RECREATION 



Volume XII. 



MARCH, 1900. 



Number 3. 



G. 0. SHIELDS (COQUINA;, Editor and Manager, 



HUNTING ON THE PUNGWAE RIVER. 



A. C. HUMBERT. 



July 9th, 1895, mounted on my best 

 shooting pony, and followed by my 

 best native carriers, I set out for a 

 day's hunt in the valley of the Pung- 

 wae, in Portugese East Africa. Game 

 of many species was abundant at that 

 time, and one could have a shot every 

 15 minutes, all day long, if disposed to 

 reckless killing. There were buffa- 

 loes, hippos, zebras, a dozen species 

 of antelope, several varieties of deer, 

 wild hogs, and smaller mammals, 

 not to mention the many large birds. 



We were following up the Pungwae 

 and hunting the fiats between that 

 river and the Zambesi. During the 

 early morning hours we traveled 

 through dense clouds of fog that 

 hung like huge white blankets on the 

 veldt and rendered our progress disa- 

 greeable. The high grass deposited 

 barrels of water down our backs as 

 we rode through it ; so we longed for 

 the sun to come out, dispel the 

 vapor and dry our saturated clothes, 

 which hung to us like wet bags. Fre- 

 quently we heard heavy game at close 

 quarters, but could not see it on ac- 

 count of the dense fog and the rank 

 grass. 



Gradually the sun climbed into the 

 heavens, the clouds parted and the 

 grass dried off. Toward noon I 

 heard the heavy tread of a big band 

 of buffaloes. I dismounted and ap- 

 proached cautiously until I realized 

 they were somewhat scattered and 

 that I was in the very midst of the 

 herd. After a long and careful search 



I saw a large bull, scarcely 30 yards 

 away. I parted the grass silently, 

 drew my rifle to my shoulder and 

 fired through an opening in th^ reeds 

 which gave me only a faint glimpse 

 of his shoulder. The report of my 

 12 bore stampeded the herd and they 

 went crashing away — more than 300 

 of them — making a noise like thunder 

 and fairly shaking the veldt under 

 their feet. 



Standing as I was, submerged in 

 grass that reached far above my head, 

 I listened to the roar of hoofs and the 

 crashing of vegetation with fear and 

 trembling, for I expected every min- 

 ute to be trampled under foot by one 

 or more of the frightened beasts. I 

 saw several of them pass within a few 

 feet of me. Their large, black bodies 

 covered with dry mud and supported 

 by their short, stocky legs presented 

 a most gruesome picture. 



A wounded bull had hunted me on 

 a previous occasion, and I did not rel- 

 ish the idea of another such encoun- 

 ter. I felt no compunctions of con- 

 science at giving the lions an occa- 

 sional feed from a carcass of one of 

 these great brutes, nor for leaving a 

 choice bit of buffalo meat for the 

 hundreds of vultures that hovered 

 over the veldt. 



The bellow of a wounded African 

 buffalo is by no means pathetic. On 

 the contrary it sounds angry and full 

 of vengeance and is as awe-inspiring 

 as the roar of a lion. Though I have 

 never heard a wounded lion roar, I 



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