In Wildest Africa -^ 



down to the river-side. Endless morasses of reeds 

 enfolded us, in whose miry depths the foot sinks even 

 in the dry weather, in which the sultry heat enervates 

 us, shut in as we are by the rank growth that meets 

 above our heads as we grope through it. At last we 

 reach some solid earth, and it looks as though here, 

 beneath some sycamores, we have found a better camping 

 place. Deep-trodden paths lead down to the waterside. 

 We follow them through the brushwood, I leading 

 the way, and thus reach the stream. The rush and 

 roar of the river resounds in our ears, and we catch the 

 notes, too, of birds. Suddenly, right in front of me, the 

 ground seems to quicken into life. My first notion is 

 that it must be a gigantic crocodile ; but no, it is a 

 rhinoceros which has just been bathing, and which now, 

 disturbed, is glancing in our direction and about to attack 

 us or take to its heels — who can say ? Escape seems 

 impossible. Clasping my rifle I plunge back into the 

 dense brushwood. But the tough viscous branches pro- 

 ject me forward again. Now for it. The rhinoceros is 

 "coming for" us. We tumble about in all directions. Some 

 seconds later we exchange stupefied glances. The animal 

 has fled past us, just grazing us and bespattering us with 

 mud, and has disappeared from sight. How small we 

 felt at that moment I cannot express ! In such moments 

 you experience the same kind of sensation as when your 

 horse throws you or you are knocked over by a motor- 

 car. (Perhaps this latter simile comes home to one best 

 nowadays!) You realise, too, why the native hunters throw 

 off all their clothing when they are after big game. On 



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