While a crowd of yelling niggers under the generalship of Jim were landing the crocodile, I had time to do some diving, and managed to fish out my rifle. He took no notice of me; and I, never dreaming that he was after the koodoo, watched the walk quicken to a laboured trot before I moved or called; but he paid no heed to the call. The crocodile turned from the shot and dived up stream, heading straight for Jock: the din of yelling voices stopped instantly as the huge open-mouthed thing plunged towards the dog; and for one sick horrified moment I stood and watched—helpless. It was the first of three or four stands; the sable, with a watchful eye on me, always moved on as I drew near enough to shoot. When the hen pecked Jock on the nose, she gave him a useful lesson in the art of finding out what you want to know without getting into trouble. Men ain’t born equal: no more’s dawgs! The boys and all the stock, except one old goat, were killed. It may be hit anywhere. Past the big bush I saw them again, and there the duiker did as wounded game so often do: taking advantage of cover it changed direction and turned away for some dense thorns. They are not big fellows, rarely exceeding seven feet from nose to tip of tail and 130 pounds in weight; but they are extraordinarily active and strong, and it is difficult to believe until one has seen the proof of it that they are able to climb the bare trunk of a tree carrying a kill much bigger and heavier than themselves, and hang it safely wedged in some hidden fork out of reach of any other animal. What on earth was wrong? The constant shouting, the battle with refractory animals, the work with the whip, and the hopeless chaos and failure, have just about done you up; and then some one—who knows—comes along, and, because you block the way where he would pass and he can see what is wrong, offers to give a hand. Late in the afternoon the buffalo, for the first time, suddenly came to a stand on the windward side of the tree, and after a good minute’s silence turned its tail on Jantje and with angry sniffs and tosses stepped swiftly and resolutely forward some paces. But we drank it. A rietbuck ram stopped close to us, looked back wide-eyed and anxious, and whistled shrilly, and then cantered on with head erect and white tail flapping; but its mate neither answered nor came by. It may have been true: he certainly was a living test of patience, purpose, and management; but, for something learnt in that way, I am glad now that Jim never ‘got the sack’ from me. TIGER. Then others showed up in different places, and whole figures became visible now as the monkeys stole softly along the branches to get a better look at Jock and me: there were a couple of dozen of them of all sizes. We sat down to rest at last in the open on the long spur on which, a couple of miles away, the slanting sun picked out the red and black cattle, the white goats, and the brown huts of the kaffir kraal. He flew over it outlined against the sky in the easiest most graceful and most perfect curve imaginable. Often when stalking buck very quietly and cautiously, thinking only of what was in front, I would get quite a start by feeling something bump up against me behind. Jantje waited until the tugs at the gourd became serious, and then, knowing that the smaller things had been taken out or shaken out and eaten and that some enterprising monkey had put its arm into the hole and grabbed the crust, he ran out. He appeared to be shot through the lungs; at any rate the kaffirs on the other bank, who were then quite close enough to see, said that it was so. And yet—and yet, as I went on, no longer trotting and full of hope but walking heavily and weighted with doubt, the feeling of uncertainty grew until I really did not know whether the familiar-looking objects and scenes were indeed old acquaintances or merely imagination playing tricks in a country where every style and sample was copied a thousand times over. When allowed to cool it sets like brawn, and a hungry hunter wants nothing better. It was not much for my purpose, but it was higher than the rest and quite open, and there were some rocks scattered about the top. I looked at Francis’s face; it was pale and set like marble, and his watchful grey eyes were large and wide like an antelope’s, as though opened out to take in everything; and those moments of intense interest and expectation were the best part of a memorable day. Any attempt to follow the lioness after that would have been waste of time. The animal looked round from time to time with swings and tosses of the head and threatening angry sneezes, much as one sees a cow do when standing between her young calf and threatened danger: it was defending Jantje, for his own purposes, and facing the danger. If the road runs east and west you, knowing on which side you left it, have only to walk north or south steadily and you must strike it again. I recommend this book because it based on true life events and can be classified as a non-fictional narrative. Jock of the Bushveld, Africa’s Best Loved Dog Hero. I had shouted myself hoarse at Jim, but he heard or heeded nothing; and seizing a stick from one of the other boys I was already on the way to stop him, but before I got near him he had wrenched the axe from the kicking boy and, without pause, gone headlong for the next Shangaan he saw. I put him back with the other puppies and returned to the tree where Ted and the rest were sitting. In the Hekpoort Valley (near Johannesburg) and in Barberton, about the same date, the veld was like a glacier; the hail lay like snow, inches deep, and during the worst spells the general run of the hailstones varied in size from pigeons’ eggs to hens’ eggs; but the big ones, the crash of whose individual blows was distinctly heard through the general roar, are described as ‘bigger than cricket balls’ and ‘the size of breakfast cups,’ generally with an elongation or tail—like a balloon. That was the end of the last trek. Vinnige Aflewering Ontvang produkte in ongelooflike tyd. STEMBUCK (Cape Dutch, stembok or steinbok, from the pure Dutch steenbok, the Alpine ibex), a small antelope (Raphicerus campestais). Day by day I went out always hoping to get my chance, and when at last the chance did come it was quite in accordance with the experience of many others that it was not in the least expected. I saw him as he took the strain in that last pull, and it was pitiful to see the restless eager spirit fighting against the failing strength: he looked desperate. A comforting balm. Jock of the Bushveld offers reasonably priced accommodation for singles, couples and for families, in fully equipped self catering units and self catering chalets. So average a 3.5. We were not more than a hundred yards from the krans then, and the track taken by the tiger was not at all an inviting one. He had actually struggled to get free of my hand when the boys began to skin, and they were so scared by his resolute attempt that they would not start until I put him down between my knees and held him. This terrace was bounded on one side by the steep bank of the creek and walled in on the other side by the precipitous kranses of the mountains. The silence must have made them suspicious, for at some signal unknown to us the troop broke away and we had the mortification to see something, which we had ignored as a branch, tilt slowly back and disappear: there was no mistaking the koodoo bull’s horns once they moved! In this slice of anthropomorphism, the relations between the dogs of blacks and whites mirror the unequal social relations of their human masters, and the image that whites have of Africans. In order to make quite sure I hunted for koodoo spoor; there was none to be seen, but on an old molehill there was the single print of a dog’s foot. Old Rocky had taught me to imitate the rietbuck’s shrill whistle and this one fell to the first shot. Jock of the Bushveld biedt een continentaal of à-la-carteontbijt. One by one the other puppies were taken away by their new masters, and before Jock was three months old he and Jess were the only dogs with the waggons. Very very interesting and full of life. The grass was sweet and plentiful; the day was hot and still; and as we had had a very long early morning trek there was not much inclination to move. Once, when I had described how well he had stood up to Billy’s pup, Robbie caught up “The Rat,” and placing him on the table, said: “Hats off to the Duke of Wellington on the field of Waterloo.” That seemed to me the poorest sort of joke to send five grown men into fits of laughter. If one, loitering before him, blocked his way unseeing, there was no pause or step aside—just “Suka!” (“Get out”) and a push that looked effortless enough but sent the offender staggering; or, if he had his sticks, more likely a smart whack on the stern that was still more surprising; and not even the compliment of a glance back from Jim as he stalked on. It was all too beautiful for words: and so it should be in the spring-time of youth. The herd would not stand there, and it was not probable that the wounded animal would stop until he joined the others or reached a more sheltered place. The night closed in and there was quiet once more. There was something the matter with the dog, he said; he thought she was mad. Cheery and unpractical, with two old pointers and a fowling-piece, and a heart as warm as toast. I hardly waited to thank Ted before going off to look at my champion. After that I stopped talking about him, and made the most of the good points he showed, and tried to discover more. Time and again, as for part of a second I singled one out and tried to aim, others would come racing straight for us, compelling me to switch round to face them, only to find them swerve with a dart or a mighty bound when within a few paces of me. The fowl-coop was carried on top of everything else, and it was always left open so that the fowls could go in and out as they liked. She’s full up o’ the right stuff, but she got no show to larn! They seemed to be passing half a mile away from us; but in the stillness of the night sound travels far, and one can only guess. He did not answer until he reached them and even then spoke in so quiet a tone that I could not catch what he said. Jim was very cruel to them and taught Jock to play nasty "tricks" on them. They work on Nature’s lines. Was it luck? That’s the first time I seen him call for a week. When Jock was sent spinning in the dust the baboon recovered itself first, and standing up on its hind legs reached out its long ungainly arms towards him, and let out a shout of defiance. or had the hyenas and wild dogs followed up the trail, as they so often do, and did Jock have to fight his way through them too? Cape Dutch, lagewaan (pure Dutch, laguaan) (Varanus niloticus). Here and there a broad furrowed streak of red soil straight down some steep grass-covered spur was visible: it looked like a mountain timber-slide or the scour of some tropical storm; and that was all one could see of it from below. It seems incredible that one could be so near and not see or understand. He was so genuinely anxious and so indignant at what he considered my indifference that it was impossible to be angry; and I let him talk away to me and at me in his exciting bullying way. The trail became more and more difficult to follow; the blood was less frequent, and the hot sun dried it so quickly that it was more than I could do to pick it out from the red streaks on the grass and many-coloured leaves. In front of us there was a dry vlei quite free of bush, some two hundred yards across and four hundred yards long, and the wildebeeste had gone away to the right and were skirting the vlei, apparently meaning to get round to the opposite side, avoiding the direct cut across the vlei for reasons of their own. Now, every one knows what a fowl is like: it is impudent, inquisitive, selfish, always looking for something to eat, and has no principles. A dog is just as quick as a child to find out when he can take liberties; he knows that laughter and serious disapproval do not go together; and Jock with the backing of the boys thoroughly enjoyed him-self. Did he toss you?” I asked. Jock of the Bushveld is a true story written by the South African writer Percy FitzPatrick. When Rooiland had ‘trek fever’ there was no rest for herd boys. “Baas, Baas, the tiger! When they allowed us to catch up to them time after time, it was not because they did not expect us. Owen did not invent: he had no need to; and Furley himself was no mean judge of crocodiles and men. The evil-looking half-caste no doubt hoped to get the horse saddle and bridle, as well as the cash, and was quite prepared to drug Seedling when the time came, and slip him quietly into the Komati at night where the crocodiles would take care of the evidence. It would have taken a good man to handle Bantom, at any time—even in the beginning; but, full-grown, and confirmed in his evil ways, only the butcher could make anything out of him. And the heart that had once been young spoke up for Auld Lang Syne: the old eyes softened and dropped: “God speed you, Boy—Good-bye!” And as the mail-coach rumbled off the Boy put up his head—to try again. It was a running shot—end on—and the last of the troop, a big cow, gave a stumble; but catching herself up again she cantered off slowly. When he fought he meant business; he went for a good spot, bit hard, and hung on for all he was worth; then, as the enemy began to slacken, he would start vigorously worrying and shaking. Ted held her between his knees and gripped her head with both hands, while one of us pulled with steel pliers on the broken quill until it came out. Infinitely amused by the stampede we rode up to see what had become of them, but the silence was absolute, and for a while they seemed to have vanished altogether; then a tell-tale ripple gave the clue, and under the banks among the ferns and exposed roots we picked out little black faces half submerged and pairs of frightened eyes staring at us from all sides. Ugly she might be, with her little fretful hostile eyes and her uncertain ever-moving ears, and silent sour and cross; but stubborn fidelity and reckless courage were hers too; and all the good Jock had in him came from Jess. A little later on, however, he came upon another, and it led him to a big and shady wild fig tree. For a little way the pace seemed as great as ever, but it soon died away; the driving power was gone; the strain and weight on the one sound leg and the tripping of the broken one were telling; and from that on I was close enough to see it all. He was the petty local Justice who was supposed to administer minor laws, collect certain revenues and taxes, and issue passes. At the first touch of the whip Bantom jumped up and charged them; and then, seeing that there was nothing at all the matter, the boys inspanned him and made a fresh start—not touching him again for fear of another fit of sulks; but at the first call on the team, down he went again. Where is Jock?” He stood there looking at me with a big wooden spoon full of porridge stopped on the way to his mouth. Powerful as the brute was, and formidable as were the arms and gripping feet, it had no chance while Jock could keep his feet and had strength to drag and hold the chain tight. Jock wanted a go at them: they did not appear quite so much beneath notice as the birds. I had got so used to thinking that he was only a faded wishy-washy edition of Jess that the idea of his colour changing did not occur to me then, and I never suspected that the old man could see how he would turn out; but the touch of sunlight opened my eyes that day, and after that whenever I looked at Jock the words “golden brindle” came back to my mind, and I pictured him as he was going to be—and as he really did grow up—having a coat like burnished gold with soft, dark, wavy brindles in it and that snow-white V on his chest. How many coveys had packed there, and for what purpose, and whether they came every evening, were questions which one would like answered now; but they were not of sufficient interest then to encourage a second visit another evening. Here and there where an impermeable rock formation crosses these channels there are deep pools which, except in years of drought, last all through the winter; and these are the drinking-places of the game. I am a man: I want meat, Baas, meat.” From the white man it was, “Go to sleep, I tell you!”, “Be still, you drunken brute, or I’ll tie you up!” and “You’ll get twenty-five in a minute!”, It may have lasted half an hour when one of our party said, “That’s Bob’s old driver, the big Zulu. And all the time there came from him a torrent of excited gabble in pure Zulu, too fast and too high-flown for me to follow, which was punctuated and paragraphed by bursting allusions to ‘dogs of Shangaans,’ ‘axes,’ ‘sticks,’ and ‘Jock.’. Hailstorms.—Bad hailstorms occur every year in South Africa, but they do not last long (ten minutes is enough to destroy everything that stands). I didn't know a lot about South Africa when I went into this, but basically they have their own version of the American wild west, with warring natives that may as well exist in a different world from the Europeans who have moved in, wild animals, frontier justice (and injustice), etc. Whenever a flat-topped thorn, a quaint ant-heap, a patch of tambookie grass, or a forked marula came in sight, I would turn off to see if they were the same we had passed coming out. That was his way. The dull monotone, the ominous drawl, the steady something in his clear calm eyes which I cannot define, gave an almost corrosive effect to innocent words and a voice of lazy gentleness. Then came another jump, and his mouth opened slowly and his eyes got big. The old fellow himself was startled out of his sleep, and raised his head to see what the row was about; but, as nothing more happened, he lay down again, and the cockerel, finding also that it was a false alarm, turned back not a bit ashamed for another try. Knowing how the long stem of a neck will catch the eye, it lays it flat on the ground, as other birds do, when danger threatens the nest or brood, and concealment is better than flight. In his right hand he brandished a tough stout fighting stick; in his left I was horrified to see an assegai, and well I knew that, with the fighting fury on him, he would think nothing of using it. The name Lying Tom was understood and accepted by every one in the place, barring Tom himself; for, oddly enough, there was another Tom of the same surname, but no relation, and once when his name cropped up I heard the real Simon Pure refer to him as “my namesake—the chap they call Lying Tom.” To the day of his death Tom believed that it was the other Tom who was esteemed the liar. It seemed too good to be true; not even in my wildest imaginings had I fancied myself getting the pick of the lot. I started up to find all just as it had been, and the sunlight beyond the big tree so glaring as to make the eyes ache. But they know that too; so the grey hen sits by day, and the black cock by night! Following on a painfully careful aim, there was a deafening report that made my head reel and buzz; the kick of the rifle on the shoulder and cheek left me blue for days; and when my eyes were clear enough to see anything the stembuck had disappeared. With Jocelyn Broderick, Michael Brunner, Wilson Dunster, Umfubu. Another followed, and again another: both fell where they had stopped, a dozen yards away, puzzled by the fire and the shooting; and still more and more came on, but, warned by the unexpected check in front, they stopped at the clearing’s edge, until over twenty pairs of eyes reflecting the fire’s light shone out at us in a rough semicircle. Then the same idea struck us all together, and “Buggins is lost” came from several—all choking with laughter. We must get out of this on to the slopes!”. We were about fifteen yards from the precipitous face of the krans, and had just worked round a huge boulder into a space fairly free of bush but cumbered with many big rocks and loose stones, when the dogs stopped and stood quivering and bristling all over, moving their heads slowly about with noses well raised and sniffing persistently. Thus there were certain things we could not afford to wet, and these we used to wrap up in a mackintosh and carry high when it came to swimming, but this crossing looked so easy that it seemed sufficient to raise the packs instead of carrying part of them. The ant-heap made a certain shot impossible, so I lowered myself slowly to the ground to wait until he should begin feeding or change his position for comfort or shade, as they often do: this might mean waiting for half an hour or more, but it was better than risking a shot in the position in which he was lying. Lifting the bucket to his mouth he drank like an ox and slammed it down again without a word of thanks; then sat down in the shade of the waggon, filled his pipe, and smoked in silence. For the next half-hour or so he kept repeating this action every few minutes; but even without that I knew that it had been no wild-goose chase, and that miles away in the bush there was something lying dead which he could show me if I would but follow him back again to see. The writer took a plaster cast of one picked up at Zuurfontein (near Johannesburg), in November 1906, which measured 4.5 inches long, 3.5 wide and 1.125 inches thick—a slab of white ice. Rocky must have known what was worrying me, for, after we had picked up the buck, he remarked without any preliminary, “It ain’t easy in this bush ter pick up what don’t move; an’ it ain’t hardly possible ter find what ye don’t know!”. He pointed out the spoors going to and from the drinking-place, and named the various animals; showed me one more deeply indented than the rest and, murmuring “Scared I guess,” pointed to where it had dashed off out of the regular track; picked out the big splayed pad of the hyena sneaking round under cover; stopped quietly in his stride to point where a hare was sitting up cleaning itself, not ten yards off; stopped again at the sound of a clear, almost metallic, ‘clink’ and pointed to a little sandy gully in front of us down which presently came thirty or forty guinea-fowl in single file, moving swiftly, running and walking, and all in absolute silence except for that one ‘clink.’ How did he know they were there, and which way they would go, and know it all so promptly? I told her I had read a book about Zimbabwe (at the time Rhodesia) "Don't Let's go to the Dogs Tonight" and had read several books by a great South African author Jazzy Mackenzie. all day long. The old dog gave two gentle pats with his tail in the sand, and closing his eye went to sleep again. It was only when old Pezulu led the way and perched on the coop itself and crowed and called to them that they would get up on to the other waggon. Robbie made a grab for his plate as it slipped from his knees. He had gone out to shoot bush-pheasants, and came unexpectedly on a lioness playing with her cubs: the cubs hid in the grass, but she stood up at bay to protect them, and he, forgetting that he had taken the big ‘looper’ cartridges from his gun and reloaded with Number 6, fired. At the next stop it lay back worse than before. Once they caught an ant-bear in the open, and there was a rough-and-tumble; we had no weapons—not even sticks—with us, and the dogs had it all to themselves. At lunch-time he was still squatting at the full length of the chain, off the mat and straw, and with his head hanging in the most hopeless dejected attitude one could imagine. The Jackal asked that he might be Umpire for the Things of the Earth. After all that row and excitement there was not much use in trying for anything more in the reeds—and indeed I had had quite enough of them for one afternoon; so we wandered along the upper banks in the hope of finding something where there were no crocodiles, and it was not long before we were interested in something else and able to forget all about the duiker. He told it all in a dull monotone: for the time the life and fire were gone out of him; but he was not cowed, not broken. I walked like a machine, with rifle on shoulder and glad to be rid of the broken bandolier, then transferred to Mungo; and Jock trotted at my heels. Forgetting the last night’s experience, forgetting everything except how we had twice chased and twice lost them, seeing only another and the grandest prize slipping away, I sent Jock on and followed as fast as I could. There were three cartridges and a few damp matches left. Yet we saw nothing! On a little open flat of hard-baked sand lay the stripped frame of the koodoo: the head and leg-bones were missing; meat-stripped fragments were scattered all about; fifty yards away among some bushes Jock found the head; and still further afield were remains of skin and thigh-bones crushed almost beyond recognition. I ran back for the rifle and followed, and he had already disappeared down the steep bank of the donga when, through the trees on the opposite side, I saw a koodoo cow moving along at a slow cramped walk. At last came one particularly bad fall, when the buck rolled over on its back, and then Jock let go his grip and made a dash for its throat; but again the duiker was too quick for him; with one twist it was up and round facing him on its one knee, and dug, thrust, and swept with its black spiky horns so vigorously that it was impossible to get at its neck. IMPI (pronounced impey) (n), an army or body of armed natives gathered for or engaged in war. In doing so a few grains of grit crunched under my foot, and instantly there was a rush in the reeds behind me; I jumped round to face it, believing that the crocodile was grabbing at me from behind, and on the polished surface of the rock my feet slipped and shot from under me, both bare elbows bumped hard on the rock, jerking the rifle out of my hands; and I was launched like a torpedo right into the mass of swaying reeds. After he had disappeared she ran back to her patch of grass and lay down, but in a few minutes she was back again squatting in the road looking with that same anxious worried expression after her master.