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tion. The still implanted rice-fields across a fair-sized tributary of the Menam are alive with small knots of people in gaily colored garb, among whom the yellow robes of the priesthood are seen in large numbers. About two miles away is a belt of bamboo bushes, in and out of which people are incessantly dodging. Presently a solitary elephant, an enormous single-tusker, mounted by two men, slowly stalks through an opening in the bushes. He is the decoy or leader. Soon one or two wild elephants follow, and at sight of them a yell of "Chang-ma!" ("The elephants are here!") arises from the spectators. Shortly, the bushes grow alive with elephants; they come pouring through every gap, about two hundred of them, and quietly assemble behind the leader on the open plain. Meanwhile, several others, mounted by men carrying spears, have come through other openings, and now form a guard which prevents the wild herd from breaking back. The whole herd begins to move forward, conducted by the leader, and guarded on all sides by the spearmen. It moves in a stately mass, and at every stride the elephants splash their heads with water from the rain-covered fields; to cool themselves, occasionally they throw the water over their backs.

On reaching the river some hesitation is shown by the front ranks of the herd, for the bank is fully six feet high. In goes the leader, however, and persuaded by his example, and yielding to the pressure behind from those anxious to get away from the spearmen, the mass follow, looking like a big, black avalanche as they slide down the bank. Once in the water, they show great delight in it after their long, hot march. The crowd of spectators awaits them on the opposite bank, but as they approach and begin to emerge from the stream, breaks away and scatters wildly in all directions.

The river crossed, the trained and well-guided leader heads straight for a large square inclosure made of great teak posts. Come into the inclosure, he passes, by a gateway at the right, into a second inclosure, which narrows to an exit nine feet wide; and by this exit he passes on into the corral—or, as it is called in Siamese, paneat—proper: a large square inclosure surrounded by a brick wall about twelve feet thick and, at the entrance, ten feet high.

The herd has no choice but to follow. One and another member of it, growing suddenly suspicious, may turn back; but there are the mounted guardsmen with the spears to set them again forward. Pushing, crowding, crossing each other, bunting each other over, blocking the way in a futile endeavor to go three abreast, roaring, groaning, bellowing, the duped, terror-stricken creatures cling to the leader's heels. The top of the wall is crowded with spectators, for the passage in yields the best view of the elephants. They are of all sizes, from the full-grown elder down to the baby no bigger than a retriever dog. In the crush it looks at moments as if nothing could save the small ones from being tramped to death, and the distress of their mothers for them is a thing strange and pitiful to see. But they dodge in and out, boring a path for themselves, and in the end come through unharmed. One of the older ones, a beast