THE PRIMEVAL FORESTS OF CENTRAL AFRICA. 231 



waiting underneath. Harriers and chanting hawks circle around 

 the trees on which the " defoliating " insects soon take the place of 

 the leaves that were. Even the sedate marabous and saddle-billed 

 storks do not disdain to avail themselves of booty whose abundance 

 compensates for the paltry size of the individual victims. All this 

 bustle greatly enhances the liveliness of a scene which is at no time 

 dull, and makes the lake more than ever a rendezvous of the most 

 diverse forms of life. 



At one of these rain-lakes — a very treasure-house of the forest's 

 riches — we spent several days, hunting, observing, and collecting, 

 almost wild with delight in, and admiration of the splendid flora and 

 fauna. We amused ourselves with hunting hippopotamus, and exe- 

 cuted justice on the crocodile; we enjoyed to the full the pleasures of 

 exploration and of the chase, forgetful of everything else, even of the 

 time we spent. But when the sun went down and tinged with gold 

 the varied greens of the forest; when the chattering of the parrots 

 was hushed and only the ecstatic song of a thrush floated down to 

 us: when, over there on the opposite bank, the sea-eagle, which a 

 moment ago had seemed like some wonderful blossom on the top of 

 his green perch, drowsily drew his white head between his shoulders; 

 when silence fell even on the guttural gossip of a band of long-tailed 

 monkeys, who had gone to rest on the nearest lofty mimosa; when 

 the night came on with its clear pleasant twilight, cool and mild, 

 melodious and fragrant, as it always is at this season: then would 

 all the wealth of colour, all the splendour and glamour of to-day's 

 and yesterday's pictures fade away. Our thoughts flew homewards, 

 and irresistible home-sickness filled our hearts, for in the Fatherland 

 they were celebrating Christmas. We had prepared our punch and 

 filled our pipes with the most precious of tobaccos; our Albanian 

 companion sang his soft melancholy song; the beauty of the night 

 soothed our hearts and senses; but the glasses remained unemptied, 

 " the clouds of smoke did not bear the clouds of melancholy with 

 them"; the songs awoke no responsive echo, and the night brought 

 no solace. But it nnust bring us a Christmas gift, and it did ! 



Night in the primeval forest is always grand: the sky above 

 may be illumined with flaming lightning, the thunder may roll, and 



