QUEST OF THE FIREBIRDS 251 



neck— donkey yo shoulden do dat— come back heah fore I 

 slay yo daid— " 



I began to perceive that the management of donkeys was 

 a fine art and was more than willing to turn this delicate task 

 over to Mary's attentions. 



We headed down a narrow trail directly into the interior. 

 The usual flocks of doves began fluttering before us and wild 

 hogs frequently blundered away. The trail began to narrow; 

 the bushes grew closer and thicker. Spines from gaunt thorn 

 trees caused us to edge carefully through their interstices; 

 the ground became littered with pumpkin-shaped short round 

 fat cacti with reddish top pieces reminding me of the fezzes 

 of Turks— the turk's head cactus. These grew in shallow holes 

 in the bare rock where the thorn trees thinned. The heat began 

 to rise to amazing heights; a small pocket thermometer regis- 

 tered 108° in the shade. Samson and Helen were streaked with 

 moisture and gobs of lather dripped from their tongues. The 

 bare rock underfoot was so hot it could scarcely be touched. 



By noon I had consumed nearly three quarts of water and 

 we refilled our jugs from a hole in the rocks. Mary was a 

 genius at finding water. From a thousand depressions she se- 

 lected the right ones, and usually, when she had scraped away 

 the accumulations of brown leaves and black soil, there was a 

 little skim of moisture in the bottom. This water was dark 

 brown; it crawled with insects and it stank. But it was wet 

 and I moistened my lips and followed this stout female into the 

 bush. 



The next day we reached the last waterhole, at the base of 

 a tamarind tree, with the vilest taste of any liquid I ever sipped. 

 Mary calmly filled a big bucket which she had been carrying 

 on her head and watered the donkeys— the hole was too deep 

 for them— and then refilled it for our own use. She then broke 

 a twig of aromatic thorn leaves and dropped it in the liquid 



