nd prowling panthers stalk the wary goats.'"

"There is practically no gloaming in tropical countries," said Bertie
indulgently; "but I like the masterly reticence with which you treat
the cobra's motive for gloating. The unknown is proverbially the
uncanny. I can picture nervous readers of the SMOKY CHIMNEY keeping
the light turned on in their bedrooms all night out of sheer sickening
uncertainty as to WHAT the cobra might have been gloating about."

"Cobras gloat naturally," said Clovis, "just as wolves are always
ravening from mere force of habit, even after they've hopelessly
overeaten themselves. I've got a fine bit of colour painting later
on," he added, "where I describe the dawn coming up over the
Brahma-putra river:

'The amber dawn-drenched East with sun-shafts kissed,
Stained sanguine apricot and amethyst,
O'er the washed emerald of the mango groves
Hangs in a mist of opalescent mauves,
While painted parrot-flights impinge the haze
With scarlet, chalcedon and chrysoprase.'"

"I've never seen the dawn come up over the Brahma-putra river," said
Bertie, "so I can't say if it's a good description of the event, but it
sounds more like an account of an extensive jewel robbery. Anyhow, the
parrots give a good useful touch of local colour. I suppose you've
introduced some tigers into the scenery? An Indian landscape would have
rather a bare, unfinished look without a tiger or two in the middle
distance."

"I've got a hen-tiger somewhere in the poem," said Clovis, hunting
through his notes. "Here she is:

'The tawny tigress 'mid the tangled teak
Drags to her purring cubs' enraptured ears
The harsh death-rattle in the pea-fowl's beak,
A jungle lullaby of blood and tears.'"

Bertie van Tahn rose hurriedly from his recumbent position and made for
the glass door leading into the next compartment.

"I think your idea of home life in the jungle is perfectly horrid," he
said. "The cobra was sinister enough, but the improvised rattle in the
tiger-nursery is the limit. If you're going to make me turn hot and
cold all over I may as well go into the steam room at once."

"Just listen to this line," said Clovis; "it would make the reputation
of any ordinary poet:

'and overhead
The pendulum-patient Punkah, parent of stillborn breeze.'"

"Most of your readers will think 'punkah' is a kind of iced drink or
half-time at polo," said Bertie, and disappeared into the steam.