Note 7 — K

On arrival at the forest depôt, with its comfortable bungalows and Kādir settlement, I was told by a native servant that his master was away, as an “elephant done tumble in a fit.” My memory went back to the occasion many years ago, when, as a medical student, I took part in the autopsy of an elephant, which died in convulsions at the London Zoological Gardens. It transpired later in the day that a young and grown-up cow elephant had tumbled, not in a fit, but into a pit made with hands for the express purpose of catching elephants. The story has a philological significance, and illustrates the difficulty which the Tamulian experiences in dealing with the letter F. An incident is still cherished at Mount Stuart in connection with a sporting globe-trotter, who was accredited to the Conservator of Forests for the purpose of putting him on to “bison” (the gaur, Bos gaurus), and other big game. On arrival at the depôt, he was informed that his host had gone to see the “ellipence.” Incapable of translating the pigeon-English of the native butler, and, concluding that a financial reckoning was being suggested, he ordered the servant to pay the baggage coolies their elli-pence, and send them away. To a crusted Anglo-Indian it is clear that ellipence could only mean elephants. Sir M. E. Grant Duff tells7 the following story of a man, who was shooting on the Ānaimalais. In his camp was an elephant, who, in the middle of the night, began to eat the thatch of the hut, in which he was sleeping. His servant in alarm rushed in and awoke him, saying “Elephant, Sahib, must, must (mad).” The sleeper, half-waking and rolling over, replied “Oh, bother the elephant. Tell him he mustn’t.”