After the Rains 



I should say the latter end of October is the 

 most charming period of the year for these parts. 

 The dead earth, black with bush fires, has now been 

 washed clean and, the rains ceasing, the sun's rays 

 pour their energy and life over everything. The 

 result is a profusion of colour and a mass of flowers 

 amid a variety of plants. Standing in my favourite 

 spot, I could see this beautiful confusion of nature 

 in all its youthful grandeur, now clothing with the 

 luxury of colour what a month or two back was all 

 barren and black. Straight along the path, from 

 underneath a natural archway of creepers, I could 

 view the clear expanse of the lake, with the freshly 

 washed rocks surrounding it, and the mauve hills in 

 the distance beyond. Probably it is early morning, 

 and the thickly webbed cobwebs have caught the 

 silver dew, which, bespangling them, adds a glitter- 

 ing radiance to the pleasing effect. 



I am longing for another shoot. I have found a 

 forked stick, just the right height to fire from. I 

 bought an iron elongated ferrule from a native, who 

 had unfixed it from the end of his spear. I fixed the 

 ferrule to the forked stick's bottom and tried my rifle 

 on it. Great success ! But the very touch of the 

 rifle brought painful longings and sweet recollections. 

 The very smell of the oil seemed to appeal to me. 

 I thought again of that lucky shot through the head 

 of the irate elephant, that damnable jam when the 

 buffalo were charging, that lucky hit at five hundred 

 yards with the buck in full gallop, and an uneasy 

 feeling seemed to permeate through my whole being. 



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