MORE TUR HUNTING 197 



We could make simply nothing of it, and, bereft of Ali, 

 all means of communicating with the rest of the men, 

 who were all Lesghians, was cut off. 



Tea seemed the thing of most moment, and we 

 joyfully set to work on a fire. Going into Kenneth's 

 tent for some matches I found our friend of the dumb- 

 crambo entertainment rummaging in my cousin's 

 things, tossing them hither and thither in deep-set 

 purpose. He extracted a spare tscherkesska and other 

 oddments whilst I watched him, and these things he 

 signified his intention of bestowing on something 

 which lived apparently rabbit-fashion, in a burrow. 



It was useless trying to unravel the mystery, so I 

 didn't try, but left him. 



After tea we sat, pleasantly tired, on hard camp 

 chairs studying Omar and wondering what he — or 

 rather FitzGerald — means sometimes. Our library, 

 of course, was very limited, but it had been selected 

 with care. It isn't every book which bears minute 

 dissection. We had pocket editions of Shakespeare, 

 Omar, and Darwin, in any one of which one may 

 become engrossed. 



Everything Darwin touches is made so beautiful by 

 the magic of his mind. I should like to know his 

 description of birds in The Descent of Man off by heart, 

 and I could read his theory of the ball-and-socket ocells 

 on the plumage of the Argus pheasant a hundred times. 



There was as much Kingsley as restriction of kit 

 permitted, for of all writers Kingsley most belongs to 

 the mountain-tops, the free air, and the grand sweet 

 song of life. 



