H 



VIII 



EVENING IN THE SWAMPS 



OW wonderful are the evenings, how wonderful 

 are the nights in the swamps of tropical Africa! 

 How strangely impressed is the traveller from the 

 Northern countries by the rapid sunsets and the short 

 twilight! Thousands of glowworms begin their fire- 

 dance; the deafening noise of the cicadas is punctu- 

 ated by the hoarse croaking of the frogs; myriads 

 of mosquitoes begin to swarm from out of the papyrus 

 thickets, humming and buzzing. 



The birds of the swamps, too, become active and 

 join in the chorus of noises. A quaint clucking and 

 chuckling is heard. "The swamp-hen is talking with 

 the fishes," the natives say. Their belief is based on 

 the fact that a certain shadlike fish, when caught, ut- 

 ters similar sounds — in short, a confusion of noises and 

 voices fills the air. 



The fires in my camp are lit; the pale crescent of the 

 moon breaks through the clouds — there, a voice sounds 

 from the wilderness of the swamp, so powerful that it 

 shakes not only the air l)ut the very earth. It is an 



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