THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS 



looking nearly straight up and down, and through a 

 cleft the splintered snow-clad summit of Mt. Kenia. 



At length this gentle foothill slope broke over into 

 rougher country. Then, in the pass, we came upon 

 many parallel beaten paths, wider and straighter 

 than the game trails — native tracks. That night 

 we camped in a small, round valley under some 

 glorious trees, with green grass around us; a refresh- 

 ing contrast after the desert brown. In the distance 

 ahead stood a big hill, and at its base we could make 

 out amid the tree-green, the straight slim smoke of 

 many fires and the threads of many roads. 



We began our next morning's march early, and 

 we dropped over the hill into a wide, cultivated 

 valley. Fields of grain, mostly rape, were planted 

 irregularly among big scattered trees. The morning 

 air, warming under the sun, was as yet still, and 

 carried sound well. The cooing, chattering and 

 calling of thousands of birds mingled with shouts 

 and the clapping together of pieces of wood. As we 

 came closer we saw that every so often scaffolds had 

 been erected overlooking the grain, and on these 

 scaffolds naked boys danced and yelled and worked 

 clappers to scare the birds from the crops. They 

 seemed to put a great deal of vigour into the job; 

 whether from natural enthusiasm or efficient direful 

 supervision I could not say. Certainly they must 



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