1 68 



RECREATION. 



have frequently heard them at night, 

 quarreling over a kill near my camp, 

 and their voices, even then, are by no 

 means musical. 



At last the buffaloes all got away 

 and I could once more breathe freely. 

 Unable to see the effect of my shot 

 from where I stood, I parted the 

 jungle and approached cautiously, 

 with my rifle ready for instant use. 



When my carriers came up we 

 went to the old bull and found him 

 dead, with a bullet through his shoul- 

 ders. 



When we found he was a superb 

 specimen, I seated myself on his car- 

 cass and took a drink of tea, a bev- 

 erage we always carried with us 

 when hunting in Africa. The thick 

 hide of my buffalo was nearly hair- 

 less, though a few long, bristly hairs 

 grew in scattering bunches, holding 

 the thick cakes of mud that covered 

 his body. His skin was deeply scarred, 

 where his many antagonists had raked 

 him fore and aft. I saved his horns 

 and, ripping off his burly hide, left 

 him to the thousands of vultures that 

 were waiting for the feast. We were 

 scarcely 50 yards away, when the car- 

 cass and the ground all about were 

 black with them. 



We followed the game trail skirt- 

 ing the lagoons, frequently peering 

 into the stagnant water holes that lay 

 20 to 30 feet below us. From the 

 banks we saw many crocodiles slide 

 into the water and through the vege- 

 tation that overhung the pools we saw 

 an occasional hippo rise to the surface 

 and blow. Once I was startled by a 

 ground hog that rushed from his hole 

 to cover, passing close to my pony's 



heels. These holes, nearly hidden by 

 the rank grass, were a constant men- 

 ace to our safety and I got one beau- 

 tiful tumble on account of my horse 

 stepping into one of them. The ant 

 hills, on the contrary, are points of 

 vantage on the level veldt, and from 

 those I often sighted game which I 

 could not otherwise have found. 



Late in the afternoon of the day I 

 killed the buffalo, I climbed a big ant 

 hill, peered over the tall grass and saw, 

 in a small clearing, a bunch of zebras 

 and a bunch of water boks, grazing 

 near together. An old water bok with 

 long, spiral horns stood alone. He 

 had heard the footsteps of my pony 

 and looked toward me, listening. He 

 had a perfect head, and, taking care- 

 ful aim at a vital spot, I fired and he 

 fell. I was then using one of the new 

 .30-30 Winchester rifles, with smoke- 

 less powder, and was anxious to know 

 the result of my shot, yet hesitated to 

 show myself. At the report, the be- 

 wildered herd of water boks ran to- 

 gether and looked about for danger, 

 while the frightened zebras dashed 

 away at full speed, circling around the 

 boks and passing close to the ant hill 

 that hid me from their view. If I had 

 only had my camera at hand I could 

 have had a beautiful picture of them ; 

 but unfortunately my pickaninny, who 

 carried it, was far behind. 



In the frontispiece of this issue of 

 Recreation Mr. Rungius has repro- 

 duced the amphibious bok, just as he 

 stood that day on the Pungwae flat, 

 and has given a good idea of the 

 rank growth of grass that covers that 

 wild veldt. 



MARCH. 



Old Boreas wildly raves and shrieks, 

 Almost to bursting swells his cheeks, 

 And strives with savage might to slap 

 The maiden Spring from Winter's lap. 



