OUR STATIONS ON THE NILE 185^ 



It was at Fovira that I first saw a small species of crow with 

 a long, brown, and pointed tail. It was present in large numbers,. 

 and busy on the newly-tilled fields in search of grubs. At first 

 1 thought there must be two distinct species, as the beak of some 

 was black and of others blood-red ; but when I saw the black- 

 billed feeding the red-billed, I knew that one was but the young 

 of the other. The red colour was due to the presence of blood 

 shining through the horny substance, and exactly in the same 

 way that a finger-nail becomes pale when pressed, the red beak 

 became colourless under pressure. I saw here, too, the pretty 

 green pigeon called "ninga" by the Swahilies. Its feet and bill 

 are orange-red. It lives on berries. When perched in the green 

 foliage it is most difficult to distinguish from its surroundings. 



There are pleasant walks in the neighbourhood, and since the 

 Government road leading to Masindi has been finished, the 

 pedestrian can walk for hours without being bothered by the 

 prickly darts of the rank grass, or the thorns, thistles, and burrs, 

 which obstructed the path on my first visit to Fovira. 



Everybody has not a talent for building a house, but the 

 officer in charge of Fovira knew what he was about when he 

 built the neat bungalow inside the fort. It is a combination of 

 two Soudanese circular huts joined on to a small central Swahili 

 hut. A narrow verandah runs all round the building. Each of 

 the three rooms has three small square windows with wooden 

 shutters. The mud walls, of the usual wattle and daub style, 

 are washed over with some whitish clay, the nearest approach to 

 white-washing which can be locally obtained. 



My host courteously placed one of the rooms at my disposal. 

 He was busy superintending the construction of a seine or casting- 

 net for supplying his table more easily with fish ; in the meantime 

 he persuaded me to while away an hour on the river with hook 

 and line. I have never been a devotee of Izaac Walton's "gentle 

 art," and it is years since I baited a hook and threw a line ; nor 

 have I gone in for boating since I feathered an oar at college ;. 

 but I accepted the invitation as offering a better chance of seeing 

 a species of kingfisher which my host, not knowing its name,, 

 called the "golden kingfisher," and which, according to him, 

 did not answer the description of any of the different sorts of 

 kingfishers one usually meets with in Africa. It was not the 

 large black and white sort, which hovers with incessant flutter of 

 wings above one spot, keenly watching for its prey, and then 



