232 
A N A TURALIST ON THE PROWL. 
and gave chase as hard as I could, but the dog made good 
its escape without dropping its prey. Coming back to the 
tree, I searched the ground and found the body of another 
little infant, still warm. How did the poor little thing fall 
into the jaws of that brute? I have often seen an infant 
of the same size clinging to its mother’s breast in perfect 
security while she took the most daring bounds from tree 
to tree. Perhaps the dog surprised the monkeys on the 
open ground, and pressed the mother so hard that she 
dropped her offspring to save her own life. Or perhaps 
they were enjoying a picnic in fancied security, and had 
laid down their little ones when the Zulu rushed upon 
them. While I was examining the limp little body, to see 
whether life was extinct, a pitiful wail told me that its 
mother was watching me. She had retired to another tree 
some distance off, and was wistfully gazing at me, wonder- 
ing what I was doing with her precious babe. I saw that 
there was no hope, but I retired and hid myself to see what 
she would do. She came down at once and approached 
cautiously, distrusting me and lumping me in her mind, no 
doubt, with the brutal black dog. Then she got upon a 
stone, and standing erect, looked all round and gave a 
plaintive scream. Where was her darling ? At last she 
