themselves, scampered off with the rest of the herd.
After we had passed the Lionspruit and the Wolfspruit, the following evening brought us to Rennicke’s farm, the owner of which had not been overcourteous to us on our outward journey. Now, however, he not only raised no objection to our hunting in his woods, but sent his young son to act as our guide. Conducting us to the edge of the forest, the lad bade us stoop down and follow him quietly. About sixty yards further on we came to a low bank; it was not much above five feet high, and dotted over with a number of dwarf shrubs. The youth crept on very cautiously, and having looked down, motioned to us to follow him noiselessly, and to peep through the bushes. Pointing with his finger over the embankment, he whispered in my ear,—
“Kick, ohm!”[1]
I shall never forget the sight. I only wish I could have thrown a net over the whole, and preserved it in its entirety.
The bank on which we were crouching was the boundary of a depression, always overgrown with grass and reeds, but now full of rain-water. In the pool were birds congregated in numbers almost beyond what could be conceived; birds swimming, birds diving, birds wading. Perhaps the most conspicuous among them were the sacred ibises, of which there could not be less than fifty; some of
- ↑ “Look, uncle!”
