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.
In the course of our journey we come upon other settlements of these forest-shepherds, sometimes also on the villages of other Soudanese, and at length, after travelling nearly a month, we reach the desired region. The dense forest on both banks of the river prevents our searching gaze from seeing farther into the country. In this region there are no settlements of men, neither fields nor villages, not even temporarily inhabited camps; the ring of the axe has not yet echoed through these forests, for man has not yet attempted to exploit them; in them there dwell, still almost unmolested, only wild beasts. Impenetrable hedges shut off the forests, and resist any attempt to force a way from the stream to the interior. Every shade of green combines to form an enchanting picture, which now reminds one of home, and again appears entirely foreign. Bright green mimosas form the groundwork, and with them contrast vividly the silver glittering palm-leaves, the dark green tamarinds, and the bright green Christ-thorn bushes; leaves of endless variety wave and tremble in the wind, exposing first one side and then the other, shimmering and glittering before the surfeited and dazzled eye, which seeks in vain to analyse the leafy maze, to distinguish any part from the whole. For miles both banks present the same appearance, the same denseness of forest, the same grandeur, everywhere equally uninterrupted and impenetrable.
At last we come upon a path, perhaps even on a broad road, which seems to lead into the depths of the forest. But we search in vain for any traces of human footprints. Man did not make this path; the beasts of the forest have cleared it. A herd of elephants tramped through the matted thicket from the dry heights of the bank to the stream. One after another in long procession the mighty beasts broke through the undergrowth, intertwined a thousand-fold, letting nought save the strongest trees divert them from their course. If branches or stems as thick as a man’s leg stood in the way they were snapped across, stripped of twigs and leaves, all that was eatable devoured, and the remainder thrown aside, the bushes which covered the ground so luxuriantly were torn up by the roots, and used or thrown aside in the same manner, grass and plants were trodden under foot. What the first comers left fell to those behind, and thus arose a passable road often stretching deep into the heart of the forest. Other animals have taken advantage of it, treading it down more thoroughly, and keeping it in passable condition. By it the hippopotamus makes his way at night when he tramps from the river to feed in the woods; the rhinoceros uses it as he comes from the forest to drink; by it the raging buffalo descends to the valley and returns to the heights; along it the lion strides through his territory; and there one may meet the leopard, the hyæna, and other wild beasts of the forest. We set foot on it, and press forwards.
After a few steps the magnificent forest surrounds us on all sides. But, here also, it seems in vain to attempt to unravel the confusion of stems and branches, twigs and shoots, tendrils and leaves. The forest hems in such a path on both sides like a wall. The ground is everywhere covered with thickly-matted bushes, which one cannot even see through; but, struggling through these, all sorts of grasses have sprung up, forming a second undergrowth; just above that, tall-stemmed bushes and low trees spread their branches on all sides; over these again rise taller trees, and above them all tower the giants of the forest. By far the greater number of bushes in the undergrowth are thickly covered with thorns, while the mimosas towering above them are armed with long, hard, sharp spines, and even the grasses have burr-like seed-capsules covered with fine prickles, or ears set with sharp hooks, so that every attempt to penetrate the forest from the path is foiled by a thousand obstacles. The bird the huntsman’s gun has brought down is lost to him because in falling it is caught in a bush which he cannot reach without an amount of exertion quite out of proportion to the object; the game which conceals itself in a shrub before our very eyes is saved because we can no longer perceive it; a crocodile about three yards long, which we startled in the wood, escapes us by withdrawing itself into an isolated bush so completely that we cannot see a scale of it, and accordingly cannot fire a shot to any purpose.
Still we continue striving vainly to master the wealth of impressions, to separate one picture from another, to see any one tree from the ground to its top, to distinguish the leaves of one from those of another. From the stream it had been possible to distinguish some of the fresh green tamarinds from the mimosas of various species surrounding them, to recognize the magnificent kigelias, reminding us slightly of our own elms, to delight in the palm-crowns towering over the rest of the trees: here, in the depths of the forest, all the individual parts are fused into an inseparable whole. All the senses are claimed at once. From the leafy dome which the eye attempts to penetrate is wafted the balsamic fragrance of some mimosas now in bloom; and hence also there rings continually in the ear a medley of the most varied sounds and notes, from the guttural cries of the monkeys or the screeching of parrots, to the modulated songs of birds and the buzzing of the insects flying about the blossoming trees. The sense of touch is no less fully, if not quite agreeably stimulated by the innumerable thorns, while that of taste may regale itself with the few attainable, but more or less unpalatable fruits.
But at last we do come upon a distinct and definite picture. A tree, mighty in its whole structure, gigantic even in its minor branches, rises above the innumerable plants surrounding its base; like a giant it presses upwards and takes possession of space for its trunk and crown. It is the elephant, the pachyderm among the trees, the Adansonia, the tabaldie of the natives, the baobab. We stand in amazement to gaze on it; for the eye must become accustomed to the sight before it can take in the details. Picture a tree, the circumference of whose trunk, at a man’s height from the ground, may measure a hundred and twenty feet, whose lower branches are thicker than the trunks of our largest trees; whose twigs are like strong branches, and whose youngest shoots are thicker than one’s thumb; remember that this mighty giant of the plant-world rises to a height of about one hundred and thirty feet, and that its lowest branches spread out to almost sixty, and you will be able to form some idea of the impression it makes on the beholder. Of all the trees of the primeval forests in this region, the baobab is the first to lose its leaves, and it remains longest in its winter repose; during this season all its branches and twigs stretch out leafless into the air, while from most of them there hang, by long flexible stalks, fruits about the size of a melon, containing a mealy, slightly sour pulp between the seeds—the whole a sight which stamps itself ineffaceably on the memory. But, after the first rains of spring, great, five-lobed leaves unfold, enhancing the charm of this wondrous tree, and when, between the leaves, the long-stalked buds disclose white flowers as large as roses, this incomparable giant is transformed, as if by magic, into an enormous rose-bush of indescribable beauty, the sight of which stirs the heart of even the most matter-of-fact of men with admiration.
No other tree in the forest can be compared with the baobab; even the duleb-palm, which raises its head above all the surrounding trees, cannot bear comparison with it in charm and impressiveness. Yet the duleb-palm is one of the most splendid trees found in the interior of Africa, and one of the finest palms in the world; its trunk is a pillar which no artist could have surpassed; its crown a capital worthy of such a pillar. The upright trunk thickens just above the ground, and thins in a remarkable manner to about half its height, then begins to bulge out, then again diminishes, and swells out once more just under the crown. This consists of broad, fan-like leaves, hardly less than a square yard in extent, whose stalks stand out straight on all sides round a middle point, thus giving the tree a most impressive individuality. The fruits attain to about the size of a child’s head, and the clusters hanging among the leaves greatly enhance the beauty of the crown, which is, indeed, an ornament to the whole forest.
Fig. 31.—The Baobab Tree—Central Africa.
The legendary always clings about the gigantic; it lives on it, and takes form and meaning from it. This thought occurs to one when one sees, as frequently happens, the baobab overgrown with the tendrils of one of the climbing plants which beautify these forests in rich abundance. Climbing plants have always seemed to me a fitting emblem of the Arabian fairy tales. For as they appear to require no soil, although they have sprung from it, but to take their chief nourishment from the air; as they wind their flexible stems from tree to tree, attaching themselves firmly to each, yet struggling on, until, at length, they unfold on some flowerless tree-top, covering it with radiant, fragrant blossoms: so the fairy tale, though it may have been firmly rooted in fact, is not sustained by any real connection therewith, but reaches up to heaven for strength, and sends its poetry over all the world until it finds a heart which beats responsive. When I speak of climbing plants I do not mean any one species, but include under the term all those plants which here thickly cover a trunk with their tortuous coils, and there spread their tendrils over a bare tree-top; which in one place link many trees together, and in another cover a single tree with wreaths of green; which in one part of the forest link branch to branch with bridges of naked tendrils, and in another region combine to render the way impassable; occurring in a hundred different forms, but always twining and climbing. Their beauty, the charm they exercise on the northerner may be felt but cannot be described, for words to begin or end a satisfactory description would be as difficult to find as the beginnings and ends of the climbers themselves. These climbing plants, though within reach of one’s hand, yet do not allow of close observation; one follows the course of their tendrils admiringly, but without being able to say whence they come and whither they go; one revels in the sight of their flowers without being able to reach them, or often do more than guess to what plants they belong. These climbers, above all else, impress on the woodlands the stamp and seal of the primitive forest.
But they have other ornaments than the blossoms which they themselves unfold. Their tendrils are the favourite perches of many of the most beautiful birds of the forest, living flowers which far surpass those of the plant in beauty and charm. Sometimes it happens that a sudden flash, like a sun-ray reflected from a smooth, bright surface, catches the eye and guides it to the spot from which it emanated. The shimmer is indeed a sunbeam—a sunbeam reflected from the glossy plumage of a metallic starling, now in one direction, now in another, with every movement. Delighted by the wonderful beauty of this bird, one would gladly observe it carefully, and learn something of its life and habits; but one’s attention is continually being claimed by new phenomena. For here, too, picture crowds upon picture. Where the metallic starling sat a few moments before, there appears a no less brilliant golden cuckoo, a sun-bird or honey-sucker rivalling the humming-birds in beauty of plumage, a pair of charming bee-eaters, a roller displaying his brilliant feathers, a halcyon no less beautiful, a paradise fly-catcher, whose long, drooping, median tail-feathers give the little creature such a surprising splendour, a turaco unfolding his deep purple-red feathers at every stroke of his wings, a shrike whose flaming red breast excels even these wings in brightness, a quaintly-shaped hornbill, a golden weaver-bird, a vidua or “widow-bird”, a wood-hoopoe with its metallic brilliance, a dainty woodpecker, a leaf-green dove, a flight of similarly coloured parrots, and many other feathered inhabitants of the forest. This is a specially favoured home of birds, affording food and shelter to many hundreds and thousands of different species, so that one sees them much sooner and much more frequently than any of the other creatures which have their home in the forest. Birds animate every part, from the ground to the tops of the tallest trees, from the most impenetrable bushes to the leafless branches of the baobab. Among the grasses and other plants growing luxuriantly on the ground the well-trodden paths of francolin and perhaps also guinea-fowl twine and intertwine in every direction; the leafy spaces just above the root-stocks of the bushes are occupied by little doves, the spreading portion of their tops by various beautiful birds, especially sun-birds and finches, while families of colies shoot down, like arrows from a bow, to where the bush-tops are so thickly matted and thoroughly interwoven that they seem quite impenetrable, and, by creeping and clinging, pushing through every possible gap and opening, succeed in forcing their way into the centre, there to seek for food; wood-hoopoes, titmice, and woodpeckers hang or climb about, examining every crevice in the bark of the trunks which rise just above the bushes; delightful bee-eaters or rollers, paradise fly-catchers and drongos sit on the lower twigs of the second layer of tree-tops awaiting their flying prey; on the stronger branches of the third layer turacos hop about, small herons walk with dignity backwards and forwards, horned and other owls cling closely to the stems and sleep; parrots and barbets flit about among the thick foliage of the tallest trees, while eagles, falcons, and vultures have settled on their topmost boughs. Wherever one casts one’s eye there is a bird.
As might be expected from this universal distribution, or indeed omnipresence, we hear continually the most varied bird-voices. They coax and call, pipe and whistle, chirp and twitter, trill and warble, coo and chatter, scream and crow, screech and cackle, cry and sing on all sides of us, above and beneath, early and late, and all day long. A hundred different voices sound together, now blending into a wonderful harmony, now into a bewildering maze of sounds which one seeks in vain to analyse, in which only long practice enables one to differentiate individual voices. With the exception of thrushes, bulbuls, several species of warblers, and drongos, there are no true songsters, but there are many pleasing babblers and delightful chatterers, and an endless number who scream, cackle, croak, and utter various more or less shrill sounds. Taken collectively, therefore, the bird-notes of the primitive forest cannot for a moment compare in tunefulness and sweetness with the spring songs of our own woods, but the individual voices are most remarkable. Wild doves coo, moan, laugh, and call from the tree-tops and the thickest bushes, francolins and guinea-fowl cackle loudly from their midst, parrots screech, ravens croak, plantain-eaters succeed in most accurately mimicking the strange guttural cries of a troop of long-tailed monkeys, while the turacos utter sounds like those made by a ventriloquist; barbets whistle loudly in slurred notes, their voices together making a ringing song, so intricate, yet so full of expression that it must be reckoned one of the most distinctive sounds of the forest; the shimmering metallic starlings sing, and though they can only compass a few rough sounds, now croaking, now screeching, now squeaking, these are arranged, combined, blended, and allowed to die away in endless repetition; the magnificent screaming sea-eagle, resident beside all the water-courses and water-basins of the forest, justifies his name. High on a tree-top sits the “abu tok” (producer of the sound “tok”) of the natives, a small hornbill, calling his “tok” loudly and accompanying each sound with a nod of his head, weighted with its disproportionately large bill. Only this one sound does his unpliant voice produce, yet with it he expresses his love to the mate he is wooing, or has won, as intelligibly as the nightingale tells its tale in its bewitching song. The emotion swelling in his breast struggles for expression. The cries follow each other in more and more rapid succession, the appropriate movements become more and more rapid, until the heavy head is too tired to accompany any longer, and one phrase of this singular love-song comes to an end, to be begun and sung through again in precisely the same manner a few minutes later. From the unapproachable thicket sounds the voice of the hagedash or wood-ibis, and a slight shudder seizes the listener. The song of this bird is a lamentation of the most pitiful kind; it sounds as if a little child were being painfully tortured, perhaps slowly roasted over a small fire, and were crying out in its anguish; for long-drawn plaintive sounds alternate with shrill cries, sudden shrieks with faint moanings. From the high-lying parts of the forest, where there are small bare patches, resound the far-reaching metallic trumpet-tones with which the crested crane accompanies his graceful, lively dances in honour of his mate, and these awaken an echo in the forest, as well as in the throat of every bird possessed, like himself, of a ringing voice, so that his cry is the signal for a simultaneous outburst of song from a large number of other birds. Thus incited, every bird with any voice at all gives utterance to it, and for a time a flood of varied sounds drowns the individual voices. But it is not only the different species of feathered inhabitants of the forest who thus take different parts in the piece; sometimes even the two sexes of one species each sing a different part. The babbling thrushes, plantain-eaters, francolins, and guinea-fowl scream together like the barbets already described, and thus evoke those strange complex phrases, which ring out distinctly from the general confusion of voices. But in a few species, particularly in the bush-shrikes, the male and female each sing a distinct part. In one species which I observed—the scarlet shrike—the male sings a short strophe, reminding one of the intricate whistle of our golden oriole. In another—the flute-shrike—the male utters three bell-like flute-notes, striking third, key-note, and octave. Immediately following comes the answer of the female, in both cases a disagreeable croaking not easily described, but as unfailingly correct in time as if the birds had been instructed by a musician. Sometimes it happens that the female begins, and croaks four or five times before the answer comes; then the male strikes in again, and they alternate with their usual regularity. I have convinced myself experimentally as to this co-operation of the sexes, by shooting now the male and now the female, and in every case only the notes of the surviving sex could be heard. It must be allowed that these notes, enchanting as they are at first, lack the richness and variety, as the collective voices lack the tunefulness and harmony, of the bird songs in our woods at home; nevertheless it is a grand and impressive melody which one hears in the primitive forest in spring-time when hundreds and thousands of voices mingle together, millions of insects swarm with loud bumming and buzzing round the blossom-laden trees, countless lizards and snakes rustle through the dry foliage, and every now and then the shrill yet sonorous call of the eagle sounds down from above, the trumpet notes of the crested crane or the guinea-fowl are heard for the time above all other voices, immediately afterwards a warbler sings his charming song quite close to the listener’s ear, and again, one of the screamers gives the key-note, which awakes an echo from a thousand throats.
If the naturalist succeeds in becoming more at home in the forest than he had at first ventured to hope, he gets many delightful glimpses of the domestic life of animals, and more particularly of birds. It is still spring-time, and love reigns in all hearts. The birds sing and caress, build their nests, and brood. Even from the boat one can observe the brooding colonies of some species.
On a perpendicular part of the river bank, at a safe distance above the high-water mark, the bee-eaters have hollowed out their deep brooding burrows, narrow at the entrance, but widening out into an oven-like form at the inner end. The whole colony only covers a few square yards, though it consists of at least thirty, and more frequently from eighty to a hundred pairs. The circular openings to the various holes, measuring only from one and a half to two inches in diameter, are not more than six inches distant from each other. It is difficult to understand how each pair knows the entrance to its own hole; yet even when they come from a distance the delicately-winged active birds fly straight to the proper holes without hesitation or apparent consideration; their incomparably sharp eyes, which can detect a passing fly a hundred paces away, never mislead them. The bustling life about the colony is a fascinating sight. Every tree or bush in the neighbourhood is decorated with at least one pair of the beautiful, sociable birds; on every branch which affords an outlook sits a pair, and each mate takes a tender interest in all that concerns the other. In front of the nest-holes the bustle is like that about a bee-hive; some glide in, others glide out; some come, others go; many hover continually around the entrance to their brooding-places. Only when night draws on do they disappear into their holes; then all is quiet and still.
At a different part of the bank, where tall trees droop over the water, or are surrounded by it when it is very high, the golden weaver-birds have established a colony. They, too, brood in companies, but they build hanging nests cleverly plaited from stalks or fibres, and attached to the points of the outermost branches of the trees. No covetous monkey or other egg-robber, not even a snake, can approach these nests without running a risk of falling into the water. At least thirty, but more frequently forty to sixty, weaver-birds build on a single tree, and their nests give it a most characteristic aspect; indeed, they have a striking effect on the whole landscape. Unlike other birds, it is in this case not the females but the males who build the nest, and they do it with such unstinted eagerness that they make work for themselves after they have finished what is really necessary. Carrying in their bills a stalk newly bitten off, or a teased-out fibre, they hang by their feet to a twig, or to the nest itself, keep themselves in position by fluttering their wings, and work in their material, singing all the while. When one nest is built and finished inside, they proceed to make a second and a third; indeed, they may even pull a finished work to pieces again to satisfy their love of building. Thus they go on until the female, who has meanwhile been brooding, claims their assistance in the rearing of the young ones. This activity animates the whole colony, and the golden-yellow, mobile, active birds sitting or hanging in the most varied positions, are an ornament to the tree already decorated with their nests.
On the mimosas, which are leafless just at the general brooding time, the cow-weaver birds have erected structures very large for the size of the birds, which are scarcely so large as our starlings. Their nests are placed among the thickest branches at the top of the thorny mimosas, and as they are made entirely of thorny twigs on the outside, they have much the appearance of a scrubbing-brush; they are often more than a yard long, half as high and broad, and enclose roomy brooding-chambers entered by winding tunnels corresponding to the size of the birds, and impassable to other animals. On these trees, and about these nests, too, there is much lively and noisy bustle.
In the heart of the forest itself an attentive observer finds nests everywhere, though it is often difficult to recognize them. Little finches, for instance, build nests which are deceptively like heaps of dried grass blown together by the wind, but inside there is a soft, warm brooding-chamber lined with feathers; other birds choose building materials the colour of which is deceptively like that of the surroundings, while others do not build at all, but lay their earth-coloured eggs on the bare ground. Every cavity in the trees is now inhabited, and woodpeckers, barbets, and parrots are constantly at work making new chambers, or widening and adapting already existing cavities into brooding-holes, while the hornbills, on the other hand, busy themselves plastering up the too-wide entrances. The last-named birds are specially distinctive in their brooding habits, and deserve to be mentioned first.
When the hornbill by ardent wooing has won a mate, he helps her to seek out a suitable hole to serve as a nest. This found, he labours painfully with his clumsy bill to enlarge it to the required size. Then the female prepares to lay her eggs, and both mates plaster up the entrance, the female working from the inside, the male from the outside, until all is closed up save an opening large enough for the female to force her bill through. Shut off from the outer world in this isolated brooding-chamber, the female sits on her eggs, and the male has to feed not only his imprisoned mate, but later the quickly-growing ever hungry young ones, which remain in captivity until they are fully fledged. Then the mother breaks open the entrance from within, and the whole family emerges to the world fat and in good feather, thereby relieving from further toil the husband and father, who is reduced to a skeleton with the labour and anxiety of filling so many mouths.[51]
Similar conjugal and paternal tenderness is exhibited by the umber-bird, a stork-like bird about the size of a raven, which leads a quiet, nocturnal life in the forest, and builds an enormous nest, one of the most remarkable built by any bird. These nests are usually placed at but a short distance from the ground, in forks of the trunk, or on any thick boughs of the lower part of the crown that are strong enough to bear them; for they exceed the nests of the largest birds of prey in circumference and weight, being often from one and a half to two yards in diameter and not much less in height, and consisting of fairly thick branches and twigs, which are neatly stuck together or mortared with clay. If one does not happen to notice how the umber-bird slips out and in one would never imagine that these structures were hollow, but would rather take them for the eyrie of a bird of prey, especially as eagles and horned owls frequently nest on the top of them. But when one has seen the real owner enter, and has inspected the nest closely, one finds that the interior is divided into three compartments, connected by holes which serve as doors, and further observation reveals that these three compartments answer the purpose of hall, reception or dining room, and brooding-chamber. This last room, the farthest back, is slightly higher than the rest, so that if any water should get in it can flow away; but the whole structure is so excellently built that even heavy and long-continuing showers of rain do very little damage. Within the brooding-chamber, on a soft cushion of sedge and other materials, lie the three, four, or five white eggs on which the female sits; in the middle chamber the male meantime stores up all sorts of provisions, a bountiful supply of fish, frogs, lizards, and other dainties which he has caught, so that his mate can choose from these stores, and has only to reach forward to satisfy her hunger; in the entrance chamber the male stands or sits, whenever he is not busy hunting for food, to keep guard and to cheer his mate with his society, until the growing offspring take up the whole attention of both.[52]
The association of umber-bird and eagle or horned owl is not a solitary instance of friendly companionship on the part of birds belonging to different species and totally unlike in their habits. On the broad, fan-like leaves of the magnificent duleb-palm, which stand out horizontally from the trunk, the nests of the dwarf peregrine falcon and the guinea-dove often stand so close together that the falcon could easily grasp one of his neighbour’s young ones. But he does not touch them, for he is only accustomed to attack birds on the wing, and thus the little doves grow up in safety beside the little falcons, and the parents of both often sit peacefully beside each other, near their respective nests.[53]
Another palm gave me an opportunity of observing birds whose brooding surprised and fascinated me greatly. Round a single tom-palm there flew, with constant cries, small-sized swifts, nearly related to our own swifts, and my attention was thus directed to the tree itself. On close observation I saw that the birds frequently repaired between the leaves, and I then discovered on the grooves of the leaf-stalks light points which I took to be nests. I climbed the tree, bent one of the leaves towards me, and saw that each nest, which was made chiefly of cotton, was plastered firmly in the angle between the stalk and the midrib of the leaf, cemented by salivary secretion, after the method usually followed by swifts. But the hollow of the nest appeared to me so flat that I wondered how the two eggs could remain lying when the leaf was shaken by the wind. And it must have shaken with the slightest breath, not to speak of the storms which often raged here! Carefully I reached out my hand to take out the eggs; then I saw with astonishment that the mother had glued them firmly to the nest. And as I examined newly-hatched, tiny, helpless young birds, I saw, with increasing astonishment, that they, too, were attached to the nest in the same way, and were thus secured from falling out.
Fig. 32.—Long-tailed Monkeys.
Apart from the birds, which continually attract the naturalist’s attention by their omnipresence, beauty, vivacity and nimbleness, as well as by their songs, or rather cries; apart also from the very numerous lizards and snakes, or the abundant insects, even a careful observer can see very little of the other denizens of the primeval forest, and especially little of its mammals. But one can hardly fail to see a band of long-tailed monkeys, for the liveliness and restlessness characteristic of these and of all the African monkeys is sure to bring them sooner or later before the most unobservant eye, and their continual gurgling noises must reach the ear; yet one may pass within a few yards of most of the other mammals without having any idea that they are near. The great majority of the mammals inhabiting the primeval forest become active only after sundown, and return to their lairs before daybreak; but even those which are active and busy in full sunlight in the morning and evening are by no means so easily seen as might be imagined, for the thickness of the forest stands them in good stead. A European with whom I hunted in the primeval forest said to me: “Did you see that leopard that bounded from me towards you a few minutes ago? I could not shoot for I had not my gun in order; but you must have seen him.” He was wrong; I had not seen the great beast, so dense was the undergrowth in the forest. Where it is less dense another fact has its importance: the colour-resemblance between the mammals and their surroundings. The grayish lemur, which sits or sleeps huddled up high up on a branch spun over with lichens, resembles a knob or protuberance so clearly and convincingly that its form is only made out when the sportsman, taught by former experience, uses his glass and observes it keenly; the bat, which hangs high up in the crown of another tree, also looks like an outgrowth or a withered leaf; even the spotted skin of the leopard may be a faithful mimicry of the dry leaves and flowering euphorbias, and I myself once had to advance with cocked rifle to within fifteen paces of a bush in which a leopard had taken shelter before I could distinguish the animal from his surroundings. The same holds true of the forest antelopes, and indeed of all the mammals, and they know that this is so.[54] Not everywhere, but here and there throughout the forest, and then always abundantly, there lives a little antelope, the bush or Salt’s antelope. It is one of the most charming of all ruminants, most gracefully built, not bigger than a fawn a few days old, and of a foxy, gray-blue colour. It lives with a mate in the thickest undergrowth of the forest, choosing for its lair or habitual resting-place a bush which is branched and leafy to the ground, and thence treading out narrow paths in all directions through the thicket. I have often shot the animal; but at first it escaped me as it escapes all the travellers and sportsmen who make its acquaintance. I could never see it except when, if startled, it flew past me like an arrow. “Look, sir, there, in front of you in the nearest bush is a little antelope; it is down there in the gap between the two thickly-leaved branches,” whispered my native guide in my ear. I strained every nerve, penetrated every part of the bush with my gaze, and saw nothing but branches and leaves, for the graceful legs had become twigs, the head and body a leafy bough. But the sportsman’s eye becomes accustomed in time even to the primeval forest. When one has become familiar with the dainty creature’s habits, one learns to find it as well as the sharp-sighted natives do. Its acute hearing warns it of the approach of a man long before he can see any trace of its presence. Scared by the rustle of heavy human footsteps it starts up from its lair, takes a few steps forwards, and steps into some gap from which to see what happens. Like a bronze statue it stands stiff and motionless, without even moving an ear or turning an eye, but looking and listening; the leg which was raised to step onwards remains in that position, not a sign betrays life. Now is the time for the sportsman to raise his gun quickly, take aim and shoot; a moment later the cunning antelope has gained the cover of a neighbouring bush at a single bound, or has bent slowly down and crept away so quietly that scarcely a leaf stirs, scarcely a blade of grass moves.
Fig. 33.—Salt’s Antelope (Antilope Saltiana).
The primeval forest thus presents a succession of varied pictures to the traveller’s eye. If one has learnt to see, and attempts to understand, one finds more in every part of the forest at every season than one can master. But one does not see the same things at every spot, and at every season. Here, where spring lasts only a few weeks, and summer and autumn are counted by days, the long reign of winter sets in directly after the rainy season, just as in the steppe, and the full, rich, overflowing life of animals and plants is crowded into a very short time. As soon as the birds have finished brooding they begin to migrate; as soon as the mammals have exhausted the food-supply in one part of the forest they betake themselves to another. Consequently one meets different animals in the same spot at different times, or at least one sees different aspects of animal life. The river, for instance, becomes animated in proportion as the forest becomes depopulated.
While the river is high, one does not see much of the animals which live in and about the water. All the islands are deeply buried under the water, the banks are likewise flooded, and the birds which usually inhabit them are crowded out for the time. And if a crocodile should raise his head and part of his scaly back above the water, he must be close to the boat if one sees him at all. Strictly speaking, there remain only the hippopotamuses, which are comparatively abundant in some parts, the birds flying about over the water, and perhaps a few diving-birds to prove that any higher vertebrates live in and about the river. But, when the rain has ceased, the river falls, and all the islands, sand-banks, and the river-banks themselves stand out once more. The scene is changed also as far as the animal world is concerned. The hippopotamuses retire to the deepest parts of the river, associating in troops sometimes of considerable strength, and making themselves very conspicuous as they come to the surface to breathe, each breath being inhaled with a snort which can be heard a long way off. During the day they land on islands or sand-banks to rest or stretch themselves in the sun, and they can then be seen from a distance of more than half a mile. The crocodiles eagerly enjoy a pleasure they had to forego while the river was high, that of sunning themselves for hours in the heat of the day. To this end they creep out about mid-day on a flat, sandy island, fall heavily with an audible plump on the sand, open their formidably-toothed jaws wide, and sleep till evening; there may be ten, twenty, or thirty of them on a single sand-bank. Now the sand-banks, both river-banks, and the shores of the larger islands are covered with flocks of birds whose numerical strength is most impressive. For, by this time of year most of the native shore-birds and swimming-birds have ended their brooding labours, and frequent the shores of the river with their young to enjoy, while they are moulting, the abundant and easily-procured food. About the same time, too, the migratory birds from the north arrive to pass the winter here. The last-named are also to be found in every part of the primeval forest, but are not nearly so much in evidence there as by the river, whose banks and islands are covered by the largest and most conspicuous species. It may even happen that the available space by the river is too small, the rich supply of food insufficient for the number of claimants. Thus every space is more than fully occupied, every promising hunting-ground is visited by thousands, every sleeping-place even is fought over. For three days I sailed, in an excellent boat and with a very good wind, up the White Nile, and during the whole long journey both banks were uninterruptedly covered with a gay and motley throng of littoral and aquatic birds. In the midst of the forests about the Blue Nile one can see a similar sight. Extensive sand-banks are completely covered by gray and demoiselle cranes, but they only serve these winter visitors as resting, sleeping, and moulting places, from whence they fly out every morning into the steppe in search of food, returning about mid-day to drink, bathe, dress their feathers, and to spend the night, though they are in continual danger from the crocodiles. Regularly about mid-day they are joined by several crowned cranes whose visit always causes lively excitement, for they are, if not better, at least more ardent dancers than the other cranes, and on their arrival they never fail to exhibit their skill, and thus to incite the others to rivalry. On the same sand-banks one may often see tantalus-ibises, magnificent stork-like birds, with rosy-white plumage and brilliant rose-red wings, which take possession of the extreme edge of the island or the neighbouring damp places. In a good light they literally glow, and they are at all times beautiful, contrasting wonderfully with the light gray cranes, and decorating the whole neighbourhood. Splendid giant or saddle-billed storks step proudly along the shores; ugly, but curiously-formed marabous walk up and down with an air of dignity; glittering, open-bill storks stand in large companies; giant and great white herons wade about in search of fish; and everywhere standing and lying, swimming and diving, grazing and grubbing, cackling and chattering are thousands of Spur-winged, Egyptian, and other geese, widow and pintail ducks, African darters, ibises, curlews, sandpipers, dunlins, redshanks, and many more, a motley throng which decorates the stream even more than the tantalus ibises. But, in addition to all those mentioned, some of whom are constantly coming and going, there fly terns and gulls, sand-martins and bee-eaters, while splendid sea-eagles wheel in circles high up in the air.
Fig. 34.—Crocodile and Crocodile-birds (Pluxianus ægyptius).
There are some members of this bird-fauna, so rich in every respect, who have to wait till the water is at its lowest before they can begin to brood, for, when the river is full, they are quite unable to find such nesting-places as they desire. Among these is a running bird, prettily and gaily coloured, clever and vivacious by nature, which was well known to the ancients as the Crocodile-bird or the Trochilus of Herodotus. Of it the old historian relates, as Pliny repeats on his authority, that it lives in true friendship with the crocodile. And this old story is no fable, as one might be inclined to suppose, but is based on solid facts, which I have myself been able to verify.[55] The crocodile-bird, whose image is so often represented on the ancient Egyptian monuments, and stands for U in the hieroglyphic alphabet, occurs in Egypt and Nubia, but nowadays it seems to be only in the Soudan that it discharges, on the crocodile’s behalf, those sentinel duties for which it was famous among the ancient peoples. But the service it renders is not to the crocodile alone, but to all other creatures who are willing to take advantage of its watchfulness. Observant, inquisitive, excitable, clamorous, and gifted with a far-reaching voice, it is well fitted to serve as watchman to all less careful creatures. No approach, whether of beast of prey or of man, escapes its suspicious observation; every sailing-boat or rowing-boat on the river attracts its attention; and it never fails to tell of its discovery in loud cries. Thus it brings under the notice of all the other creatures who share its home or resting-place the unusual occurrence, enabling them either to find out for themselves if there is really any danger, or to make good their escape on the strength of its warning. Thus it discharges the duties of a sentinel. Its friendly relations with the crocodile can hardly be called mutual, for to credit the crocodile with friendship is going rather far. Certainly the reptile treats the bird as a harmless creature, but this is not out of any benevolence, but simply because he has a thorough knowledge and a correct estimate of his partner. And as to the bird, it is at home on the sand-banks where the crocodile is wont to rest, and has been from its youth accustomed to the monster; it busies itself about him and associates itself with him, as if he were the master and itself the servant. Without hesitation it hops on his back as he rests; without apprehension it approaches his gaping jaws to see if there be perchance a leech sucking his lips, or if there be some morsel of food sticking between his teeth; and without misgiving it darts off with either. All this the crocodile quietly allows, for doubtless he has learned by experience that he cannot get at the ever watchful, agile, and clever little rogue. I once saw a crocodile-bird having a meal along with a screaming sea-eagle off a fish, which the latter had caught and borne to a sand-bank. While the eagle, which held its booty firmly in its talons or stood upon it, was breaking off pieces of the flesh, the parasite at the lordly bird’s table kept at a respectful distance; but as soon as the eagle raised its head to swallow, the crocodile-bird ran forward, seized one of the prepared fragments, and was off again to his old position, there to enjoy his stolen goods. Not less astonishing than this self-possessed audacity is the way in which the crocodile-bird hides its eggs from prying eyes. For long I searched in vain for the nest. When the brooding period set in was readily enough discovered by dissecting a specimen which I killed; and that the bird must nest on the sand-bank I was already convinced from my observation of its mode of life. But it was in vain that I searched their favourite spots; not a hint of a nest could I find. At last I observed a pair, one sitting on the ground, the other busying itself round about; I brought my field-glass to bear upon the sitting bird and made straight for it. As I came near it rose, hastily scraped some sand together, and flew off, uttering its usual cry, but without any other signs of excitement. I was not diverted from my purpose, but advanced carefully, keeping the exact spot always in view. But even when I reached the place I could see no nest, and it was not till I noticed a slight unevenness in the sand, and dug carefully with my fingers, that I found what I sought, two eggs most deceptively like the sand in their colour and markings. Had the mother-bird been allowed more time than I gave her, it is not likely that I should ever have noticed the slight unevenness in the sand.
Even richer, if that be possible, than the fauna of the river, and at any rate more diverse, is that to be found at the proper season on the shores and surface of all the lakes and larger water-pools which lie within the forest and are filled either by the spring rains or by the full floods of the river. Surrounded by the forest, and not unfrequently so thickly hedged round that one cannot reach them without great difficulty, and more immediately fringed by a scarcely less rich vegetation of canes and reed-thickets, where the papyrus and the lotos still flourish, these rain-lakes, or Fulat as the natives call them, afford most excellent resting-stations and breeding-places for the most diverse kinds of beasts and birds.
Their safe seclusion pleases even the hippopotamus so well that it seeks them out as fit places where to bring forth and suckle, tend and rear its young, safe from dangerous intruders, and without trouble as to food, which the water supplies in abundance. Wild hogs and buffaloes are also attracted to the luxuriant fringe of vegetation and to the creeks which gradually pass into swamp and bog. To all the thirsty race of antelopes the quiet pools afford welcome supplies. On the surface thousands of pelicans gather in the evenings, and fish greedily before they go to roost on the tall trees near by; all day long the darters dive; many ducks and geese swim about, both native species and those which have come from the north to these comfortable winter-quarters; in the creeks and shallows the giant-herons and the beautiful little bush-herons secure rich booty at small cost of exertion; countless hosts of little birds are sheltered among the green, sappy herbage of the shore, and many other shore-and water-birds find resting-places and build their nests on the overtowering trees of the forest.
It is no wonder, then, that these lakes should periodically swarm with birds; and it is likewise plain that such great wealth of booty must also attract all sorts of enemies. The smaller birds are followed by the falcons and owls, the larger birds by the eagle and horned owl, the mammals by the fox and jackal, the leopard and the lion. Sometimes, too, an army of voracious locusts coming in from the steppe falls upon the fresh green girdle around such a lake and ravages it in a few days, devouring all the leaves. Or one should rather say threatening to devour, for at such a time the assemblage of birds becomes even larger than before. From far and near they come flocking—falcons and owls, ravens and rollers, francolins and guinea-fowl, storks and ibises, coots and ducks. Every bird that ever eats insects now confines itself exclusively to the pertinacious visitors. Hundreds of kestrels and lesser kestrels, which are then in these winter-quarters, sweep over the invaded forest, and swoop down upon the locusts, seizing and devouring them, with scarce an interruption in their flight. Ravens, rollers, hornbills, ibises, and storks pick them off the branches of the trees and shake down hundreds which fall victims to the guinea-fowl, ducks, and other birds waiting underneath. Harriers and chanting hawks circle around the trees on which the “defoliating” insects soon take the place of the leaves that were. Even the sedate marabous and saddle-billed storks do not disdain to avail themselves of booty whose abundance compensates for the paltry size of the individual victims. All this bustle greatly enhances the liveliness of a scene which is at no time dull, and makes the lake more than ever a rendezvous of the most diverse forms of life.
At one of these rain-lakes—very treasure-house of the forest’s riches—we spent several days, hunting, observing, and collecting, almost wild with delight in, and admiration of the splendid flora and fauna. We amused ourselves with hunting hippopotamus, and executed justice on the crocodile; we enjoyed to the full the pleasures of exploration and of the chase, forgetful of everything else, even of the time we spent. But when the sun went down and tinged with gold the varied greens of the forest; when the chattering of the parrots was hushed and only the ecstatic song of a thrush floated down to us; when, over there on the opposite bank, the sea-eagle, which a moment ago had seemed like some wonderful blossom on the top of his green perch, drowsily drew his white head between his shoulders; when silence fell even on the guttural gossip of a band of long-tailed monkeys, who had gone to rest on the nearest lofty mimosa; when the night came on with its clear pleasant twilight, cool and mild, melodious and fragrant, as it always is at this season: then would all the wealth of colour, all the splendour and glamour of to-day’s and yesterday’s pictures fade away. Our thoughts flew homewards, and irresistible home-sickness filled our hearts, for in the Fatherland they were celebrating Christmas. We had prepared our punch and filled our pipes with the most precious of tobaccos; our Albanian companion sang his soft melancholy song; the beauty of the night soothed our hearts and senses; but the glasses remained unemptied, “the clouds of smoke did not bear the clouds of melancholy with them”; the songs awoke no responsive echo, and the night brought no solace. But it must bring us a Christmas gift, and it did!
Night in the primeval forest is always grand: the sky above may be illumined with flaming lightning, the thunder may roll, and the wind may rage through the trees; or it may be that the dark starless heaven is relieved only by the slender rays of far-distant suns, while no leaf or blade of grass is stirred. A few minutes after sunset, night descends upon the forest. What was clearly seen by day is now veiled by darkness, what was seen in its true proportions in the sunlight now becomes gigantic. Familiar trees become phantasms, the hedge-like bushes thicken to dark walls. The noise of a thousand voices is stilled, and for a few minutes a deep silence prevails. Then life begins to stir again, the river and the forest are again alive. Hundreds of cicadas raise their chirping, like the jingle of many badly-tuned little bells heard from a distance; thousands of restless beetles, some very large, whirr about the flowering trees with a deep humming, fit accompaniment to the cicadas’ chirping. Frogs add their single note, surprisingly loud for their size, and their voices ring through the forest, like the sound of a slowly-beaten Chinese gong. A great owl greets the night with its dull hooting; a little screech-owl responds with shrill laughter; a goat-sucker spins off the single strophe of his rattling song. From the river come the plaintive cries of a nocturnal member of the gull family, the skimmer or shearwater, which begins to plough the waves, skimming along the surface of the water; from the islands and banks sound the somewhat screeching cries of the thickknee or stone-curlew, and the rich, melodious, song-like trills of the redshank or the plover; among the reeds and sedges of a neighbouring pool croaks a night-heron. Hundreds of glowworms sparkle among the bushes and the tree-tops; a gigantic crocodile, which had left its sand-bank before sundown to bathe its heated coat of mail in the tepid water, is swimming half beneath and half above the surface of the water, and making long streaks of silver which shine in the moonlight, or at least glitter in the flickering light of the stars. Above the tallest trees float noiseless companies of horned and other owls; long-tailed night-jars fly with graceful curves along the river bank; bats describe their tortuous course among the trees; fox-bats and fruit-eating bats cross from bank to bank, sometimes in flocks. This is the time of activity among the other mammals too. A jackal utters its varied call, now plaintive, now merry, and continues with equal expressiveness and persistence; a dozen others join in at once, and strive in eager rivalry for the victor’s crown; some hyænas who seem just to have been waiting for these unrivalled leaders to begin, join the chorus. They howl and laugh, moan piteously, and shout triumphantly; a panther grunts, a lion roars; even a hippopotamus in the river lifts up his paltry voice and grunts.
Thus does night reveal itself in the primeval forest; thus did it claim ear and eye on that never-to-be-forgotten day. Beetles and cicadas, owls and goat-suckers had begun: then a loud, rumbling noise, as of trumpets blown by unskilful mouths, resounded through the forest. At once the songs of our Albanian, and the chattering of our servants and sailors were hushed; all listened as we did. Once more came the trumpeting and rumbling from the opposite bank. “El fiuhl, el fiuhl!” called the natives; “Elephants, elephants!” we, too, exclaimed triumphantly. It was the first time that we had seen and heard the giant pachyderms, though we had constantly trodden their paths and followed their traces. From the opposite bank the great forms, which could be plainly enough seen in the twilight, descended leisurely and confidently to the water, to drink and bathe. One after another dipped his supple trunk in the water, to fill it, and discharge it into his wide mouth, or over his back and shoulders; one after another descended into the river to refresh himself in the cooling flood. Then the noises became so great that it seemed as if the elephants’ trumpeting had acted as an awakening call. Earlier than ever before, the king of the wilderness raised his thundering voice; a second and a third lion responded to the kingly greeting. The sleep-drunken monkeys and the timid antelopes cried out in terror. A hippopotamus reared his uncouth head quite close to our boat, and growled as if he would emulate the lion’s roar; a leopard also made himself heard; jackals gave vent to the most varied song we had ever heard from them, the striped hyænas howled, the spotted ones uttered their hellish, blood-curdling laughter, and, careless of the uproar which the heralds and the king of the forest had conjured up, the frogs continued to utter their monotonous call, and the cicadas their bell-like chirping.
Thus was the “Hosanna in the Highest” sung in our ears by the primeval forest.