alloping away in the
distance. There is no way to explain this except to attribute it to
thought transference, and this in spite of the fact that the kongoni
doesn't understand English.

The kongoni is found nearly every place in East Africa. Along the
railway between Makindu and Nairobi the species is called Coke's
hartebeest. Farther up the railway the species is Neumann's hartebeest,
while still beyond, on the Guas Ngishu Plateau and the Mau escarpment,
the species is called Jackson's hartebeest. In the main the three
varieties are almost the same; it is in the horns that the chief
distinction lies, with lesser differences in color and stature. The
hunter has been allowed to kill ten of each on his license, but under
the new game ordinance in force since December, 1909, only four
Jackson's are allowed and twenty Coke's instead of ten.

[Drawing: _The Young Kongoni Is Very Funny_]

When we went across the Guas Ngishu Plateau in early November we saw
thousands of Jackson's hartebeest, and never a calf. When we came back
in late December and early January we saw hundreds and hundreds of
calves, many of them less than a day old. The stork must have been busy,
for they all arrived at once. These little calves come into the world
fully equipped for running, and almost immediately after birth go
bounding along after their mothers, so awkward and so funny that I'm not
surprised that their own mothers look perpetually amused.

The hartebeest, or kongoni, is hard to kill. The Dutch gave him the name
for that reason. It often seems as if bullets have no effect on him. He
will absorb lead without losing a trace of his good-humored look, and
after he has been shot several times he will go bounding earnestly away,
as if nothing was the matter. If he succeeds in joining a herd there is
little way of distinguishing which one has been shot, unless he suddenly
exhibits signs or falls over. Otherwise he is quite likely to gallop
away, far beyond pursuit, and then slowly succumb to his wounds.

Again I've seen them knocked over and lie as if dead, but before one
could approach they would be up and off as good as ever. This is the
great tragedy of the conscientious hunter's life--the escape of a
wounded animal beyond pursuit--and the thought of it is one that keeps
him awake at night with a remorseful heart and saddened thoughts.
Whenever I shall think of Africa in the future, I shall think of my old
friend, the kongoni, dotting the