towards the earth which they never touch. I have seen an avenue at Coimbatore of these trees with their brown roots so thick overhead that they seemed to form a tunnel of earth, pierced at intervals with openings to let in the light. The other banyan has no rootlets nor supporting stems to its branches, and its long arms suffer badly when the cyclone sweeps in from the Bay of Bengal.
The tamarind is a familiar tree common to most compounds. In shape it is not unlike an elm. Its foliage, of the character of acacia, is extremely fine, each tiny leaflet being barely half an inch long and not more than an eighth of an inch broad, yet its green crown is so thick that the rays of the sun scarcely penetrate, and the weary traveller and tired cooly eagerly seek its shade during the fierce noontide heat. The fruit crop is valuable, as the tamarind is a necessary ingredient in every curry. Its presence in the garden is not approved of by the gardener. The acidity, which is so marked a feature of its fruit, extends to its leaves, and the moisture dropping from the foliage is said to be tainted also; it poisons the vegetation on which it falls; also it produces decay in tents that are pitched beneath its shade. No native will sleep at night under it, as it is supposed to be a favourite abode of devils. I once carried my little daughter out into the compound at Trichinopoly, and, not noticing where I was going, wandered to a beautiful tamarind tree under which I often sat in the morning. The ayah hurried after me with an urgent entreaty not to take * baby ' there. 'Why, ayah?' 'There's a devil in the tree,' was the reply, given with bated breath and terrified glances at the soft, thick foliage above, and she fled to the house, lest the devil should take possession of her. As a protection against the consequence of my rash act 'baby' played with bunches of neem leaves the next day. The leaves of the neem or margosa (Melia indica) are said to
