Tiger worshipers are to be found not only among the tribes of Asia, or among sportsmen and hunters; they may be seen any day gazing spell-bound through the bars at the zoo, hurrying go the circus, or looking at illustrations in books. Truly, without tigers not only would the forest and jungle lose their flame but the world would become a tamer place.

Edward Lear has made the tiger famous in a little verse:

There was a young lady of Niger,

Who went for a ride on a tiger?

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They returned from the ride

With the lady inside,

And a smile on the face of the tiger.

The tiger indeed is one of those hair-raising animals that everyone wants to see, but few want to meet face to face.

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Tigers are divided into two classes: the deer-slayer and cattle-killer; and the man-eater. Bad teeth and old age often turn the tiger’s attention to man. It is worth mentioning that, for the tiger, the change is a great comedown; it is as if a well-fed city alderman were obliged to turn from oysters to cockles and limpets.

Tigers are tremendous walkers. Man-eaters cover great distances in a night, as many as forty or fifty miles, as though in fear of approaching danger. The ordinary tiger is also a great walker, pacing through the jungle, head down, and feet treading velvet footsteps, twenty miles a night, without thinking anything of such exercise. One can picture him roaming the jungle on long, wild forays, muscles tense, senses on the alert, a wandering highwayman, with a roar that awakens the sleeping world into a start of terror. The roaring is, in a way, a kind of thanksgiving for food, though sometimes it serves to call up mates to the banquet.

In stalking and bringing down his prey a tiger does not spring. There is no sudden, steely leap into the air, no tremendous shooting forward, as when a panther launches itself into space. Without close range, takes one or two quick balancing steps, and then rushes forward. Should the quarry escape from his attack, the tiger gives up the chase after about eighty or a hundred yards.

Tiger kill, as a rule, every four days, and though fasting is not popular with their kind, they can fast for long periods of time- for a fortnight, or even three weeks, if necessary.

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No four-footed prowler moving along the green paths of the forest has such wonderful headlights as the tiger. His eyesight is excellent, and his pupils at night swell into glowing lamps. He is a first-class swimmer, and his hearing is sharp. Indeed, he has but one failing: he has practically no sense of smell. Had this sense been developed to the same degree of perfection as the others, then, truly, might the tiger menace man as well as the wilds.

Only one foe does the war-lord of the jungles fear: he is the porcupine. He is small, yet he is an adversary who in his defeat and death often wins the victory. In such a battle between David and Goliath, the porcupine, if attacked, generally brings about the death of his giant attacker by sticking him full of spears with sweeping movements of the tail. Goliath is turned into a raging pin-cushion, with little power of removing the pins.

The porcupine has scores of quills on back and tail, black spears tipped with white and varying in length from one inch to fourteen inches. They are hidden in its fur, and are lightly attached, and each has a thousand barbs tucked away in the stem. These barbs appear immediately when flesh is touched.

No animal except the porcupine can teach the tiger to mind his own business. Over all the rest of the jungle, he holds absolute sway, and his appearance is the signal for alarm. The lordly sambur stag roars, the monkeys utter screeching grunts of warning, the peacock makes off in a flutter of color. The jackal, when near a tiger’s kill, gets into an immediate fright, as thought aware that he is playing with fire. Even man grips his rifle more firmly, for he does not wish to provide another sacrifice for the yellow god of the Indian jungles.