IN THE VALLEY OF THE TLOM
Where the forest yields to the open space,
And the trees stand back to see The waters that babble and glisten and race
Thro* woodlands trackless and free $ Where the soil is ploughed by a thousand feet,
And the salt lies sweet below, Here nightly the beasts of the jungle meet To wallow, and bellow, and blow.
Very far away, in the remote interior of Pahang, there is a river called the Tlomaan angry little stream, which fights and tears its way through the vast primaeval forest, biting savagely at its banks, wrestling impatiently with the rocks and boulders that obstruct its path, rippling fiercely over long beds of water-worn shingle, and shaking a glistening mane of splashing, troubled water, as it rushes downwards in its fury. Sometimes, during the winter months, when the rain has fallen heavily in the mountains, the Tlom will rise fourteen or fifteen feet in a couple of hours, and then, for a space, its waters change their temper from wild, excited wrath, to a sullen anger, which it is by no means pleasant to encounter. But