MY SOMALI BOOK 117 



the gaunt devourer of babes turned and made off, 

 the erstwhile trot become a shambling canter, and 

 — I let him go. 



Why ? I think one of the most wonderful things 

 about the working of the human brain is the way in 

 which some subtle thought-connexion will suddenly 

 recall memories that a second before would have 

 seemed ridiculously irrelevant to the circumstances 

 of the moment. Do you remember your Horace ? 



Integer vitae scelerisque punis 

 non eget Mcmris jaculis iieque arcu 



Namqtie me silva lupus in Sabina 

 dum meam canto Lalagen et ultra 

 terminum curis vagor expeditis, 

 fugit inermem. 



I cannot plead guilty, I fear, to having been singing 

 of Lalage just then, nor even that my thoughts were 

 very far awa}^ ; nor was I unarmed like the poet's man 

 of blameless life ; while I do not suppose there was 

 much in common between the Somali landscape and 

 the Sabine forest. But I dare say my war aha was as 

 dangerous — or as harmless — as Horace's wolf of old. 



Anyway, just as the beast saw me and stopped, 

 those were the lines that came into m}^ head, bringing 

 with them memories of the days when I was a member 

 of the oldest school in England and read Horace in 

 the Fourth Form under a master whose iron-handed 

 rule did not always effectually conceal the kindly soul 

 behind. 



Fate took me away to finish my school da3^s else- 

 where, and the Sandhurst examiners had no use for 



