388 
AFRICAN HUNTING. 
in the morning, out of a dirty tortoise-shell, which 
serves for breakfast, dinner, and supper; all day in 
the saddle, under a broiling sun, following after three 
half-starved Masaras in greasy, tattered skins, who 
carry a little water in the belly of a quagga, which 
is nauseous to a degree, and never seeing life the 
whole day. Two days like this, followed by two 
successful ones, is about what you may expect. 
Nothing more miserable and dirty can be conceived 
than a Masara encampment. It consists of temporary 
half-thatched sheds, and a few bushes stuck in here and 
there to break the wind, with half-putrid dried flesh, 
water vessels, and shreds of old skins, hung up in the 
surrounding trees. My trusty after-rider brings two 
or three armfulls of grass and makes my couch in the 
most eligible corner, with my saddle for a pillow, and 
here I court sleep till daybreak, lying close to a 
greenwood fire, the smoke of which passes over you 
when yoli lie close to the ground, and keeps off the 
mosquitoes. There is something quite overpowering 
in the death-like stillness of the forest at night — a 
brilliant sky, innumerable stars, bright and twinkling, 
dusky figures in all possible attitudes lying around, 
the munching of our faithful horses, which are tied to 
trees all night, and frequently the jackal’s cry, 
the hyena’s howl, the occasional low growl of a 
lion, or the heavy tramp and crash in the bush of a 
herd of elephants, with a scream which can be heard 
at an immense distance. This is the way our nights 
are usually passed in the bush, and the most light- 
