HUNTING AND HUNTED IN BELGIAN CONGO 



fronds of the great banana leaves amidst which there 

 hung huge bunches of ripe yellow fruit threatening to 

 drop as every breeze waved them to and fro. Huge 

 ferns, gorgeous avenues of innumerable tropical plants, 

 babbling streams, from which the boys quenched their 

 thirst caused by the heat from the dazzling rays of the 

 scorching sun and the dust that rose up from the road. 



Dotted here and there were reed bungalows peeping 

 out from luxuriant trees and fern. Great palms with 

 nodding heads hung over quaint little grass huts by the 

 wayside, around which a number of native women and 

 children stood admiring the gaudy hues of the cloths 

 exposed for sale by Indian traders. The colours of trees 

 and plants and the native robes on the women and coolies 

 who stood gazing at us half shyly, against the beautiful 

 green in the avenue of trees, the buzz of insects, the 

 gorgeous tints of the butterflies that hovered around, 

 made one feel that here at last was a paradise to look 

 upon. 



I have had pretty good ricksha boys in other parts 

 of Africa and Ceylon, but surely there never was a more 

 fearless quartette than those boys, who ran the last stage 

 of that day's journey. The road was fairly level, but 

 plentifully strewn with boulders, to which they paid 

 no heed but tore on at a furious pace. From time to 

 time one wheel of the machine would rise over a huge 

 boulder and nearly shake me out as it crashed down on 

 the road again. The boys yelled and behaved in a 

 frantic manner when they espied any one on the road 

 in front of us, for under the clear starry sky it was light 

 enough to discern any object sixty yards ahead. It was 

 the greatest shaking up that I have ever experienced on 

 land, and sometimes I thought the whole thing would 

 have tottered to pieces as it came in contact with the 

 huge stones and ruts in the road. 



About nine o'clock we got to the Somerset Nile just 



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