Part 16

On these hunting expeditions many Siberians pass the greater part of the winter in the forest. Before he sets out, the huntsman usually makes a bargain with a merchant. He promises the merchant all the skins he gets at a certain average price, provided the merchant will buy all without selection. If the hunter has good luck he may, even nowadays, make enough out of it to keep him alive, or at least to defray the expenses of the winter; usually, however, he has little recompense for his hardships and privations, and no one less modest in his demands than the Siberian huntsman could make it a means of livelihood.

Hunting the bear is regarded by the West Siberians as the most honourable and the most arduous kind of sport. For in this region Bruin is by no means the good-natured, simple creature he still is here and there in East Siberia; he is rather, as in most regions, a rough, uncouth fellow, who usually runs away from man, but who, when wounded or driven into a corner, will show fight savagely and prove himself exceedingly formidable. In spite of all persecution, he is still far from extermination; his occurrence may be spoken of as frequent, or, at any rate, as not uncommon. Always and everywhere, however, he goes his own way, and does not too often cross man’s path. Not that he is shy of human settlements, for he often stations himself not far from these, and sometimes falls upon domestic animals under the very eyes of their possessors; but he shows himself so sporadically that many Siberians have never seen him face to face, nor met him in the forest. It seems likely that he goes a-touring all the summer. He traverses the woods with a disregard of paths, but keeps to more or less beaten tracks when he ascends to the heights of the mountains in late summer, or returns to lower ground at the beginning of winter. When the corn is ripe, he stations himself in the fringes of the forest that he may steal comfortably from the adjacent fields; sometimes he leaves the wood entirely and visits the steppes, or the mountain-sides with steppe characters; he will stay a long time in one district and hurry through another without stopping, always and everywhere keeping a sharp look-out for the constantly recurring opportunities of securing his favourite foods. In most districts he is emphatically a vegetarian; here and there he becomes a formidable carnivore; in other places he seeks after carrion. In spring he is on short commons, and takes what he can get; he sneaks stealthily on the herds grazing in the woodland, makes a sudden bound on a victim, or pursues it with surprising rapidity, seizes it, drags it to the ground, kills it, and, after satiating himself, buries the remainder for a future meal. When a cattle plague rages, he visits the burial-places in order to secure the carcasses, and he is even accused of being a body-snatcher. In summer he plunders the fields of rye, wheat, and oats, robs bee-hives, and the nests of wild-bees and wasps, destroys ant-hills for the sake of the pupæ, rolls old trunks over to get at the beetles and grubs beneath, and even breaks up mouldering trees to capture the larvæ which live in rotting wood. In autumn he lives almost exclusively on berries of all sorts, and even on those fruits which he can gather from such trees as the bird-cherry; when the cembra-cones are ripe he goes after these, climbing lofty trees, and breaking off not only branches but the very tops; nor can he refrain from persistently prowling round the stores in which the cones are temporarily collected, or from trying to find his way in. Moreover, at all seasons he tries his hand at fishing, and not unfrequently with success. From man he usually runs away, but sometimes he will attack him without further ado, not hesitating even at superior force. According to the weather he times his winter-sleep. For his bed he selects a suitable place under a fallen giant tree; there he scrapes out a shallow hole, covers the floor with fine pine-twigs and moss a foot and a half deep, cushions the side-walls with the same material, covers the outside with branches and pieces of stem, creeps into the interior, and allows himself to be snowed up. If the first snowfall surprise him on the mountains, he does not always descend, but hides in a rock-cave which he furnishes as best he can, or else expands a marmot’s burrow till it is just big enough to hold him, and there sleeps through the winter. Once sunk into deep sleep, he lies dormant so obstinately that many efforts are often necessary to rouse him; he bites savagely at the poles with which the huntsman tries to poke him up, he growls and roars, and only surrenders when rockets or fire-brands are thrown on his refuge. Then, if he be not wounded, he rushes forth like a startled boar, and seeks safety in rapid flight. According to the consistent evidence of all experienced huntsmen, the she-bear brings forth young only every second winter, and does not awake from her deep sleep until a short time before the birth; she licks her cubs clean and dry, sets them to suck, and continues her sleep in snatches. At the end of May or in June she seeks out her older children, of two or even four years’ growth, and compels them to do service as nurses.

Although the flesh of the bear is by no means unpalatable, it is but little esteemed in West Siberia, where bear-hams are served up rather in obedience to fashion than from appreciation of the dish. Nevertheless, the bear-hunt brings in rich gain. The skin is in great demand for sledge-rugs and fetches a high price; teeth and claws serve not only among the Ostiaks and Samoyedes, but also among the West Siberian peasants, as potent charms; even the bones are now and then used. The canine of a bear slain in honourable combat brings to the Ostiak hunter, so he believes, supernatural gifts, especially courage, strength, and even invulnerability. A claw, especially the fourth of the right fore-foot, which corresponds to the ring finger, is prized by the love-lorn maiden of the Ural, for the youth whom she secretly scratches with it is bound to return her love ardently. Teeth and claws have, therefore, a high value, and have more effect in inciting the huntsman to pursue the most formidable carnivore of the forest, than any damage which Bruin does. But the chase is neither easy nor without danger. Traps do not seem to be of any avail. The hunter must seek out the bear, and, weapon in hand, helped by his practised dogs, must do battle. During the summer the restless habits of the bear make the chase very difficult; during winter there is the chance of finding a lair and of killing the sleeper in or near it. The poor peasant who discovers a lair sells the bear in situ to any well-to-do sportsman, who, on a suitable day, goes with him and the requisite associates and surrounds the sleeper with sure marksmen. Beaters rouse the creature from his slumbers and bring him into view, and the huntsman shoots from the nearest possible distance. It is thus that the great majority of the bears are secured, and to good shots there is little danger. In summer and autumn they track the bear with small dogs, and while these bait him on all sides, the sportsman seizes a good opportunity for a telling shot. Or he may use the bear-spear, as the bold Ostiaks do, and charge the animal. Or else he may wind birch-bark several times round his left arm, and, holding this as a shield against the angry bear, may plunge a long, broad knife into his heart as he snaps at the bark. In these modes of attack accidents do, indeed, often happen; but in the course of time some hunters become so expert and cold-blooded that they prefer the spear or knife to any other weapon. Indeed, a peasant girl in the village of Morschowa is famous all over West Siberia for having killed more than thirty bears with the knife.

Of undesired encounters with bears many stories are told. A hunter, armed only with a pea-rifle, came across a large bear in the forest, but did not dare to shoot, knowing that his weapon was too small for such big game. He therefore remained still, so as not to irritate the bear. But Bruin came along, raised himself, snuffed at the huntsman’s face, and then gave him a blow which stretched him senseless on the ground. Thereupon the bear ran away as quickly as possible, just as if he thought that he had played a naughty trick. Two Swedes, Aberg and Erland, were hunting hazel-grouse on the Urals. The former approached a bramble bush in the hope of raising a bird, when to his surprise a huge bear jumped up and made for him at once. As flight was impossible, Aberg raised his fowling-piece to his shoulder, aimed at the bear’s eye, fired, and was fortunate enough to blind him. Maddened with the pain, the bear covered the bleeding eye with his paw, roared loudly, and rushed on at the undismayed huntsman. But the latter coolly took aim at the other eye and fired again with equal effect. Then he called for his comrade, and they fired alternately at the blinded bear until he was dead.

But the merriest tale had its scene in the village of Tomski Sawod in the district of Salair. One of the peasants was leading a load of cembra-cones through the forest, and did not notice that the cones were falling out of one of his sacks. A bear, who was wandering through the forest in the rear of the cart, crossed the road, and finding some of the cones looked for more, and followed the track unnoticed. After a time the peasant left the horse and cart standing, and diverged into the wood to fetch another sack which he had left filled with cones. But before he returned with his burden, the bear, still gathering cones, had reached the cart and climbed into it, there to feast to his heart’s content. With no little dismay the peasant perceived as he drew near what passenger had taken possession, and not daring to dispute his right, left him with the horse and cart. The horse, becoming uneasy, looked back, recognized the bear, and forthwith trotted off as fast as he could go. But the undesired jolting frightened the bear and prevented him from leaping off. He was forced to sit still and hold on, venting his increasing discontent in loud roars. The roaring only served to increase the pace; the more the bear stormed, the faster the horse hastened to the village. Now the village-folk had been for several hours expecting a visit from the bishop, and were standing at their doors in holiday attire, ready to greet his reverence when he appeared. Already sharp-eyed boys had been posted on the outlook on the church-tower, with instructions to toll the bells when the bishop’s company came in sight. In the distance was seen a whirling cloud of dust; the boys sprang to the bells, men and women arranged themselves in rows, the priest appeared with incense before the door of the church, every soul stood ready to give a worthy reception to the dignitary of the church. On came the rattling cart, and right through the festive village tore horse and driver, the former covered with dust, sweating and panting, the latter roaring and snorting, their mad career only ending when they reached the peasant’s yard. Instead of the beautiful Russian psalm, the terrified cries of half-senseless women rang out through the air, and the men, instead of doing dutiful reverence, rushed about astonished and affrighted. Only the church bells continued to peal. Before these had ceased, the men had recovered presence of mind and got hold of their weapons. The cart was followed, and the bear, who seemed to have lost all his wits, was soon stretched dead on the throne which he had himself chosen.

Those who know the ways of bears will allow that all might have happened as I have described, though we may be inclined to regard the humorous story as one of the sportsman’s budget. For even the most serious and honourable forest-folk sometimes mingle truth and fancy when they tell of the forests and woodcraft of Siberia.

THE STEPPES OF INNER AFRICA.

The north of Africa is desert, must be desert, and will be desert for ever. For between the Red Sea and the Atlantic, the land-area exposed to the scorching sun is so extensive that the surrounding seas have not their usual climatic importance. The Red Sea is out of account altogether; even the Mediterranean is too small to have great influence, and the Atlantic Ocean affects only a narrow belt along the west coast. Over regions so vast and so hot, every cloud is dispersed without moistening or fertilizing the parched ground. Only when we go much further south, near the equator, do the conditions change. On the one side, the Atlantic Ocean sweeps in with a great curve; on the other side, the Indian Ocean washes the African shores, the two oceans, as it were, stretching their hands across the continent. Here, moreover, at certain times, thunder-storms bring downpours of rain so heavy that the desert has to give way to the more living steppe, and the year is divided into two essentially different seasons--of life and of death, of rain and of drought, whereas in the barren desert only the periodic winds bear tidings of the seasonal changes in progress elsewhere.

In order to understand the steppe-lands it is necessary to give a rapid sketch of their seasons. For every country reflects its dominant climate, and the general aspect of a region is in great part an expression of the conflicting forces of its seasons, apart from which it cannot be understood.

Almost as soon as the rains are over, the season of destruction and death begins--the long and terrible winter of the African interior--a winter which brings about by heat the same dire effects as are wrought in the North by cold. Before the sky, hitherto often clouded, has become quite clear, some of the trees, which had become green in spring, throw off their foliage, and with the wind-swept leaves go the wandering birds. These had brooded here in the spring, but now they seek other fields. The stems of the cereals turn yellow before the rains have ceased; the low grasses wither and dry. The intermittent water-courses cease to have any flow; the rain-filled pools are dried up; and not only the reptiles and amphibians, but even the fishes peculiar to them, are forced to burrow and seek winter-quarters in the damp clay. The seeds of plants, and the eggs or larvæ of insects are also hidden away in the earth.

As the sun travels to the north, the winter sets in rapidly. Autumn lasts but for a few days. It causes no withering nor gradual death of leaves, no glow of red and gold such as we see at home, but exercises, through its hot winds, such a destructive power that the leaves are dried up like mown grass under the sun’s rays, and either fall to the ground green, or crumble away on the stalk, so that the trees, with few exceptions, assume their winter aspect with extreme suddenness. Over the plains, on which, a few days before, the tall grass still waved in the wind, dust clouds now whirl; in the partially or wholly dried up water-courses and water-basins the ground gapes in deep cracks. Everything that is pleasing vanishes; everything that is unpleasing becomes painfully obtrusive: leaves and flowers, birds and butterflies fade away, or migrate, or die; thorns, spines, and burs are left; snakes, scorpions, and “tarantulas” have their heyday. Indescribable heat by day and enervating sultriness by night make this season almost unbearable, and against neither heat nor sultriness is there any remedy. The torments are inconceivable to those who know nothing of such weather, when the thermometer registers up to 122° Fahr. in the shade; when one is in a constant sweat, yet without being conscious of it, so drying is the heat; when one cloud of dust after another whirls up to heaven, or parching thirst weighs on one like lead. Nor can anyone who has not groaned through these nights, when one tosses on the couch, prevented by the sultriness from resting or sleeping, adequately sympathize with the torments to which men and animals are subjected at this season. Even the sky exchanges its hitherto but rarely clouded blue for a dun colour, for the vapour often hides the sun for half a day at a time, yet without diminishing the oppressive heat; indeed the sultriness seems to increase when the horizon is obscured by such mists. One day follows another without any refreshing of body or soul. No cooling breeze from the north fans the forehead; and the soul is not refreshed by any fragrance of flowers, or song of birds, or enchanting pictures with bright colour and deep shade, such as the flooding light of heaven elsewhere paints in the equatorial regions. Everything living, everything coloured, everything poetical, is gone, sunk into death-like sleep--too dismal to awaken any fancy. Men and beasts seem to wither as the grass and leaves withered; and like them many a man and many a beast sinks down for ever. In vain does manly courage endeavour to bear up under the burden of these days: the most resolute will give way to sighs and moans. Every piece of work fatigues, even the lightest covering is too heavy, every movement is an effort, every wound becomes a virulent sore.

But even this winter must at length yield to spring, yet the incoming of this season also is terrible. For the same wind, which, in the desert, becomes the simoom, raises its wings as herald of the spring. It rages through the fissures in the ground, sweeps out more dust, whirls it aloft in thick masses, and builds it into wall-like clouds, which it drives roaring and howling through the land, and forces through the latticed windows of the comfortable town-houses as well as through the low doorways of the native huts, adding a new plague to the existing torments. At last the wind gains complete mastery and exerts its force without restraint, as though it would annihilate everything that still resisted; but it is this same wind that, farther south, piles up the clouds heavy with rain, and sweeps them towards the scorched land. Soon it seems as if the sultriness began to grow less oppressive as the wind gathered strength; it seems even as if it sometimes blew no longer hotly but refreshingly. And this is no deception; the spring is preparing for its coming, and on the wings of the storm the rain-clouds are borne. In a short time, in the south, they darken the dome of heaven; in a few days quivering flashes lighten the dull cloud-banks; in a few weeks the distant thunder heralds the life-giving rain.

Then all the streams from the south rise and surge and overflow. They are scarcely yet turbid, but they have life now; they continue to rise, and through all the deeper rents and fissures of their muddy banks the life-giving moisture is diffused into the adjacent country. The birds of passage begin to appear, and day by day their numbers increase. To the lands of the Upper Nile the storks return to take possession of their old nests on the conical straw huts of the natives, and with them comes the sacred ibis to perform to-day the duty which has been his for thousands of years,--to be the messenger and herald assuring all that the old Nile-god will again open the fountain of his mercy, and pour forth his horn of blessing on the lands which own his sway.

At length the first thunder-storm draws near. Sultriness more painful than ever oppresses the dead, scorched land. An eerie stillness fills man and beast with uneasiness. Every song, nay, almost every voice of birds is hushed, and they hide themselves amid the thickest foliage of the evergreens. In the camp of the nomad herdsmen, in the village, in the town, all life seems as if under a spell. The dogs, usually so lively, slink quietly away to some safe hiding-place; the other domestic animals become uneasy or else wild, the horses have to be hobbled, and the cattle are driven into the pen. In town, the merchant closes his stall, the artisan his workshop, the officials their divan; everyone takes refuge at home. And yet not a breeze stirs the air; there is not a rustle among the leaves of the few trees which still have foliage. But everyone knows that the storm is gathering and is drawing near.

In the south is built up a great wall of cloud, dark and at the same time lurid, like the fire-cloud over a burning town or over a forest in flames. Fiery red, purple, dark red, and brown, dull yellow, deep blue, and black seem to move in a dance of colour; they mingle and separate; they fade into the darkness and appear again in vivid prominence. The great cloud-bank rests upon the earth and reaches up to the heavens; now it seems to stand still, and now it rushes on like a tempest; from minute to minute it narrows the range of vision; more and more completely it throws an impenetrable shroud over all. A whistling, hissing sound issues from it, but around the observer all is still, quiet, and noiseless.

Then suddenly a brief and violent blast of wind bursts forth. Strong trees bend before it like weak reeds; the slender palms bow down their crowns. With ever-increasing rapidity one blast follows another; the wind becomes a tempest, and the tempest a hurricane, raging with unexampled fury. Its noise is so terrible that the spoken word does not reach the speaker’s ear; every other sound is drowned and lost. It rages and roars, blusters and hisses, pipes and howls, rumbles and rattles, in the air, along the ground, among the tops of the trees, as if all the elements were in battle, as if the heavens were falling, as if the very foundations of the earth itself were being shattered. The irresistible storm dashes against the trees, and tears off half of the leaves, if there are any left; while stems as thick as a man’s waist are snapped like brittle glass. Breaking off the crowns, the hurricane whirls them like light balls over the plain, and buries them head downwards in the loose earth or sand, with the miserable fragment of trunk sticking up, a prey to the destructive termites. Hungrily the wind rushes through the clefts and fissures of the earth, sweeps out dust, sand, and gravel, hurls this even into the clouds, and bears it onwards with such force that it recoils stinging and rattling from hard surfaces. With this dust the tempest hides the heavens and covers the earth, and turns the day into dread night, while the anxious inhabitants in their dust-filled houses light lanterns to gain what encouragement and consolation they may from the sight of living flame.

But even the roaring hurricane may be out-roared. The crashing, rumbling thunder is yet more mighty; it drowns the howling and bellowing of the wind. The clouds of dust are still too thick to allow the lightning flashes to be seen; but soon to the confusion of sounds and noises a hitherto unheard rattling is added, and the unnatural night begins to be relieved by gleams of light. It seems as if heavy hailstones were rattling down, but they are only rain-drops which bear with them in falling the up-whirled dust and sand. Now the flashes are seen. One follows so quickly upon another that we are forced to close our dazzled, well-nigh blinded, eyes, and to follow the storm only by listening to the uninterrupted roll of the thunder. The downpour becomes a cloud-burst; from the hills the water rushes down everywhere in streams; in the hollows it forms lakes; in the valleys there are rivers in flood. For hours the downpour continues, but with the coming of the rain the tempest abates, and a fresh cooling breeze refreshes man and beast and plant. Gradually the flashes become fewer and the peals of thunder less violent, the rain-spout becomes a shower, and this ends in a gentle drizzle; the sky clears, the clouds scatter, and the sun breaks forth in splendour. Mirthfully the brown children, naked as they were born, run out from the houses and huts to bathe in the pools which the spring rain has filled; and not less gladly do the reptiles, amphibians, and fishes rise from their muddy beds. Even the first night after the rain one hears everywhere the clear, loud voice of a little frog, of whom one saw nothing before, for he, like some of the crocodiles, many turtles, and all the fishes, had sought winter-quarters deep in the mud bottom of the periodically dried-up lakes, and had just been awakened by the first spring rain.

Everywhere the newly-awakened life arises in strength. The thirsty earth eagerly sucks in the moisture which has been bestowed upon her; but after a few days the heavens again open their flood-gates and a fresh supply of rain awakens any germs which are still slumbering. A second thunder-storm causes the buds to burst on all the trees which shed their leaves, and liberates the sprouting grasses from the ground. A third downpour of rain calls forth blossoms and flowers, and clothes the whole land in luxuriant green. Magical as spring’s coming is the subsequent rush of life. What with us requires a month here completes its life-cycle in a week; what develops but slowly in temperate zones here unfolds itself in days and hours.

But within a few weeks the spring is once more past; the hardly distinguishable summer follows in the annual pageant; and is as rapidly succeeded by the short autumn; so that, strictly speaking, all three--spring, summer, and autumn--make but one season. Again the destructive winter is at the doors, and prevents that continuous germinating, growing, and flourishing which is possible in other equatorial countries where the water-supply is more abundant. Here, however, the rainfall is at least sufficient to keep the barren desert from gaining the mastery, and to spread a more or less rich carpet of vegetation over the ground--in other words, to produce steppe-land instead of desert.

I use the word steppe to designate those lands peculiar to the interior of Africa which the Arabs call “Chala”, which means “lands bearing fresh green plants”. It is true that the chala is as little like the steppes of South Russia and Central Asia as the prairies of North America, or the pampas or llanos of South America, yet in certain important respects it does resemble the first-named, so that I need scarcely make any excuse for preferring a known to an unknown term. The steppe extends over the whole interior of Africa, from the Sahara to the Karroo, from east coast to west, surrounding all the high mountains and enclosing all the extensive virgin forests which stretch on their slopes, or occupy in greater luxuriance the low grounds where water is plentiful. In fact it includes all the lands in the heart of Africa, beginning a few hundred paces beyond the last house of the towns, and directly behind the last houses of the villages; it includes the fields of the settlers, and supports the flocks of the nomads. Where the desert ends to the south, where the forest ceases, where the mountain flattens, there is steppe-land; where the forest is destroyed by fire, the steppe first gains possession of the clearing; where men abandon a village the steppe encroaches, and in a few years destroys every trace of habitation; where the farmer relinquishes his fields the steppe impresses its character upon them in the space of a year or two.

Inhospitable and monotonous the steppe seems to one who sees it for the first time. A wide, often immeasurable plain stretches before his eye; only exceptionally is this interrupted by isolated conical hills, yet more rarely do these unite to form mountain ranges. More frequently, low, undulating hills alternate with flat valleys; or sometimes they combine in a strange mazy network of ranges which enclose deep-sunk basins, where pools, ponds, and lakes are formed during the rainy season, while during winter the clayey soil is rent with thousands of fissures. In the deepest and longest depressions there is, instead of standing water, a “Chôr” or rain-torrent, that is to say, a water-course which even in the spring is only occasionally in flow, but which, under specially favourable circumstances, may be flooded to the brim in a few hours, and does not merely flow, but rushes--a moving wall of water--hissing and thundering down the valley, often, however, disappearing before it reaches a true river. Except where there are these water-basins and water-courses, a relatively rich vegetation covers the whole surface of the steppe. Grasses of various kinds, from lowly plants which creep along the ground to great cereal-like stems as tall as a man, form the basis of the vegetation. Trees and shrubs, especially mimosas, baobabs, doum-palms, and christ-thorns, combine here and there, especially near the water, to form thickets or groves, but elsewhere they are but sparsely scattered amid the grasses which so uniformly cover the flats, and it is only at a few spots that they form even a thin wood. Never do the trees show vigour of growth like that seen in the valleys with true river courses, where the blessings of spring are always retained; on the contrary, they are often stunted, usually low and with scraggy crowns with rarely even a twiner struggling upwards. They all suffer from the severity of the long torrid winter, which hardly allows them to gain subsistence, and keeps off almost all parasitic plants. It is different with the grasses which, in the short but abundantly moist spring, shoot up luxuriantly, bloom, and ripen their seeds, and in fact attain to a thoroughly vigorous life. To them the monotonous aspect of the steppe is in great part due, for, humble as they are, they obliterate many of the contrasts which would otherwise be apparent, and the uniformity of their colouring becomes oppressively wearisome. Not even man succeeds in introducing variety into this eternal sameness, for the fields which he tills in the midst of the grass-land seem from a distance so like their surroundings that one can scarce distinguish grain from grass. Even the round huts made of slender stakes, with conical roofs thatched with steppe-grass, are, in the dry season at least, so closely congruent with the surrounding flats that one must come very near before one sees that they are there. Only the seasons can change the sameness of the picture, and even they do not remove much of its monotony.

Inhospitable, too, is the reception which awaits the traveller in the steppe. Perched on a camel he rides through the fields. Some game or other invites him to the chase, and induces him to penetrate into the grass-forest. Then he finds out that between the apparently smooth grasses there grow plants much more formidable than the thorny mimosas. On the ground flourishes the “tarba”, whose seed-capsules are so sharp that they cut through the soles of light riding-boots; above it grows the “essek”, whose burrs insinuate themselves almost inextricably into all clothing; and somewhat higher the “askanit” rises, most formidable of the three, for its fine prickles are loosened by the slightest touch, and, penetrating one’s clothes, bore into the skin and cause ulcerations small enough individually, but in their incomputable numbers most oppressive. These three plants make any prolonged sojourn or extensive exploration impossible, and are such a torture to man and beast that one can readily understand why the natives always carry, as an indispensable instrument, a fine pair of pincers. As among the monkeys, the greatest kindness which one man can do his neighbour is to pull out the fine, hardly-visible, needle-like spines from his skin. Apart from the three formidable antagonists which we have mentioned, most of the other steppe-plants, especially the trees and shrubs, are covered with more or less repellent thorns and spines, as one soon discovers if one tries to penetrate a thicket or even comes to close quarters with a tree.

Other even more unpleasant characteristics of the steppes make themselves felt at night. It is often necessary to ride for days without reaching a village, and one must therefore camp out on the plain. A suitable sandy place free from obnoxious plants is sought out, the beasts are unloaded and hobbled, a bed is made by spreading a mat on the ground, and a huge fire is lighted to scare off beasts of prey. The sun goes down, and a few minutes later the night falls on the steppes; only the fire lightens the camp. But by the fire and about the couch things soon become lively. Attracted by the light, noxious creatures come running and creeping, first one and then another, but soon in tens and in hundreds. First appear gigantic spiders, which, with their eight legs spread out, cover a surface as large as an outstretched hand. After the spiders, or sometimes along with them, the scorpions come hurrying. Both spiders and scorpions rush with sinister rapidity to the fire, clambering over carpet and coverlet, among the dishes of our simple supper, retreating when the radiating heat becomes too strong for them, turning back again under its mesmeric influence--in truth a fearsome invasion. For these spiders, with their dangerous, or at least painful bites, are not less dreaded than the scorpions, and they are as ready to bite as the scorpions are to sting. Angrily we seize another instrument which an experienced traveller had forewarned us was indispensable--a long-legged pair of tongs, and with these we grip as many of the intruders as possible, and throw them without mercy into the crackling fire. By the united efforts of the party most of the hellish brood are soon in the flames; their successors are similarly treated, until the invasion slackens, and we begin to breathe--but it is too soon! For new and more uncanny visitors draw near the fire--venomous snakes, apparently fascinated like the spiders. Among them the naturalist recognizes as the most abundant species an exceedingly interesting creature well deserving his attention: it is the sandy-yellow horned viper, the famous or infamous Cerastes of the ancients, the Fi engraved on so many Egyptian monuments, the asp from whose fangs Cleopatra sought death. It may be interesting to the zoologist, but the wearied traveller consigns it to the depths of hell. The whole company becomes lively when this visitor is announced; everyone seizes his tongs with much greater haste and anxiety than before. Whoever sees the snake approaches it cautiously, grips it behind the neck, presses the tongs firmly lest it escape, and throws it into the glowing fire. There its destruction is watched with no small satisfaction. In many parts of the steppe these vipers drive one almost to despair. Thanks to their scaly coat, whose markings correspond to a jot with the sandy soil, thanks also to their habit of burying themselves during the day, or during their resting hours, with only their short tactile horns protruding from the sand, one usually searches for them in vain during daylight. But as soon as night comes, and the camp-fire burns brightly, they are unmistakably on the spot, coiling and hissing all around. Sometimes they appear in terrifying numbers and keep the tired traveller awake till towards midnight, for all those which have been resting within the range of the fire, or have been attracted to it on their nocturnal rambles, come gliding towards the flames. At last, wearied out and heavy with sleep, we throw down the tongs and betake ourselves to bed, but we never know how many of the reptiles will come creeping over us in the night, and we often discover evidence of their visits when the carpet is lifted in the morning. For under its folds one or more may be found lurking, or may be seen quickly disappearing into the sand. Little wonder that it was on this steppe-land that I first became impressed with the fact, which no one had at that time stated, that, with few exceptions, the venomous snakes, and certainly all the vipers and crotaline snakes, are nocturnal in habit.

But the above-mentioned animals do not by any means complete the list of those which are troublesome in the steppe. There is one, among the smallest of all, which, though giving no direct cause for anxiety as far as life is concerned, is of immense importance in relation to the property of these who live or travel in this region. I mean the termite, a little insect not unlike an ant, which, in spite of its minuteness, does more damage than the voracious locust (still able to constitute a plague), and may work more destruction than a troop of elephants devastating the fields. It is one of the most omnipresent and persistent of injurious insects. Whatever the vigour of plant life creates will fall before the sharp jaws of the termites, and they are not less unsparing of the products of human art and industry. High above the grass-forest of the steppe they rear their conical earthen towers; on the ground and on the trees they make their tunnels and passages. They begin and end their destructive work at night or in darkness. First they cover the object of their attack with a crust of earth which shuts out the light, and under this cover they go about their work, whose end and object is always destruction. Things lying on the ground or hung on mud walls are most likely to be attacked. The careless traveller, oppressed by the overpowering sultriness, throws one of his garments on the ground which forms his bed, and finds it in the morning perforated like a sieve and rendered quite useless! The naturalist who is unaware of the ways of the land shuts up his hard-won spoils in a wooden box, and neglects to place this on stones or the like so as to raise it off the ground; in a few days his treasures are gone! The sportsman hangs his rifle on a clay wall, and discovers to his disgust that the destructive insects have covered butt and barrel with their tunnels, and have already gnawed deep channels in the stock. The tree which they select is lost; the woodwork of houses in which they effect a settlement is doomed. From the ground to the highest branches they make their covered ways; they eat through stem, branches, and twigs, and leave but a dead honey-combed skeleton, which becomes the prey of the first storm, and is scattered abroad in dust. On the earth-walls or on the supporting beams of the houses the termites likewise ascend, riddling the woodwork, and in a short time making a wreck of everything. Even under the firmly stamped floors of the better-class houses they form a maze of branched burrows whence they occasionally break forth in millions bent on destruction. In these and many other ways they work ruin, and are among the most troublesome plagues of the interior of Africa, and especially of the steppe-land.

Did this region offer nought else, were it not one of the most thickly populated and most frequented of animal haunts, the naturalist would perhaps avoid it as carefully as does the mercantile traveller, who knows only its repellent aspects and none of its attractions.

But he who sojourns here for a time and really explores the region is soon reconciled. For the steppe abounds in life; it is not poor like the desert, but rather rich like the primitive forest. For it too shelters a fauna abounding alike in species and in individuals, and including many forms which are regarded as distinctive of this geographical region. Of some of these we shall give rapid sketches.

Among the most remarkable steppe animals are those fishes found in the water-courses and water-basins which are only periodically filled. Even Aristotle speaks of fishes which burrow in the mud when the pools are dried up, and though Seneca sought to throw ridicule on the statement by suggesting scoffingly that one should henceforth go a-fishing not with hook and line but with pick and shovel, Aristotle recorded a fact which is beyond either doubt or ridicule.

The mud-fish, which lives in the steppe basins and streams in the interior of Africa, is an eel-like creature, about 3 feet in length, with a long dorsal fin continuous with that of the tail, with two narrow pectoral fins far forward, and two long pelvic fins far back, and with this most important characteristic, that, besides the gills, there are also functional lung-sacs. This remarkable connecting link between fish and amphibian lives, even in the wet season, more in the mud than in the water, and likes to hide in holes which it seems to dig out for itself. When the supply of water threatens to disappear, the fish burrows deeply in the mud, rolls itself into the smallest possible bulk, and forms, apparently by frequent turning, an air-tight capsule, shut in on all sides, and lined internally with mucus. Within this the animal remains motionless throughout the winter. If we carefully dig out these capsules and pack them well, we can send the fish without risk where we please, and it may be readily recalled to life by placing the capsule in lukewarm water. As the reviving water soaks in, the creature still remains quiet, just as if it were heavy with sleep; but in the course of an hour or so it becomes quite lively, and in a few days its voracious hunger also awakes. For some months its behaviour remains unaltered, but at the season when it prepares in its native haunts for winter-sleep, it seeks to do the same in captivity, or at least becomes restless, and secretes an extraordinary quantity of mucus. If opportunity be afforded, it burrows; if not, it soon masters its inclination, and continues to thrive as before in the open water.