CHAPTER XIII. 



SNAKES. 



" These are the only serpents he can write." DRYDEN. 



I TAKE a middle position as regards snakes. I neither 

 yearn for them as pets, nor shrink from them in horror. 

 For the exceptional few the living snake may be a desir- 

 able pocket companion, a graceful armlet, and a sleek and 

 slippery friend. For the average majority of human folk, 

 on the other hand, the snake may be positively repellent, 

 a glittering foe, the sign arid symbol of the evil one. But 

 for myself, though I do not care much for handling them, 

 yet in their proper place in nature snakes and all their 

 serpentine allies exercise a subtle and not un pleasing 

 fascination. I well remember how, one bright and sunny 

 afternoon, on the basal slopes of Table Mountain, above 

 Wynberg, in the Cape Peninsula, I came upon a cobra. 

 He was gliding slowly arid silently over a large flat slab of 

 rock on which rested a great granite boulder. Evidently 

 unaware of my presence, he took life easily, and I watched 

 him for a while in silence. Then stooping softly I picked 

 up a small stone and pitched it on to the granite slab just 

 beyond the cobra. Instantly the creature was on the 

 alert. The head was raised a foot or more from the 

 ground, the hood was expanded, the gliding motion, 



