21 o A Breath from the Veldt 



Africa, is still well worth a visit. Judging by the spoor of the game which 

 frequent it in the summer, the place must be then swarming with animals of 

 every description ; but at the time of my visit all the mud-wallows were more 

 or less dried up, looking somewhat like huge cattle-pens that had long ago been 

 deserted. Even to-day small herds of elephants and a few giraffes come up from 

 the virgin " fly " country to the south-east ; where (I think I am correct in 

 saying) few, if any, white hunters have as yet penetrated. 



All along the river banks are to be seen the tracks of these great beasts, 

 with their huge imprints in the mud. Here and there the tops of the roibosjes 

 have all been eaten off, and lines of bushes and small trees are trampled down. 

 In the dried mud-holes are the summer wallows of the wart-hogs, showing 

 that at this season they assemble in numbers and form bathing parties ; and in 

 all the open spaces are innumerable tracks of the great herds of buffalo that 

 abide by this river summer and winter unless much shot at, when they trek 

 farther into the " fly " and disappear for a time. Here also are many pallah 

 and waterbuck, whilst roan antelope and sable are found in scattered troops on 

 the north-east bank towards M'Pape's Mountain. 



At our standing camp on the river on 21st June I came across a little rufous 

 warbler (about the size and shape of our European great reed warbler) that has 

 the most remarkably human whistle I ever heard. It is exactly like the noise 

 emitted by a schoolboy ambling to school under a reduced rate of speed. We 

 all know that boy, as he goes along with his hands in his pockets, his books 

 under his arm, whistling away without any regard to either time or tune, — 

 perfectly happy too, for his pockets are full of provender, and that he has not 

 prepared a word of his lessons does not concern him in the least. Everywhere 

 in the bush by the river, before the sun's heat becomes oppressive, you hear the 

 notes of this strange bird, and its callous indifference to time and melody is 

 very striking. It sounds as if the songster, trying to imitate some finer vocalist 

 of the thrush tribe, had got hopelessly at sea. 



And here, turning to my Diary, I find a note of another sort that I can 

 hardly pass over without a word. Pompoom, my little boy, is slowly breaking 

 my heart, as well as making fearful inroads on the royal wardrobe. He is 

 really the most dreadful boy I ever saw for tearing his clothes to pieces ; but 

 he has such a pleasant face and such comic ways of explaining matters that 

 one cannot feel angry with him. He reminds me strongly of Bret Harte's 

 " Melons " — that masterpiece of boy character. His clothing is a source of 

 continual vexation to himself and to me, for it is no easy matter to keep his 



