FROM GILGIL TO KENIA 281 
the very edge of the great cliff that overhangs the sea at 
Taormina. More than 1,000 feet below wound the road, 
and along it, a mere speck showing up against the white 
dust, marched the little brown piper at the head of his 
goats, playing the same tune no doubt that his forefathers 
had marched to more than two thousand years ago. 
The banks of the Guasi Nyiro are far from the classic 
ground where Carthage and Rome strove for the world’s 
mastery. No Gods ever dreamed of piping by an East 
African stream. Yet perhaps for all that the poor thin 
little minor tune with which my black porter cheers himself 
and his comrades as they trudge bravely along under the 
noonday sun, has, if we but knew it, a history of its own. 
For how many ages has its monotonous refrain cheered 
the monotonous life of a forgotten race? All he knows 
about it, anyway, is that his father played it before him, 
so he plays on. 
“Will no one tell me what he sings? 
Perhaps the mournful numbers flow. 
From old forgotten far-off things, 
And battles long ago.” 
I have been half dreaming as I ride, and now I notice 
that the sefari has closed up behind me, and is in unusually 
close formation. The reason is plain to see. ‘There on 
the soft sand again and again appears the odd three-toed 
foot mark of the rhino. Every now and then the cactus 
scrub is tossed aside and torn, stamped and battered where 
he rolled, and large bushes by the trail side half uprooted, 
tell of his evil temper. Several have passed here since last 
night’s rain, and we may hear his snorting squeaking cry, 
and know his sudden vicious rush, too, at any moment. 
That is the reason the sefari has closed up, and the pipers 
have stopped their piping. 
To judge by his action the rhino is nearly always 
angry with something or somebody. For him two at most 
