CHAPTER XXI 



THE WILD MAN OF THE GOLAMBEPO MOUNTAINS 



SOME years ago, I was hunting in the Golambepo 

 Mountains that fringe the eastern shores of Lake 

 Nyassa, and my camp was pitched near the 

 Letombochie stream. The country that sweeps 

 from the Golambepo to the Awembe Mountains, 

 with lofty ridge and deep ravine, is perhaps the 

 most romantic that it has been my lot to see. 

 Early in the morning, snowy mists cap the peaks, 

 and from their chilly heights, clear, cold rivulets 

 leap and dash, shining in the sunlight, to the warm 

 valleys far below. High up, where the vegetation 

 is stunted, the aspect is bleak and heartless, and, 

 gradually, the flora, as if gaining strength in the 

 descent, like some mountain stream, becomes more 

 and more beautiful and finally bursts into wild 

 tropical luxuriance in the heat of the lowlands. In 

 the uplands, the air is so cool that, on occasions, for 

 want of other fuel, we have been obliged to gather 

 dry elephant dung for a fire, in order to enjoy 



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