A NATIVE VOCALIST. 
417 
convicted of sheep-worrying, and January laughs 
like a born idiot. Spearman, the ox-vachter, some¬ 
times comes, but he has got hold of a Dutch psalm 
tune, the most horrid concoction on earth, which he 
is everlastingly humming, and which drives me quite 
distraught; so I generally greet his appearance with 
a kick that sends him howling back again. 
HPA.—I have so persecuted the widgeon here, that 
the remaining four out of seventeen are uncommonly 
shy, and whip under the lee-bank of the river with 
the swiftness of sand martins. And I must not for¬ 
get to mention some rabbit-shooting I have had, 
which has reminded me more of England than any¬ 
thing since I left. Eabbits are the same all over the 
world, and excellent sport; these differ in no respect 
from those at home, but they have no holes. I found 
them all lying out, but could make no hand at them 
the first two days, as I gave them too much law; but 
I got into it the third, bagging five couple. Some 
rascal Masara has stuck one of my oxen, Pontac, an 
especial favourite, which I broke in myself. I have 
sewn up the wound, and have hopes of him, unless 
the assegai is poisoned. He and his mate Claret, so 
named from the resemblance in colour, are about the 
prettiest pair of Zulus I ever saw, and better were 
never yoked. 
Dull and lonely as it is, I could manage to get over 
the day, but the nights are dreadful. When the sun 
goes down, the wind invariably does the same; then 
come mosquitoes, midges, gnats, and sand-flies, and 
