slay his enemies. Ants in England are not to be lightly trifled with, but they are mild compared with the Indian ant. This monster is half an inch in length, and if of the red variety that lives in the mango tree, it has all the courage and twice the ferocity of a tiger. When I watched the tawny hoopoes running hither and thither along the sunny gravelled paths, I earnestly hoped that each time they dipped their crested heads and snapped their long pliant bills a red ant was slain.
Another disappointment to the ardent lover is the necessity of allowing the gardener to do all the manual labour. To take a trowel and transplant, to weed the flower-beds, or to water the plants oneself, is impossible because of the heat. The mere effort of superintending and directing the compliant coolie makes one hot. The utmost I ever achieved in the way of manual labour in India was the occasional holding of the young plant in its place while the gardener filled in the soil. This privilege would not have been accorded, had it not been for the superstition of the gardener, who believed that I had a lucky hand, and that all plants touched by me would live and thrive.
A third feature of the Indian garden to which a lover of flowers must be reconciled is the pot-garden. In Madras, not having made the acquaintance of the white ant, I rebelled, and bade the man dig borders and make beds. The beds flourished, and became a wonderful blaze of colour with magnificent zinnias, marigolds, coreopsis, and other annuals. Under the fierce heat of the Indian sun they faded rapidly and ran to seed. Their glory lasted just three weeks, and then shabbiness marked the garden for its own. The borders were cleared and turned into a pot-garden of crotons, panaxes, coleus, caladiums, dracænas, ferns, and palms, which were permanent. The beds were filled with flowering shrubs,
