Part 17

Sheat-fish or siluroids also pass the winter in the steppe as the mud-fish does. The amphibians too, along with some reptiles, especially water-turtles and crocodiles, burrow in the mud, and wile away the deadly winter in sleep. On the other hand, all the terrestrial reptiles are at their liveliest throughout the torrid season, and contribute not a little to enliven the dreary steppe which they inhabit in extraordinary numbers. Besides the vipers which we have already mentioned, there is another venomous snake of the steppe--the royal Aspis or Uräus--one of the deadliest of all. It was with this creature, more famous or infamous than the horned viper, that Moses juggled before Pharaoh, as the snake-charmers still do; the same, too, whose image in gold the ancient kings of Egypt wore as a diadem to express their irresistible power, and which they used in the punishment of criminals, or in executing revenge on enemies,--a creature in regard to which the old authors tell many gruesome, and not always untrue, tales. In contrast to other venomous snakes it is active during the day; when unexcited it looks very harmless, but it is extremely agile, irritable, and bold, and combines all the qualities which render venomous serpents dangerous. Usually unseen, for its colour closely resembles that of the sand and the withered grass, it glides, often with uncanny rapidity, through the grass-forest, conscious of its terrible weapons, and ready for attack whenever it fancies danger. In attitude of defence it raises the anterior fifth or sixth of its body, and expands the neck ribs so as to form a sort of shield, above which lies the small head, with lively sparkling eyes. It fastens its sharp gaze on its opponent, and prepares for the bite which is quick as lightning and almost without exception fatal. Then its appearance is dreadful but yet beautiful, bewildering and terrifying to man and beast. It is generally asserted that this snake may kill without biting, by spitting or shooting its venom at its enemy; and it is at any rate true that the poison-glands secrete the dread juice so copiously that great drops trickle from the openings of the perforated fangs. Little wonder that both natives and Europeans are much more afraid of this asp than of the sluggish horned viper which visits their bed by night. Nor is it difficult to understand why the stranger fires at every snake, even the most harmless, which comes within his sight, or why every rustling in the grass or foliage gives one a slight shock, or at least induces careful circumspection. But the rustling is continually to be heard in the steppe, for there are many other snakes no less common than the asp--many, from the huge python or hieroglyphic snake, sometimes nearly twenty feet in length, down to harmless grass-snakes of minute size. Besides these there is a countless host of lizards of all kinds.

Whoever has a horror of snakes may perhaps be reconciled to the class of reptiles by the agile, beautifully-coloured lizards, for creatures more attractive than these are not to be found in the steppe. They dart to and fro on the ground; they clamber on the branches of the shrubs and trees; they look down from the hills of the termites and from the roofs of the houses; they make their way even under the sand. Some species vie with the humming-birds in the brightness and glitter of their colours; others fascinate by the swiftness and grace of their movements; others attract by the quaintness of their forms. Even after the sun, in whose light they live and move, has set, and most of these active creatures have gone to rest, the geckos are still left to the naturalist. During the day these lizards remain quietly fixed to the tree-boles and the rafters, but as night sets in they begin their activity. With loud and musical calls (to which they owe their name “Gecko”) they hunt about without any fear of man. The ancients libelled them and placed them among the most venomous of animals, and even to-day this superstition lurks in the minds of the ignorant. They are nocturnal animals, and as such somewhat different from the diurnal members of the lizard race. Thus one of their peculiar characteristics is the cushion-like expansion of the fingers and toes, whose soles are furnished with numerous closely appressed plaits of skin, which act like suckers and give the geckos extraordinary climbing powers. These plaited cushions were long ago erroneously interpreted as poison-secreting glands,--an idea which now seems absurd enough. In truth the geckos are as harmless as they are attractive, and in a very short time they win the affection of every unprejudiced observer. Most valuable domestic pets they are, for they pursue with eagerness and success all kinds of troublesome insects. In every room of the mud and straw houses their nightly activity may be observed; they climb about with all but unfailing security, adhering by their plaited feet to almost anything; head up or head down they run on vertical or on horizontal surfaces, teasing and chasing one another in pleasant fashion, making one merry too with their musical notes; they give one nothing but pleasure and do nothing but good; what reasonable man can fail to become their friend?

But they are reptiles still, and must remain under the curse; they cannot vie with the children of the air--the birds. And one may perhaps say that the birds are the first creatures to make a thoroughly favourable impression on the visitor to the steppe, and to reconcile him to the forbidding aspects of other animals.

The bird-fauna of the steppes is rich alike in species and in individuals. Wherever we wander we are sure to hear and see birds. From the densest forest of grasses resounds the loud call of a bustard; from the thickets by the water-courses is heard the trumpeting of the guinea-fowl or the loud cry of the francolin; from the trees comes a medley of sound--the cooing and moaning of the doves, the shouts and hammering of the woodpecker, the melodious call of the barbets, the simple music of various weaver-finches and thrush-like songsters. The high branches of trees or other prominent positions serve as watch-towers for serpent-eagles, chanting goshawks, rollers, drongos, and bee-eaters, which sit there on the outlook for prey. The secretary-bird, which the natives call the Bird of Fate, runs about among the tall grass stems or hovers above them; in higher strata of the air one sees the whirling swallows and other birds which catch their prey on the wing; higher still the eagles and vultures are circling. No spot is untenanted, in fact almost every place is thickly peopled; and when our winter begins to reign it sends hither many of our birds, especially kestrels and harriers, shrikes and rollers, quails and storks, who find in the steppe a hospitable refuge during the evil days in the north.

Few of the birds which live in the steppes can be regarded as distinctive, nor is the general character of the bird-fauna so clearly and sharply defined that one could at once recognize a steppe bird, as is possible with those of the desert. To some extent, however, the careful observer will notice that the birds of the steppe are congruent with their environment. The secretary-bird--a great bird of prey in the guise of a crane; the “snake-harrier”--a sluggish, slow-flying hawk clothed in rich, soft, large-feathered plumage; a straw-yellow night-jar, and another with decorative wing-feathers, a guinea-fowl or a francolin, a bustard or an ostrich: of these we might perhaps venture to say that they belong to the steppe, and are only there at home. It is not the case that the steppe is richer in colour than the desert, but it affords much more cover, and its tenants are therefore more freely coloured and marked. There are two colours to which it seems as if a preference were given; the one is a more or less shaded straw-yellow, the other is a hardly definable gray-blue. Both appear on the plumage of birds of prey and game-birds alike, but without, of course, excluding other darker, lighter, or more vivid colours. It seems to me worthy of note that the greater freedom of colouring and marking is also observable on those birds whose near relations are characteristic of the desert.

We should like to give a more detailed description of some of the steppe birds which are most distinctive of the region, but selection is difficult, for almost every one of those which we have mentioned claims and merits close attention. But my limits force me to a choice, and it must suffice if I select a bird of the upper air, a bird of the ground, and a bird of the night, in order through them to add a few touches to our general picture of the steppe.

No one who stays for any length of time in the steppe-land can fail to observe a large bird of prey, whose appearance as he flies, owing to the beautiful contour of the long pointed wings and exceedingly short tail, mark him off from every other feathered robber, whose flight moreover surpasses that of all creatures which fly. High above the ground he flies, hovers, glides, tumbles, flutters, dances, and throws himself headlong. As large as an eagle, he expands his great wings, and remains for a moment in the same position without any movement; he beats them violently, raises them high above his body, twists them and whirls them; he closes them and is precipitated almost to the ground; he gives a few powerful strokes, and in a few minutes has ascended to immeasurable heights. As he approaches the ground we see his vividly contrasted colours--the velvet black of the head, neck, breast, and belly, the silver white on the under surface of his wings, the light chestnut-brown of his tail; he throws himself headlong, and we notice the bright colour of the back resembling that of the tail and a broad light band on the wings; he comes still nearer, and we may perhaps detect the coral-red beak and cheeks and talons. If we question one of the nomad herdsmen observant of the animal life of the steppe in regard to this striking and altogether remarkable bird of prey, we may hear from his lips this significant and suggestive story. “To him,” he says, “the goodness of the All-merciful has given rich gifts, and, above all, high wisdom. For he is a physician among the birds of heaven, familiar with the diseases which visit the children of the Creator, and knowing all the herbs and roots with which to heal them. From far-off lands thou mayest see him bear the roots, but in vain dost thou seek to discover whither he is summoned to heal the sick. The working of his remedies is unfailing; to partake of them brings life, to reject them is to invite death; they are as the Hedijah written by the hand of God’s messenger, a precept of Mohammed, whom we reverence in humility. To the poor in the eyes of the Lord, to the sons of Adam, it is not forbidden to make use of them. Take note of where the physician-eagle has his dwelling, refrain from injuring his eggs, wait till the feathers of his young no longer draw any blood, and then go to his home and wound the body of one of his children. Thereupon shalt thou perceive the father fly towards morning in the direction in which thou turnest to pray. Be not discouraged in waiting for his return, have patience! He will appear bearing with him a root; frighten him so that he may leave it to thee, take it without fear; for it comes from the Lord, in whose hand are the issues of life, and it is free from all witchcraft. Then hasten to heal thy sick; they shall all recover, for so it is appointed to them by the Father of Mercies.”

The bird which forms the subject of this poetic legend is the bateleur or short-tailed African eagle--the “Heaven’s ape” of the Abyssinians. The roots which, according to the legend, it carries, are snakes, which it picks up. Seldom does one see the bird rest; usually it flies, as has been described, until the sight of a snake induces it to hurl itself downwards and to engage in battle. Like all the snake-eating birds of prey, it is well protected against the venomous fangs by the thick horny plates on its talons and by its dense plumage; it is therefore unafraid of the most deadly snake, and is a true benefactor of the steppe-land. It is not this beneficence, however, but its marvellous flight that has won renown for the African eagle in the eyes of all the peoples among whom it has its home.

The ostrich, which is bound to the earth, stands in striking contrast to the short-tailed eagle. He also is the hero of an Arabian legend, which, however, instead of glorifying him, brings him down to the dust; for the story is that the ostrich wished, in the exuberance of his vanity, to fly to the sun, but was in his attempt miserably burned, and hurled in his present form to the ground. To us his life is all the more worthy of consideration, that many false ideas still prevail both in regard to it and in regard to the bird himself.

Although occurring in those low grounds of the African and West Asiatic deserts which are richest in vegetation, the ostrich becomes abundant only in the steppe. Here one is almost continually crossing his unmistakable “spoor”, though it is but rarely that one sees the bird. He is tall enough to see over the lofty grasses which conceal him, he is far-sighted and shy, and can therefore usually conceal himself from the approaching traveller. If one succeeds in observing him from a distance, one sees that, except at the breeding season, he is fond of a comfortable and easy-going life. In the early morning, and in the evening, the troop feed busily; at noon they all lie resting and digesting on the ground; sometimes they go together to water or to bathe (even in the sea); later on, they amuse themselves with marvellous dances, jumping round in a circle as if out of their senses, fanning with their wing-plumes as if they would attempt to fly; at sunset they betake themselves to rest, but without neglecting to secure their safety. If a formidable enemy threaten them they rush off in wild flight, and soon leave him far behind; if a weaker carnivore sneak upon them, they strike him to the ground with their extremely powerful legs. Thus the course of their life runs smoothly, provided that there be no lack of food. Of this they require an enormous quantity. Their voracity is astounding, and not less is the capacity of their stomach to receive vast quantities of all sorts of things, which are either digested, or are retained without injury. Almost everything vegetable, from root-tubers to fruits, is accepted by their stomachs, which have now become proverbial; and so is it with small animals, both vertebrate and invertebrate. But such things by no means exhaust their menu. The ostrich swallows whatever can be swallowed, gulping down stones a pound in weight, and in captivity not disdaining pieces of tiles, oakum, rags, knives, single keys and bunches of keys, nails, pieces of glass and crockery, leaden balls, bells, and many other such things. Indeed, it may fall a victim to its indiscriminating appetite by devouring such stuff as unslaked lime. In the stomach of one which died in captivity there was found a heterogeneous mass weighing in all about nine pounds. In the poultry-yard the greedy bird swallows ducklings and chickens as if they were oysters; it dismantles walls to fill its gizzard with the loose mortar; in short, it will eat anything which is not a fixture. In proportion to the amount of food which it requires--and that is not out of proportion to its size and activity--so is its thirst. Thus it frequents those places where it finds not only abundance of nutritious plants, but also water-basins or springs. If both fail, the ostriches are forced to migrate, and in such cases they often cover great distances.

With the coming of spring the mating instinct awakens in the heart of the ostrich, and then it changes its habit of life in a remarkable manner. The troops or herds break up into small groups, and the adult males begin their long-continued combats for mates. Excited to the highest pitch, as is outwardly indicated by the vivid reddening of neck and legs, two rivals stand opposed; they fan their wings so that the full splendour of their fluffy white plumes is displayed; they move their long necks in a scarce describable fashion, twisting and bending now forwards, now sideways; they utter deep and hoarse sounds, sometimes suggestive of a muffled drum, sometimes even of the roaring of lions; they stare at one another; they bend down on the soles of their feet, and move their necks and wings more rapidly and persistently than before; then they spring up again and rush at one another, seeking, in the swift encounter, to strike their opponent a powerful blow with the foot, and with the sharp-cutting toe-nail to make long, deep gashes on body and legs. The victor in the combat is not more gentle to the mate or mates which he has won, in fact he abuses them shamefully with bullying and blows. It is not at present perfectly certain whether a male keeps company with one female or with several; it may be accepted as a fact, however, that several females often lay in the same nest, and it has been observed that the female does not undertake the whole responsibility of sitting on the eggs, but leaves much of this to the male, who, after about eight weeks’ brooding, also leads about the young and tends them. In both brooding and tending, the female does assist, but the male always has the larger share, and in leading about the young brood he shows more carefulness and solicitude than does the mother-bird. The young ostriches, when hatched, are about the size of an average hen, and come into the world with a remarkable suit of feathers, more like the bristly coat of a mammal than the customary down of young birds. As they exhibit the characteristic voracity of their race from the day of their birth, they grow quickly, and after two or three months they change their plumage and put on a garb resembling that of the female. At least three years must pass, however, before they are fully grown or ready for pairing.

Such, in briefest statement, are the essential facts in regard to the life-history of the giant bird of the steppe; all the stories which are inconsistent with my summary are more or less fabulous.

The bird of the night in regard to which I wish to say a few words is the night-jar or goat-sucker, whose race is represented at home by one species, but in the steppe by several somewhat remarkable forms. When the first star is seen in the evening sky these gayest and most charming of nocturnal birds begin to be active. During the day it is only by chance that we ever see one, and we scarce believe in its powers of enlivening the steppe-land. But, when night falls, at least one is sure to make its appearance. Attracted to the camp-fire like the scorpion and the viper, the softly-flying bird flits in ever-changing course around the watchers, alights near them for a moment, delivers a few strophes of its whirring night-song, which reminds one of a cat’s purring, is off again into the dusk, only to reappear in a few minutes, and so on until morning. One species is especially fascinating, the flag-winged night-jar, or “four-winged bird” of the natives. Its decorative peculiarity consists of a long feather which grows out between the primaries and secondaries of each wing, without any vane except at the broad tip, and far exceeding all the other feathers in length, being in fact almost exactly half a yard in length. Eerily, like some ghost, this night-jar flies and flutters. It looks as if it were being constantly pursued by two others of smaller size, or as if it could divide itself into two or three birds, or as if it had indeed four wings. But it has all the charms of its race, and soon becomes a welcome visitor, contributing, like its fellows, not a little to alleviate most pleasantly the discomforts of the night.

Like the birds, the mammals of the steppe are rich alike in numbers and in species. The abundant vegetation supports not only countless herds of antelopes, which are justly regarded as most characteristic of this region, but also buffaloes and wild boars, zebras and wild asses, elephants and rhinoceroses, the “serafe”, or giraffes, as we call them, besides a host of rodents with which we have only a general acquaintance. Against this dense population of herbivores, the numerous carnivores of the steppe wage unceasing war, and this is probably even to the advantage of the former, since, without some such check, the ruminants and rodents would tend to multiply beyond the limits of subsistence afforded even by the rich vegetation of this region. The uniformity of the North African steppes and the relatively (though not really) frequent occurrence of standing and flowing water hinder the formation of those immense mobs of antelopes which are observed in the Karroo of South Africa; everywhere, however, we come across these elegant, fine-eyed ruminants, singly, in small herds, or in considerable companies, and they seem to keep to approximately the same spots in summer and winter. Zebras and wild asses, on the other hand, are only found on the dry heights; the giraffe lives exclusively in the thin woods, while the rhinoceros almost always seeks the densest growths; the elephant entirely avoids broad open tracts, and the ill-tempered buffaloes cling to the moist low ground. On these last, as on the tame herds of cattle, the lion preys, while the cunning leopard and the nimble, untiring cheetah, are more given to stalking the antelopes; the jackals and steppe-wolves prefer the hares; the foxes, civets, and polecats seek the small rodents and those birds which live on the ground.

From this abundant fauna I must select some for special notice, but I shall withstand the temptation of choosing lion or cheetah, hyæna or ratel, zebra or other wild horse, giraffe or buffalo, elephant or rhinoceros, for there are some others which seem to me more truly distinctive of the steppe. Among these I place in the first rank the ant-eater, or aard-vark, and the pangolin--the old-world representatives of the Edentates--which have their head-quarters in the western hemisphere, and belong to an order whose golden age lies many ages behind us. Both aard-vark and pangolin are, in North Africa at least, distinctively steppe animals, for it is only there that the ant-hills and termitaries are sufficiently numerous to afford them comfortable maintenance. Like all ant-eaters they lie during the day rolled up almost in a ball, sleeping in deep burrows which they have dug out, and which one sees opening alike on the broad, treeless, grass plain and among the sparse trees and shrubs. Only when night has set in do they become lively; with clumsy gait they hobble and jump about in search of food, progressing chiefly by means of their powerful hind-limbs, resting on the great burrowing claws of their fore-limbs and on their heavy tail. Their food consists exclusively of small creatures of all kinds, but especially of the larvæ of ants and termites, and of worms. Continually jerking its depressed nose and snuffing about, the ant-eater trots along, and, having discovered a pathway of the ants or termites, follows this home. Without much difficulty it makes an opening for its long snout, pushes this into the hole, and feels about with its tongue for the passages along which the insects hurry and scurry. Having stretched the tongue, which is viscid and thread-like, along one of the chief passages, it waits until it is covered with ants or termites, and then retracts it into the narrow mouth. So minute are the individual morsels that this may seem a somewhat miserable mode of making a meal, but the tongue is, in its way, just as effective as the powerful claws, and the ant-eater makes its way through life very comfortably. Nor are the animals by any means so helpless as they seem. The weak pangolin is protected more effectively by his armour, which is strong enough to turn a sword, than by the weapons on its feet; the aard-vark is able to use its claws most effectively, and can also give such smart side-blows with its heavy tail that it readily gets rid of an antagonist who is not of superior strength. But if a really formidable enemy draws near and is detected in time, the aard-vark burrows with the utmost rapidity, throwing out sand and dust with such force and in such quantities that an almost impenetrable, because blinding, veil saves it from attack until it is at a safe depth underground. Only to man with his far-reaching weapons does it fall an easy prey, for he stabs it asleep in its burrow, and kills it almost infallibly if the entrance to the hole be fairly straight and not too long. Thus, fate is too strong for even this old-world creature, and will sooner or later wipe out its name from the book of the living.

Among the steppe beasts of prey one of the best known and most distinctive is a dog. A connecting link between the dogs and the hyænas, not only in form but to a certain extent in its markings, this animal--the hyæna-dog or Cape hunting-dog--is one of the most noteworthy figures in the steppe-picture, and also in its nature and habits one of the most interesting of all the carnivores of this region. Excepting certain monkeys, I know of no mammal so self-assertive, so wantonly aggressive, so emulous of exploits as this dog is, or, at any rate, seems to be. There is no limit to his ambition; no other mammal is quite secure from his attack. In large packs they traverse the broad steppe-land on eager outlook for booty. They ravage the sheep-flocks of the settlers and nomads; they follow persistently at the heels of the swiftest and most agile antelopes; audaciously they press in even upon men; fearlessly they dislodge, thanks perhaps to their noisy bravado, the other carnivores of the region which they frequent. Behind the strongest and most formidable antelope a pack rushes in full cry, barking, howling, whining, and now and then uttering a clear note of triumph. The antelope exerts all its strength, but the murderous dogs lose no ground, they cut off corners and prevent it doubling back, they come nearer and nearer and force it to stand at bay. Conscious of its strength and of its powers of defence, the antelope uses its pointed horns with skill and good effect; one dog after another may be hurled to the ground fatally transfixed; but the others fix on its throat and body, and the noble creature’s death-rattle soon puts an end to their howling. Without fear of man these dogs fall upon domestic animals of all kinds, tearing up the smaller sorts with the bloodthirstiness of martens, and mutilating those which are too large to be readily mastered. Nor are they afraid of domestic dogs, but fight with them to the death and leave them lifeless on the field. Thoroughly broken in and tamed, trained for several generations, they should become the most excellent of sporting-hounds; but the task of subjugation is certainly not an easy one. They do indeed become used to their master, and display some liking, even a certain fondness for him, but all in their own way. When called from their kennel, they jump up and down in the highest of spirits, fight with one another out of sheer joy, rush at their approaching master, leap up on him, try to show their gladness in the most extravagant ways, and are finally unable to express it except by biting him. A boisterous mischievousness and an uncontrollable impulse to bite are characteristic of almost all their doings. More excitable than almost any other creature, they move every member, they quiver in every fibre, when any novel occurrence attracts or occupies them; their mercurial vivacity is expressed in exaggerated gaiety and next moment in savage wildness. For they bite whatever comes in their way, without any provocation, probably without any ill-will, simply for fun. They are the most marvellous creatures in all the steppes.

In those parts of the steppe which I have been more particularly considering--the Kordofan, Sennaar, and Taka regions--the animal life is not subject to destructive or disturbing influences to the same extent as in the south of Africa or in Central Asia. To those animals which do not migrate, or do not lie in death-like sleep for months, the winter may bring privations or even sharp want, but it does not involve the pangs of starvation or the torments of thirst; it does not force desperate creatures to leave an impoverished home, or seek for happier lands in mad flight. It is true that the animals of the North African steppes have their migrations and journeyings; but they do not flee in a panic as do those which inhabit other steppe-lands, and forsake them in hundreds of thousands before a threatened destruction. Of the immense herds of antelopes, such as crowd together in the south of Africa, one never hears in the north. All the gregarious mammals and birds gather together when the winter sets in, and disband when the spring draws near; all the migratory birds go and come about the same time; but all this takes place in an orderly, old-established fashion, not spasmodically nor without definite ends. There is, however, one power from whose influence the animal life of these steppe-lands is not exempt,--and that is fire.

Every year, at the time when the dark clouds in the south and the lightning which flashes from them announce the approach of spring, during days when the south wind rages over the steppe, the nomad herdsman takes a firebrand and hurls it into the waving grass. Rapidly and beyond all stopping the fire catches. It spreads over broad stretches; smoke and steam by day, a lurid cloud by night, proclaim its destructive and yet eventually beneficial progress. Not unfrequently it reaches the primeval forest, and the flames send their forked tongues up the dry climbing-plants to the crowns of the trees, devouring the remaining leaves or charring the outer bark. Sometimes, though more rarely, the fire surrounds a village and showers its burning arrows on the straw huts, which flare up almost in a moment.

Although a steppe-fire, in spite of the abundance of combustible material, is rarely fatal to horsemen or to those who meet fire by fire, and just as rarely to the swift mammals, it exerts, nevertheless, a most exciting influence on the animal world, and puts to flight everything that lives hidden in the grass-forest. And sometimes the flight becomes a stampede, to hasten which the panic of the fugitives contributes more than the steady advance of the flames. Antelopes, zebras, and ostriches speed across the plain more quickly than the wind; cheetahs and leopards follow them and mingle with them without thinking of booty; the hunting-dog forgets his lust for blood; and the lion succumbs to the terror which has conquered the others. Only those which live in burrows are undismayed, for they betake themselves to their safe retreats and let the sea of fire roll over them. Otherwise it fares hardly with everything that creeps or is fettered to the ground. Few snakes and hardly the most agile of the lizards are able to outrun the fire. Scorpions, tarantulas, and centipedes either fall victims to the flames, or become, like the affrighted swarms of insects, the prey of enemies which are able to defy the conflagration. For as soon as a cloud of smoke ascends to the sky and gradually grows in volume, the birds of prey hasten thither from all quarters, especially serpent-eagles, chanting goshawks, harriers, kestrels, storks, bee-eaters, and swifts. They come to capture the lizards, snakes, scorpions, spiders, beetles, and locusts, which are startled into flight before the flames. In front of the line the storks and the secretary-birds stalk about undaunted; above them amid the clouds of smoke sweep the light-winged falcons, bee-eaters, and swifts; and for all there is booty enough. These birds continue the chase as long as the steppe burns, and the flames find food as long as they are fanned by the storms. Only when the winds die down do the flames cease.

It is thus that the nomad clears his pasture of weeds and vermin, and prepares it for fresh growth. The ashes remain as manure, the life-giving rains carry this into the soil, and after the first thunder-storm all is covered with fresh green. All the former tenants, driven away in fear, return to their old haunts, to enjoy, after the hardships of winter and the recent panic, the pleasures of ease and comfort.

THE PRIMEVAL FORESTS OF CENTRAL AFRICA.

Rich as the African steppe really is, incomparably rich as it seems when compared with the desert, it nowhere exhibits the full luxuriance of tropical vegetation. It indeed receives everywhere the blessing of life-giving water; but this lasts too short a time to have a permanent influence. With the cessation of the rains the power of growth comes to an end, and heat and drought destroy what the rains have produced. Therefore only those plants can flourish in the steppe the course of whose life is run within a few weeks; those which are capable of outlasting centuries never attain to full development. Only in the low grounds, traversed by streams which never dry up, and watered by these as well as by the rains, where sunlight and water, warmth and moisture, work together, does the magic wealth of tropical lands develop and endure. Here have arisen forests which, in magnificence and beauty, grandeur and luxuriance, are scarce inferior to those of the most favoured lands of lower latitudes. They are primeval forests in the true sense of the word, for they grow and disappear, become old and renew their youth without help of man; even to this day they are sufficient unto themselves, and they support an extraordinary wealth of animal life.

The storms of spring carry the rain-laden clouds from the south over the African countries lying north of the equator. Accordingly, these forests do not burst suddenly on the eye of the traveller journeying from the north, but become gradually more characteristic the farther south he penetrates. The nearer he approaches to the equator the more brilliantly the lightning flashes, the louder and more continuously the thunder rolls, the more noisily the rain-torrents fall, so much the more luxuriantly do all plants thrive, so much the richer in forms does the fauna become; the earlier the rainy season sets in the longer it lasts, and so much the greater is the charm it works. In exact proportion to the increase of moisture, the forest becomes denser, loftier, and more extensive. From the banks of the streams the plant-growth spreads into the interior, and takes possession of every available space, from the thickly-covered ground to the tops of the highest trees. Trees which are only dwarfs elsewhere, become giants here; known species become the hosts of still unknown parasites, and between them a plant-world hitherto unseen struggles towards the light. Even here, however, at least in the northern belt of the forest, the heat and drought of winter have still so strong an influence that they periodically destroy the foliage of the trees and condemn at least most of them to some weeks of complete inactivity. But the awakening call of spring rings the more clearly through the sleeping wood; the life which the first rains of the fertilizing season call forth stirs the more powerfully after the rest of winter.

I shall select spring-time in these countries to depict the primeval forest as best I can. The south wind, herald and bearer of the rain-clouds, must still be in contest with the cooling breezes from the north if the forest is to reveal all its possible magnificence, and one must penetrate to its heart by one of its arteries, the rivers, if one wishes to see the fulness of its life. Let us take the Azrek or “Blue Nile”, rising in the mountains of Habesh, as our highway; for with it are linked the most exquisite pictures which a long life of travel have won for me, and I may prove a better guide on it than on another. I very much doubt, however, whether I shall prove such an interpreter of the forest as I should like to be. For the primeval forest is a world full of splendour, and brilliance, and fairy-like beauty; a land of marvels whose wealth no man has been able fully to know, much less to carry away; a treasure-house which scatters infinitely more than one can gather; a paradise in which the creation seems to take shape anew day by day; an enchanted circle which unfolds before him who enters it pictures, grand and lovely, grave and gay, bright as daylight and sombre as night; a thousand integral parts making up a whole infinitely complex, yet unified and harmonious, which baffles all description.

One of the light little craft which one sees at Khartoum (the capital of the Eastern Soudan, lying at the junction of the two Nile streams) is transformed into a travelling boat, and bears us against the waves of the much-swollen Azrek. The gardens of the last houses of the capital disappear, and the steppe reaches down to the very bank of the river. Here and there we still see a village, or isolated huts lying prettily under mimosas and often surrounded by creeping and climbing plants which hang from the trees; nothing else is visible save the waving grass-forest and the few steppe trees and shrubs which rise from its midst. But after a short journey the forest takes possession of the bank, and spreads out its thorny or spine-covered branches even beyond it. Thenceforward our progress is slow. The wind blowing against us prevents sailing, the forest renders towing impossible. With the boat-hook the crew pull the little craft foot by foot, yard by yard, farther up the stream, till one of their number espies a gap where he can gain a foothold in the thick hedge-wall of the bank, and, committing his mortal body to the care of Muhsa, the patron-saint of all sailors, and praying for protection from the crocodiles which are here abundant, he takes the towing-rope between his teeth, plunges into the water, swims to the desired spot, fastens the rope round the trunk of a tree, and lets his companions pull the boat up to it. Thus the boatmen toil from early morning till late in the evening, yet they only speed the traveller perhaps five, or at most ten miles on his way. Nevertheless the days fly past, and none who have learned to see and hear need suffer from weariness there. To the naturalist, as to every thoughtful observer, every day offers something new; to the collector, a wealth of material of every kind.

Every now and again one comes upon traces of human beings. If one follows them from the bank, along narrow paths hemmed in on either side by the dense undergrowth, one arrives at the abodes of a remarkable little tribe. They are the Hassanie who dwell there. Where the forest is less dense, and where the trees do not form a three-or four-fold roof with their crowns, but consist of tall, shady mimosas, Kigelias, tamarinds, and baobabs, these folk erect their most delightful tent-or booth-like huts, so different from all the other dwellings one sees in the Soudan. “Hassanie” means the descendants of Hassan, and Hassan means the Beautiful; and not without reason does this tribe bear this name. For the Hassanie are indisputably the handsomest people who dwell in the lower and middle regions of the river-basin, and the women in particular surpass almost all other Soudanese in beauty of form, regularity of feature, and clearness of skin. Both men and women faithfully observe certain exceedingly singular customs, which among other people are, with reason, considered immoral. The Hassanie are therefore at once famous and notorious, sought out and avoided, praised and scoffed at, extolled and abused. To the unprejudiced traveller, eager to study manners and customs, they afford much delight, if not by their beauty at least by their desire for approbation, which must please even the least susceptible of men. This trait is much more conspicuous in them than even the self-consciousness which beauty gives: they must and will please. The preservation of their beauty is their highest aim, and counts for more than any other gain. To avoid sunburning, which would darken their clear brown skins, they live in the shade of the forest, contenting themselves with a few goats, their only domestic animals except dogs, and foregoing the wealth that numerous herds of cattle and camels afford their nomadic relatives. That their charms may be in no way spoiled, they strive above all to become possessed of female slaves, who relieve them of all hard work; to decorate face and cheeks they endure heroically, even as little girls, the pain inflicted by the mother as she cuts with a knife three deep, parallel, vertical wounds in the cheeks, that as many thick, swollen scars may be formed, or as she pricks forehead, temples, and chin with a needle and rubs indigo powder into the wounds, so producing blue spirals or other devices; to avoid injury to their dazzling white, almost sparkling teeth, they eat only lukewarm food; to preserve as long as possible their most elaborate coiffure, which consists of hundreds of fine braids, stiffened with gum arabic and richly oiled, they use no pillow save a narrow, crescent-shaped, wooden stand, on which they rest their heads while sleeping. To satisfy their sense of beauty, or perhaps in order that they may be seen and admired by every inhabitant or visitor, they have thought out the singular construction of their huts.

These huts may be perhaps best compared to the booths to be seen at fairs. The floor, which consists of rods as thick as one’s thumb bound closely together, rests upon a framework of stakes rising about a yard from the ground, thus making the dwelling difficult of access to creeping pests, and raising it from the damp ground. The walls consist of mats; the roof, overhanging on the north side, which is left open, is made of a waterproof stuff woven from goat’s hair. Neatly plaited mats of palm-leaf strips cover the floor; prettily-wrought wicker-work, festoons of shells, water-tight plaited baskets, earthen vessels, drinking-cups made from half a bottle-gourd, gaily-coloured utensils also plaited, lids, and other such things decorate the walls. Each vessel is daintily wrought and cleanly kept; the order and cleanliness of the whole hut impress one the more that both are so uncommon.

In such a hut the Hassanie dreams away the day. Dressed in her best, her hair and skin oiled with perfumed ointment, a long, lightly-woven, and therefore translucent piece of cloth enveloping the upper part of her body, a piece of stuff hanging petticoat-like from the waist, her feet adorned with daintily-worked sandals, neck and bosom hung with chains and amulets, arms with bracelets of amber, her nose possibly decorated with a silver, or even a gold ring, she sits hidden in the shade and rejoices in her beauty. Her little hand is busy with a piece of plaiting, some house utensil or article of dress, or perhaps it holds only her tooth-brush, a root teased out at both ends, and admirably adapted to its purpose. All the work of the house is done by her slave, all the labour of looking after the little flock by her obliging husband. The carefully thought-out and remarkable marriage-relations customary in the tribe, and adhered to in defiance of all the decrees and interference of the ruler of the land, guarantee her unheard-of rights. She is mistress in the most unlimited sense of the word, mistress also of her husband, at least as long as her charms remain; only when she is old and withered does she also learn the transitoriness of all earthly pleasure. Till then, she does what seems good in her eyes, her freedom bounded only by the limits which she has herself laid down. As long as the crowns of the trees do not afford complete shade around her hut she does not go out of doors, but offers every passer-by, particularly any stranger who calls upon her, a hearty welcome, and with or without her husband’s aid, does the honours of the tribe with almost boundless hospitality. Yet it is only when the evening sets in that her real life begins. Even before the sun has set, there is a stir and bustle in the settlement. One friend visits her neighbour, others join them; drum and zither entice the rest, and soon slender, lithe, supple figures arrange themselves for a merry dance. Delicate hands dip the drinking-cups into the big-bellied urn, filled with Merieza or dhurra beer, that the hearts of the men also may be glad. Old and young are assembled, and they celebrate the evening festival the more joyfully that it is honoured by the presence of strangers. The hospitality of all the Soudanese is extraordinary, but in no other race is it so remarkable as among the Hassanie.