ugh an animal without killing him, and he afterwards perishes,
when he is of no value to man. After breakfast we draw near a pond of
water; a couple of elephants stand on its bank, and, at a respectful
distance behind these monarchs of the wilderness, is seen a herd of
zebras, and another of waterbucks. On getting our wind the royal beasts
make off at once; but the zebras remain till the foremost man is within
eighty yards of them, when old and young canter gracefully away. The
zebra has a great deal of curiosity; and this is often fatal to him, for
he has the habit of stopping to look at the hunter. In this particular
he is the exact opposite of the diver antelope, which rushes off like the
wind, and never for a moment stops to look behind, after having once seen
or smelt danger. The finest zebra of the herd is sometimes shot, our men
having taken a sudden fancy to the flesh, which all declare to be the
"king of good meat." On the plains of short grass between us and the
river many antelopes of different species are calmly grazing, or
reposing. Wild pigs are common, and walk abroad during the day; but are
so shy as seldom to allow a close approach. On taking alarm they erect
their slender tails in the air, and trot off swiftly in a straight line,
keeping their bodies as steady as a locomotive on a railroad. A mile
beyond the pool three cow buffaloes with their calves come from the
woods, and move out into the plain. A troop of monkeys, on the edge of
the forest, scamper back to its depths on hearing the loud song of
Singeleka, and old surly fellows, catching sight of the human party,
insult it with a loud and angry bark. Early in the afternoon we may see
buffaloes again, or other animals. We camp on the dry higher ground,
after, as has happened, driving off a solitary elephant. The nights are
warmer now, and possess nearly as much of interest and novelty as the
days. A new world awakes and comes forth, more numerous, if we may judge
by the noise it makes, than that which is abroad by sunlight. Lions and
hyenas roar around us, and sometimes come disagreeably near, though they
have never ventured into our midst. Strange birds sing their agreeable
songs, while others scream and call harshly as if in fear or anger.
Marvellous insect-sounds fall upon the ear; one, said by natives to
proceed from a large beetle, resembles a succession of measured musical
blows upon an anvil, while many others are perfectly indes