The swarm kept extending to the south—in fact, it now stretched along the whole western horizon; and all noticed that it was gradually getting lower down—that is, its top edge was sinking in the heavens. Were the locusts passing off to the west? No.
“Da am goin roost for da nacht—now we'll get 'em in bag-full,” said Swartboy, with a pleased look; for Swartboy was a regular locust-eater, as fond of them as either eagle or kite,—aye, as the “springhaan-vogel” itself.
It was as Swartboy had stated. The swarm was actually settling down on the plain.
“Can't fly without sun,” continued the Bushman. “Too cold now. Dey go dead till da mornin.”
And so it was. The sun had set. The cool breeze weakened the wings of the insect travellers; and they were compelled to make halt for the night upon the trees, bushes, and grass.
In a few minutes the dark mist that had hid the blue rim of the sky, was seen no more; but the distant plain looked as if a fire had swept over it. It was thickly covered with the bodies of the insects, that gave it a blackened appearance as far as the eye could reach.
The attendant birds, perceiving the approach of night, screamed for awhile, and then scattered away through the heavens. Some perched upon the rocks, while others went to roost among the low thickets of mimosa; and now for a short interval both earth and air were silent.
Von Bloom now bethought him of his cattle. Their forms were seen afar off in the midst of the locust-covered plain.
“Let 'em feed um little while, baas,” suggested Swartboy.
“On what?” inquired his master. “Don't you see the grass is covered!”