Chapter XIII. 

 SPRINGBOK SHOOTING. 



ONE fine morning, we left Naroekas Poort to 

 visit a friend of our host, who farmed on 

 the karroo, some twenty-five miles away, 

 and who had invited us for a few days springbok 

 shooting on the flats around his house. This we 

 gladly accepted, for at that time we had only had 

 an occasional shot at long ranges at these antelopes, 

 as we drove across the Camdeboo Plains from 

 Graaff Reinet to Naroekas. There were four of 

 us — our host, H., who rode, and his wife, Bob (one 

 of my travelling companions), and myself, who 

 bestowed ourselves in a Cape cart drawn by a 

 pair of horses. We trekked six or seven miles up 

 some of the most villainous mountain roads to be 

 found in the Colony, which is saying not a little. 

 The day was glorious, and the scenery grand. Here 

 and there a troop of baboons shambled alongside, 

 at a respectful distance, barking angrily at our 

 intrusion. Aloft, in the clear sky, some vultures 

 circled, watching intently some object beneath 

 them. Ringdoves, kingfishers, and honeybirds 

 imparted life to the scene. After many shakings, 

 bangs, and bruises, in which, I fear, Mrs. H. came 

 off worst, we emerged from the mountains, through 

 the wildly picturesque pass of Swanepoels Poort, 

 into the plains. Here, after crossing the very nasty 

 drift in the Plessis, a tributary of the Gamtoos or 



