LIFE ON A MOUNTAIN FARM. 



fish are a kind of Silurus ; they wear long wattles, 

 like our English barbel, and are called by the 

 colonists, barbers. While we bathe, the baboons 

 living in the rocks around come as near as they 

 dare, and bark fiercely and angrily at our intrusion. 

 This they do morning after morning, showing no 

 softening of manners — no incipient sign of friend- 

 ship. If, however, we have a gun with us, they are 

 very careful to keep at a respectful distance, and 

 behind shelter of their rocks, whence they quah-quah 

 more angrily than ever ; they are curious beasts, 

 and most mischievous. If the farmer lays unction 

 to his soul, and congratulates himself upon a more 

 than usually fine piece of mealies (maize), or oats, 

 or pumpkins, the odds are that one fine day he will 

 find that the baboons have paid him a visit, and 

 destroyed and torn up half his crop. Moreover, they 

 do this in sheer and wanton mischief, befouling and 

 destroying far more than they ever eat. For these 

 reasons the farmers are their sworn foes, and, 

 occasionally, as the only means of destroying them, 

 a party having, by the aid of a Kaffir or Hotten- 

 tot, tracked them to their sleeping places (usually 

 large caves), will, by the aid of bull's eye lanterns, 

 shoot a large number at one time. I have only 

 assisted at one of these night forays, and I must 

 confess the business is not a pleasant one. The 

 brutes, lying in the far corner huddled together for 

 warmth, are bewildered and half-stupefied by the 

 lantern rays flashing in their eyes, and at the first 

 discharge usually a number are slain. Then there 

 is a rush for the entrance, and the stronger and 

 older baboons often succeed in running the gauntlet, 

 occasionally knocking a human foe off his legs, but 



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