A Breath from the Veldt 143 



the water within loo yards of my waggon as I was having breakfast, so I 

 quietly got out my telescope to observe him, and had hardly done so when 

 he once more threw himself into space, his sharp eye having detected the 

 " swirl " of a large fish on the surface of the pool. After sailing in a half 

 circle he took a headlong downward dash, striking the water with a splash 

 that could have been heard 500 yards away, and apparently seized the head 

 of his prey, which he drew from the water glistening with drops. I have 

 seen the white-tailed eagle in Iceland similarly strike and catch a five-pound 

 trout, and have often thought how curious it is that an agile-darting fish is 

 unable to escape the clumsy dash — for clumsy it undoubtedly is — of these 

 great birds. Possibly some such terror overcomes the mind of the fish as that 

 of the small bird that allows itself to be fascinated and captured by a snake, 

 or it may be that from the position of the fish's eyes it is unable to observe 

 anything descending from directly above. 



The beautiful little pied kingfisher is also quite common here, and may 

 be seen taking its little headers after small fry in the various pools. African 

 winter mornings are still, cool, and delightful, and as the hunter sits at 

 breakfast, camped beside one of the rivers or streams of the Interior, the 

 " plop " of these little birds as they follow one another in their morning quest 

 for food is one of the most familiar sounds. This kingfisher is the common 

 one in South Africa ; there are also two others occasionally seen — the great 

 blue and brown, and a little bird about half the size of ours, a perfect tur- 

 quoise gem. 



Then one sees the lovely snow-white stork with black head and neck 

 [Mycferia senega lensis), and the roller, probably the most beautiful bird South 

 Africa possesses. Its harmony of colour is one of the most lovely things in 

 nature ; and to see a pair of these beetle-hunters playing in the evening sun 

 is indeed an enjoyment. The hen bird sits on some dead branch at the top 

 of an old tree, whilst the male flies round her and performs some of those 

 aerial headers so common to the birds of this wild country. 



Last night (6th June) there were encamped by us four half-caste hunters, 

 named Boase. They were old and well-known friends of Oom Roelef, for 

 it was with one of them that my companion had taken his first trip to 

 Mashonaland twenty years ago. All were fine men, too, the eldest particularly 

 so, standing over six feet two and with the pleasantest expression imaginable 

 stamped upon his face. These four men were the sons of an English hunter 

 who had been outlawed for some offence, and who, having taken refuge in 



