6 THE LAND OF THE LION 



picturesque cotton togas, stand in groups at many a corner, 

 laughing and chaffing the idle native porter as he saunters 

 by, while hundreds of their more virtuous (let us hope) 

 and much more naked sisters, stand in companies or 

 squat on the ground outside some Indian's store or con- 

 tractor's office, a black baby in an unspeakably oily bag 

 at their breast, and sixty pounds of mealy meal, tightly 

 bagged, slung by a headstrap, and carried low down 

 behind their shoulders. Yes, I never can get tired of 

 sauntering in Nairobi main street. 



The Europeans whose bungalows dot the wooded hills 

 that on two sides surround the town, have a fine view 

 over the Athi plains. With Zeiss glass it is still possible 

 to see immense herds of game harte beste, zebra, gnu, 

 Grant's and Thompson's gazelles feeding. Thirty miles 

 away stands Donyea Sabuk a partly wooded precipitous 

 hill; rising some three thousand feet, and round its base 

 within a circle of a few miles, I suppose it is no exaggera- 

 tion to say, that twenty white men have been killed or 

 mauled by lions. 



The flowers in Nairobi are a delightful surprise and 

 wonder. Even in the dusty streets of the town they are 

 plentiful. In poky little ill-kept gardens, or on unsightly 

 corrugated iron roofs they climb and twine. When some 

 pains are taken with them, and they are tended and watered 

 in drought, they bloom and flourish as Italian roses do, 

 only instead of blooming as these, for a few weeks only, 

 at Nairobi roses bloom nine months in the year. Roses, 

 passion flowers, pomegranates, orange trees, Bougainvillea, 

 and many more, make scores of cheap little houses seem 

 bowers of delight. 



Even along the unsightly paths that always struggle 

 into a frontier town, rare and beautiful flowers sometimes 

 surprise you, growing luxuriantly in front of many a 

 mere hut. 



