THE LAST FRONTIER 



yellow, sometimes even with vivid red flowers. Be- 

 neath them was only a small matter of ferns to clear 

 away. 



Before us the sodded bank rounded off ten feet to 

 the river itself. At this point far up in its youth it 

 was a friendly river. Its noble width ran over shal- 

 lows of yellow sand or of small pebbles. Save for 

 unexpected deep holes one could wade across it 

 anywhere. Yet it was very wide, with still reaches 

 of water, with islands of gigantic papyrus, with sand 

 bars dividing the current, and with always the vista 

 for a greater or lesser distance down through the 

 jungle along its banks. From our canvas chairs we 

 could look through on one side to the arid country, 

 and on the other to this tropical wonderland. 



Yes, at this point in its youth it was indeed a 

 friendly river in every sense of the word. There are 

 three reasons, ordinarily, why one cannot bathe in 

 the African rivers. In the first place, they are nearly 

 all disagreeably muddy; in the second place, cold 

 water in a tropical climate causes horrible conges- 

 tions; in the third place they swarm with crocodiles 

 and hippos. But this river was as yet unpolluted 

 by the alluvial soil of the lower countries; the sun 

 on its shallows had warmed its waters almost to 

 blood heat; and the beasts found no congenial haunts 

 in these clear shoals. Almost before our tents were 



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