s of every hue, all alike nearly scentless. Here is
no odorous breath of violet or honeysuckle, no delicate perfume of
primrose or sweetbriar, only a musty, dank, earthy smell which gets
more and more pronounced as the mists rise along with the deadly
vapours of the night. Sleeping in these forests is very unhealthy.
There is a most fatal miasma all through the year, less during the hot
months, but very bad during and immediately after the annual rains; and
in September and October nearly every soul in the jungly tracts is
smitten with fever. The vapour only rises to a certain height above the
ground, and at the elevation of ten feet or so, I believe one could
sleep in the jungles with impunity; but it is dangerous at all times to
sleep in the forest, unless at a considerable elevation. The absence of
all those delicious smells which make a walk through the woodlands at
home so delightful, is conspicuous in the sal forests, and another of
the most noticeable features is the extreme silence, the oppressive
stillness that reigns.

You know how full of melody is an English wood, when thrush, blackbird,
mavis, linnet, and a thousand warblers flit from tree to tree. How the
choir rings out its full anthem of sweetest sound, till every bush and
tree seems a centre of sweet strains, soft, low, liquid trills, and
full ripe gushes of melody and song. But it is not thus in an Indian
forest. There are actually few birds. As you brush through the long
grass and trample the tangled undergrowth, putting aside the sprawling
branches, or dodging under the pliant arms of the creepers, you may
flush a black or grey partridge, raise a covey of quail, or startle a
quiet family party of peafowl, but there are no sweet singers flitting
about to make the vaulted arcades of the forest echo to their music.

The hornbill darts with a succession of long bounding flights from one
tall tree to another. The large woodpecker taps a hollow tree close by,
his gorgeous plumage glistening like a mimic rainbow in the sun. A
flight of green parrots sweep screaming above your head, the _golden
oriole_ or mango bird, the _koel_, with here and there a red-tufted
_bulbul_, make a faint attempt at a chirrup; but as a rule the deep
silence is unbroken, save by the melancholy hoot of some blinking owl,
and the soft monotonous coo of the ringdove or the green pigeon. The
exquisite honey-sucker, as delicately formed as the petal of a fairy
flower, flits noiselessl