THE RAINS. 351 



became a morass, the bell-tent kept us fairly dry. 

 A temporary lull in the storm on Friday afternoon 

 tempted us out of our shelter ; and, though the 

 woods were dripping and full of the music of a 

 hundred newborn rivulets, we essayed a farewell 

 hunt. The rain seemed to have aroused all the 

 dormant energies of the porcine race ; and, at one 

 time, the noise they made amongst the fresh pools 

 as we came on them unawares was rather sug- 

 gestive of a morning in a cattle-market than one 

 spent in a mountain forest. 



It is difficult to believe how wild swine swarm 

 in some parts of this coast, warrening the bushes 

 with their runs, and covering every marshy place 

 with their bath ing- holes. Once we were fairly in 

 the forest the heavens opened their sluices again, 

 and before long our clothes were so sodden as to 

 be almost too heavy to carry, our boots parting 

 like wet blotting-paper ; and when, weary and 

 drenched, we got back to camp, we found the 

 camp-fire submerged, and our bell-tent merely an 

 awning over a pond about a foot deep. The men 

 had neglected to entrench our position, and we 

 were fairly washed out. Luckily my aversion to 

 beetles had induced me to have my bed raised 

 some two feet from the ground, and, cowering on 

 this, we spent our time until Sunday morning. To 

 make a fire was impossible. There was not a dry 

 spot of earth within a square mile from our tent 



