In Wildest Africa ^ 



with the countless cries of birds. There was a time, 

 too, when the call of millions of the now all but extinct 

 passenger pigeon resounded in North America ; so, too — 

 and of this I have no doubt — the cooing of the ringdoves 

 was heard repeated by thousands of birds in our beech 

 and oak woods at home when the acorns and beech-nuts 

 were in season. 



On the lonely uninhabited western slopes of the 

 highest giant mountain of the German possessions. Mount 

 Kilimanjaro, certain forest fruits flourish in profusion. 

 There is heard on every side a strong, sweet-sounding 

 dove-note, like that of our ringdove. A handsome large 

 species of wood-pigeon {Cohnnba aqitatrix, Tem.) has 

 gathered in hundreds of thousands. The rustle of their 

 wings, as they rise or come down in great flocks, mingles 

 with their beautiful calls and cries ; the ear can hear 

 nothing else. Voice, form, and movement so strongly 

 remind one of our own ringdoves that one feels carried 

 away to far-off, familiar scenes, and the illusion is helped 

 by the character of the Kilimanjaro landscape, which in 

 certain of the higher regions has less of a tropical than 

 of a northern aspect. How strange it is ; the cry of 

 this bird all at once transports the traveller to his own 

 land ! Truly t/iere is a magic in sotmd. With the poorest 

 appliances, the slightest equipment, the creative fancy 

 can in a moment build a bridge to the Fatherland. The 

 call of this beautiful dove sounding here on every side, 

 its love-inspired circling high in air above the tops of 

 the giants of the primeval forest, surrounds it with a 

 dream-picture, and makes me suddenly breathe the air 



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