Well, I am perched in a little hollow under a big grey boulder, which
serves to shelter me to a certain, but limited, extent from the brisk
showers that come sweeping over from the Lolab Valley. The hollow is so
small that it barely contains my tiffin basket, rifle, gun, and self--in
fact, my grass-shod and puttied extremities dangle over the rim, whence a
steep slope shelves down some 200 feet to a brawling burn, the hum of
which, mingling with the fitful sighing of the pines as the breeze sweeps
through their sounding boughs, is perpetually in my ears. Across the
little torrent, and not more than a hundred yards away, rises a slope,
covered with rough grass and scrub, similar to that in the face of which I
am ensconced.
Here the bear was seen at 7 A.M. by a Gujar, who gave the fullest
particulars to Ahmed Bot (my shikari) in a series of yells from a hill-top
as we came up the valley. We arrived on the scene about seven, just in
time to be too late, apparently. It is now 3 P.M., and the bear is
supposed to be asleep, and I am possessing my soul in patience until it
shall be Bruin's pleasure to awake and sally forth for his afternoon tea.
There is certainly no bear now, so I pass the time in sleeping, eating,
smoking, writing, and observing the manners and customs of a family of
monkeys who are disporting themselves in a deep glen to the left. Beyond
this ravine rises a high spur, beautifully wooded, the principal trees
being deodar, blue pine (_Excelsa_) and yew.
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