: A DAY’S 
SNAKE-HUNTING 
IN 
SOUTH AFRICA. 
BY 
Captain W. EH. ToLrrey CHRISTIE. 
HOW TO HOLD A SNAKE, 
S a boy in South Africa I was passionately fond of Natural History. Strange 
A to say, the branch which fascinated me most was the study of snakes. Their 
grace, their exquisite colouring, and the subtle suggestion of mystery which to my boyish 
mind enveloped them, all combined to render their observation the most fascinating of 
pursuits. I kept a small Zoo of my own, which consisted mainly of snakes, poisonous 
and otherwise. The venomous species I rendered harmless by a method I will touch 
on later. The work of procuring new specimens was my greatest delight, and in this 
I was assisted by a schoolfellow, who was as keen as myself at the business. Many 
expeditions we took together, but none stand out as clearly as one memorable day in the 
summer of ‘91. Though South Africa is a country where snakes are fairly abundant, 
it requires a good knowledge of their habits to find them, a quick eye to detect them, 
and a still quicker hand to bring them to bag—that is, in an uninjured state. On the 
day in question we secured three. Starting out with our weapons of war and an ample 
provision even for our boyish appetites, we were well out into the flats by ten o’clock, 
with not a house within five miles of us and Table Mountain at our backs, looking 
strangely detached from its base as we gazed at it through the shimmer that rose from 
the scorching sand. Our equipment was simple, consisting of two long sticks with 
forked ends and a couple of coarse canvas bags, the mouths of which were closed by 
a cord run through rings sewn on outside. 
Having come to a likely spot for our quarry, silence is now the order of the 
day. Stepping lightly—for snakes, I’m sure, are most sensitive to the slightest 
vibration—we pick our way over the sand, avoiding the touch of the heaths and 
grasses which are scattered over its surface, for a rustle from these, on a still day lke 
this, would scare every snake within fifty yards. At last W throws up his 
hand, and silently stealing to his side I follow the direction of his finger, and there, 
in a tiny depression in the sand, and half buried from prying eyes, hes what we 
knew then as the Horned Adder. Dull grey, verging into brown in colour, with a 
wicked triangular head, this snake is practically identical with the Egyptian cerastes 
(Cerastes cornutus) ; sluggish as they look, when roused these snakes can move like the 
fick of a whip. Quietly separating, we approach from opposite sides, and W—, 
whose turn it is to try his hand, balances his stick for a second. There is a 
rapid thrust, a whirl of angry coils, and friend snake is writhing in the sand with 
the two prongs of the stick on either side of his neck. Now comes the ticklish part 
of the business, for a mistake here may mean an ample revenge to the angry little 
fury writhing at our feet. Taking my own stick I pin him down about half-an-inch 
behind the neck, and then very quietly place my forefinger under his throat, while my 
thumb slips along the half-inch of neck, moves gently along the head, and then— 
thumb and forefinger close in a lock that no small snake can wriggle clear of. A word to 
W: , and he pulls the sticks clear, leaving two feet of very angry snake winding round 
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