THE RIVER OF THE PLAINS. 1 27 



but none failing to secure a hold on the opposite side. At last some forty have 

 safely passed the stream, and only a small one is left on the near shore 

 balanced at the extremity of the branch. Twice it makes as if it would jump, 

 but both times holds back ; perhaps this is its first attempt at such a big 

 water-jump. Angry chatterings ring out from among its brethren perched in 

 different forks of trees on the opposite bank, so our young friend makes up his 

 mind and takes the desperate plunge and lands safely on the opposite side. 



Something moving farther up the stream catches the eye ; it is another 

 party of baboons crossing, but these take an easier route by a fallen tree that 

 lies from bank to bank. One after another they pass over, youngsters riding on their 

 mothers' backs, old nianed males, all ages and all sizes. Suddenly the most 

 piteous screams rend the air. Those of the troop already on the bridge fly 

 across, and those about to cross leap back into the branches of the nearest 

 tree, whilst a babel of alarmed cries fills the water-side. Recovering from their 

 momentary panic, they leap down into the lower branches and crowd together, 

 growling and barking at something on the ground — and a formidable troop they 

 look — but from below fierce growls are returned, and as a heavy body springs 

 towards them they scatter and skip up higher for safety, the while keeping 

 up an incessant babel of cries and barks. These tactics are repeated several 

 times, but every time they come down to the lower branches, angry growls once 

 more arise and a rush is made from below. At last the troop clear off, 

 jumping from tree-top to tree-top, and branch to branch, till their harsh voices 

 die away and the intruder is left with his prey. For even in this quiet spot 

 there are occasional tragedies, quickly consummated, and as quickly forgotten. 



To-day it is the crouching leopard, lying in wait by the baboons' bridge, 

 and assured that his chance must come sooner or later. To-morrow it will be a 

 lurking crocodile, indistinguishable from one of the many half-sunken logs dotted 

 in the stream, that will secure a victim. 



But now let us follow this stream down many miles across the plain and 

 into the bush-ountry beyond, where it has grown into a stately river several 

 hundred yards across, enlarged with all the waters east of Nguzeru, and south 

 of Kenya, where it flows between banks thickly lined with thorn-scrub, and bears 

 the title of the Tana River. 



Camp, let us say, is pitched on the edge of a bank dropping sheer down some 

 twenty feet to the water edge. As you look out over the slow- flowing, muddy river, 

 you instinctively liken it to the muddy Thames as seen from the terrace of the 

 Houses of Parliament. 



