.
From the story of our wanderings, composed, as it must be, of the more interesting or amusing episodes that might occur, and of descriptions of the natural beauties through which we passed, it might easily be imagined that the duties of a Forest Officer were pretty light, carrying with them what most energetic Englishmen, if at all inclined to outdoor pursuits, would simply revel in, namely, constant change of scene and scenery, and sylvan occupation, dignified by the name of duty; all heightened by the excitements of sport-shikar as we called it—at every turn, and in all forms. All the better if they took him along unbeaten tracks, as being so much the less shot over and barried.
But it was not altogether so. The responsibilities and risks necessarily taken by Forest officials are recognised by the Government they serve, a certain additional rate of salary being granted them, known commonly, and rather grimly, as 'blood money.' Other men can, and do, avoid fever-haunted localities, the reputation of which is very quickly established; they can choose their own time of year; all places are not equally bad all the year round, and fever has its special seasons; for instance, at the foot of the hilly, coffee-growing districts when the lovely, jessamine-scented blossom is out, then is malaria at its worst. There is no escape then, and all who are able to do so leave their estates, and seek a healthier clime.
For a Forest Officer there are no seasons except those with relation to his business, which includes the planting
