THE, LAST FRONTIER 



the trees and bushes hang pear-shaped nests plaited 

 beautifully of long grasses, hard and smooth as 

 hand-made baskets, the work of the various sorts of 

 weaver-birds. In the tops of the trees roosted tall 

 marabout storks like dissipated, hairless old club- 

 men in well-groomed, correct evening dress. 



And around camp gathered the swift brown kites. 

 They were robbers and villains, but we could not 

 hate them. All day long they sailed back and forth 

 spying sharply. When they thought they saw their 

 chance, they stooped with incredible swiftness to 

 seize a piece of meat. Sometimes they would snatch 

 their prize almost from the hands of its rightful 

 owner, and would swoop triumphantly upward 

 again pursued by polyglot maledictions and a 

 throwing stick. They were very skilful on their 

 wings. I have many times seen them, while flying, 

 tear up and devour large chunks of meat. It seems 

 to my inexperience as an aviator rather a nice feat 

 to keep your balance while tearing with your beak 

 at meat held in your talons. Regardless of other 

 landmarks, we always knew when we were nearing 

 camp, after one of our strolls, by the gracefully 

 wheeling figures of our kites. 



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