THE RIVER OF THE PLAINS. 1 29 



Now let us once more trek down this big Tana River. For several days no 

 human beings save a few Wakamba hunters have been met with, and they only 

 few and far between. Marching downstream, and following the bank of the river 

 in the shade of the narrow belt of trees at its edge, you occasionally disturb a 

 little dikdik which scampers off. Before long the thorn-bush becomes denser, and 

 you can no longer travel in the shade, but have to take to the open plains at its 

 edge, and as you proceed, the thick thorn on either bank spreads farther and 

 farther afield, and you have perforce to march farther away from the river. Two 

 great forms, with shaggy heads, rise slowly up from under a tree and glare at 

 you as you draw near. They are two old buffalo bulls which seem to resent your 

 presence, but, after a brief stare, they toss their heads and gallop off into the 

 bush. Much buffalo-spoor is about, and also that of giraffe. The former have 

 left their wonted haunts some few days westward in the hills, and have wandered 

 down to the big river, but they are not habitual visitors to these parts. Presently 

 an alarm is given from behind, and some of the porters throw down their loads 

 and hurriedly scramble up trees. The cause of the trouble is a buffalo cow which 

 has been wandering by herself. Though wild enough looking as she tosses her 

 head and tail, she intends no harm, but just gallops across, bent only on a return 

 to the herd. Climbing on an ant-hill to watch her progress, you see her join a 

 mass of wildly tossing horns and tails, which denote the presence of the herd. 



Presently the whole herd makes off with a crashing of branches and rattling of 

 hoofs against the loose stones lying on the red soil ; then, having restored confidence 

 among the porters, you once more proceed on your way. From high above a low 

 thorn-tree a long-necked giraffe takes note of your approach, and soon, having 

 satisfied itself as to your appearance, moves off and joins its family party, when, at a 

 slow and stately gallop, the whole party makes off, with necks slightly extended, and 

 easily recognised from their immense bulk and the height at which they stand above 

 the low thorn-bushes. You watch them as they disappear into a dip, to reappear again 

 on the far side and slowly make their way up to the top, where they are clearly 

 defined against the sky, though they must be a couple of miles off. 



A heavy shower in the afternoon fills up some of the little water-holes on the 



edges of the plain, and so permits you to camp there instead of having to dive 



through the thick thorn-bush back to the river. Soon after sunset you hear, that 



finest of all nature's sounds, the lion's roar, resounding over the plains, and your 



hopes run high with expectancy for the morrow. However, in the morning no 



roaring is to be heard, although anxiously listened for, and so trek is resumed, 



keeping just outside the thick thorn and among the more scattered bushes, which 



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