STALKING IN THE NYIKA 



real. Again and again I hear it, the cheerful twitter 

 of a small fly-catcher announcing and welcoming the 

 break of day. 



As soon as the darkness around us is dispelled we 

 rouse ourselves, and, though not knowing whither we go, 

 we find our way at last out of the thicket into the open 

 steppe. And we struggle on with heavy steps, kept up 

 by the hope of finding the camp. How long will it sus- 

 tain us before we despair and lie down to meet our 

 doom ? Now we come to a slight depression. Can it 

 be the lower, dried-out bed of the brook near which our 

 tents are pitched ? Eagerly we follow this promising 

 path. The ground becomes softer, and at last we find 

 water! It is only a small, stagnant pool, but it is water, 

 and in slow, long draughts we quench our thirst at last. 

 Filled with new life we proceed and reach the camp and 

 are welcomed by our friends. 



It may sound childish, but that morning I could not 

 get enough of the precious water. I drank of it, petted 

 it, bathed in it for hours. But whoever has suffered 

 thirst in the tropics and has given up all hope of relief 

 will fully understand my behavior. 



One experience of this kind is enough, and the 

 hunter will in future be careful to make sure of his 

 way home to the camp, for his hunt is not over 

 when he has killed his game, but when he has safely 

 returned t(^ his starting-point. I had learned my les- 

 son, and when, a few days later, I went hunting again 



.351 



