Page 29 - English Reader - 8
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                                                                    The Leopard
                                                                    The Leopard












                   Warm-Up
                   Warm-Up
              The author’s vivid description of the flora and fauna of Mussoorie is a reflection of the rich
              and diverse wildlife that thrives in the forests of India. It also indicates how because of man’s
              inexhaustible greed, some species of animals are going extinct. The focus of the story is how
              the existence of leopard is being threatened due to deforestation, poaching, and loss of
              habitat.



          I first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of
          the hill.

          The ravine was so deep that for most of the day it remained in shadow.
          This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover during
          daylight hours. Few people ever passed that way: only milkmen and
          charcoal-burners from the surrounding villages.

          As a result, the ravine had become a little heaven of wildlife, one
          of the few natural sanctuaries left near Mussoorie, a hill station
          in northern India.

          Below my cottage was a forest of oak and maple and Himalayan
          rhododendron. A narrow path twisted its way down through the
          trees,  over  an  open  ridge  where  red  sorrel  grew  wild,  and  then
          steeply down through a tangle of wild raspberries, creeping vines,
          and slender bamboo.

          At the bottom of the hill, the path led on to a grassy verge, surrounded by wild dog roses. (It is
          surprising how closely the flora of the lower Himalayas, between 5,000 to 8,000 feet, resembles that
          of the English countryside.)

          The stream ran close by the verge, tumbling, over smooth pebbles, over rocks worn yellow with age,
          on its way to the plains and to the little song river, and finally to the sacred Ganges.
          When I first discovered the stream, it was early April and the wild roses were flowering—small white

          blossoms lying in clusters.
          I walked down to the stream almost every day, after two or three hours of writing. I had lived in cities
          too long, and had returned to the hills to renew myself, both physically and mentally. Once you have

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