A RUSH TO THE BUSI 



as they smack their hands. I stop doing the same 

 just in time to see coming a couple of black 

 spur-winged geese, which pass over my head, and 

 both of which I kill. Without waiting for more, I 

 return to camp, my face and neck dotted with 

 punctures. While bathing myself, I converse with 

 the ancient Maforga 1 who has come to tender me 

 his homage. 



When seated at table my regrets increase still more 

 that I remained under the bites of the mosquitoes 

 for the sake of bringing back such poor game. I 

 cannot recollect the name of the poet of the Middle 

 Ages, who, in singing the flavour of the heron, said 

 that, after having tasted it, he wanted to eat for ever. 

 I am not a poet, and for still other reasons refrained 

 from celebrating in verse the detestable dish formed 

 by this web-footed bird. I will content myself with 

 saying that, after having freed my teeth, at the price 

 of heroic efforts, from the mouthful which I had 

 imprudently taken, I swore to leave for ever in peace 

 this tough and stringy game. 



But if the black goose be uneatable, it is never- 

 theless a curious bird. 8 It is larger than its European 

 relatives, and, having strong legs, walks well. Its 

 beak bears a red caruncle. A sort of spur, from 

 one-and-a-half to two inches in length, made of a solid 

 horny material, arms the angle of each wing. The 



1 All the Kafir villages have the name of their chief. 



2 The black goose is called by the Kafirs tzekwe. 



(49) 



