White steam rose from a moist, fertile-looking
soil. The smell of greenhouses was in the air. Looking back, we were
stricken motionless by the sight of Kilimanjaro, its twin peaks
suspended a clean blue sky, fresh snow mantling its shoulders.
This day, so cheeringly opened, was destined to fulfil its promise. In
the dense scrub dwell a shy and rare animal called the lesser kudu
specimens of which we greatly desired. The beast keeps to the thickest
and driest cove where it is impossible to see fifty yards ahead but
where the slightest movement breaks the numberless dry interlacements of
which the place seems made. To move really quietly one could not cover
over a half-mile in an hour. As the countryside extends a thousand
square miles or more, and the lesser kudu is rare, it can be seen that
hunting them might have to be a slow and painful process. We had twice
seen the peculiar tracks.
On this morning, however, we caught a glimpse of the beast itself. A
flash of gray, with an impression of the characteristic harness-like
stripes--that was all. The trail, in the ground, was of course very
plain. I left the others and followed it into the brush. As usual the
thorn scrub was so thick that I had to stoop and twist to get through it
at all, and so brittle that the least false move made a crackling like a
fire. The rain of the night before had, however, softened the _debris_
lying on the ground.
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