as he vanished into his citadel. Overhead sat a vulture in the sulks, provoked at having been persuaded to come to catch ants [“Give me a good wholesome cat out of the river”], and wondering that the kites could take the trouble to swallow such small morsels. But the vulture is alone in his opinion if he thinks that white ants are not an important feature of the rains. The fields may blush green, and jungles grow, in a week, but unless the white ants and their allies — hard-bodied and soft-bodied — come with the new leaves, the rains would hardly be the rains.
Raining! and apparently not going to stop. The trees are all standing in their places quiet as whipped children, not a leaf daring to stir while the thunder grumbles and scolds. Now and again comes up a blast of wet wind, driving the rain into fine spray before it and shaking all the garden. The bamboos are taken by surprise, and sway in confusion here and there; but, as the wind settles down to blow steadily, their plumed boughs sway in graceful unison. The tough teak-tree hardly condescends to acknowledge the stirring influence, and flaps its thick leaves lazily; the jamun is fluttered from crown to stem; the feathery tamarinds are shivering in consternation, and, panic-stricken, the acacias toss about their tasselled leaves. There is something almost piteous in the way the plantain receives the rude wind. It throws up its long leaves in an agony, now drops them down again in despair, now flings them helplessly about. But it is not often that there is high wind with the rain. Generally there is only rain, — very much. The birds knew what was coming when they saw the drifting clouds
