412 
AFRICAN HUNTING. 
now. I am out of sorts both in body and mind, 
and anxiously awaiting the arrival of my second 
wagon, which is overdue, and this is the place I 
fixed to wait for it, and a more comfortless, barren, 
desolate spot no human being could conceive. 
There is neither grass, wood, nor water ; the sun is 
intensely hot, and there is no shade of any sort, and 
we have had three successive days of hot furnace-like 
winds. Nevertheless, we have been labouring our 
utmost to get a supply of fresh water for the oxen, 
and have dug large holes in different places; but 
though the water is drinkable at first, after an hour’s 
exposure to the sun it is as salt as brine. To add to 
our discomfiture, our only spade has broken through 
the middle ; still we contrive to kill enough game 
for actual necessity, but the meat will not keep many 
hours, and, worst of all, my oxen are dying daily. 
I make a post-mortem examination, but am no wiser. 
I know neither the disease nor the cure. They swell 
up to an enormous size, drink gallons of this brackish 
stuff, and, when opened, are full of a nasty yellowish 
water. I tried bleeding without any good effect, and 
this morning have tried cutting the skin where most 
swollen, and letting the water run out. 
The Masaras say there is not a drop of water 
ahead, and what is to be done I do not myself 
know. I was far down the river this morning and 
found better water, and have sent the oxen thither. 
The Kaffirs showed me a white man’s grave; I can 
learn no particulars as to the person buried there, 
