70 THE LAND OF THE LION 
a small black snake and holding it in my hand ran after 
some of them, the way they “cleared” was a sight. One 
evening four of them were lighting their little fire, after an 
unusually hard, hot, march under a thickly growing 
large-leaved tree; the pungent smoke curled up among 
the branches and must have incommoded a fine green tree 
snake that had also sought the tree’s shelter against the 
burning sun. My porters were lolling at their ease, when 
into the very midst of the four tumbled the snake. The 
yell they raised was so sudden and unearthly, that I ran 
up with a rifle in great alarm. And it was some minutes 
before I could even get an explanation from the thoroughly 
scared men. 
In May, June, July, and August, as well as in October, 
I can, from personal experience, vouch for the fact that 
here it rains almost every afternoon. Sefari life is none the 
worse for such a rainfall, indeed, in many ways it makes 
the hunting better, as tracking can be done and camps made, 
when during a rainless period it would be difficult to hunt 
or camp. The flowers, too, are out, mushrooms grow 
(which, in a land where there are no vegetables, is impor- 
tant), and the country is green and lovely. The day’s 
work can be done before the afternoon storm rolls up. 
Indeed, I much prefer the rainy season for hunting. Its 
one and only drawback is the difficulty that sometimes arises 
in saving your headskins. ‘The rain, in East Africa, comes 
in a way all its own. Probably you notice a little cloud, 
and not a very dark one, that circles round half the horizon 
for an hour or more. “It may rain,” you say, “but it 
won't be much. There is clear sky all round the cloud, 
and beneath it. If it does come, it will quickly rain itself 
out.” Still, on it comes, and it seems to grow bigger as it 
moves, and as its fringes draw over you it begins to rain — 
rain hard, big, heavy drops, every one of which hits, as they 
come, and you feel them land with a cool pat, and sink in. 
