Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider), 1856-1925 / 2008-07-31 00:00:00
On they come at
full gallop, their long heads held low, they look like so many bearded
goats. I thought so--behind them is a pack of wild dogs, their fur
draggled, their tongues lolling. They are in full cry; the giraffes hear
them and are away, rolling round the koppie like a ship in a heavy sea.
No marrow-bones after all. See! the foremost dogs are close on a buck.
He has galloped far and is outworn. One springs at his flank and misses
him. The buck gives a kind of groan, looks wildly round and sees the
waggon. He seems to hesitate a moment, then in his despair rushes up
to it, and falls exhausted among the oxen. The dogs pull up some thirty
paces away, panting and snarling. Now, boy, the gun--no, not the rifle,
the shot-gun loaded with loopers.
Bang! bang! there, my friends, two of you will never hunt buck again.
No, don't touch the buck, for he has come to us for shelter, and he
shall have it.
Ah, how beautiful is nature before man comes to spoil it!
Such a sight as this have I seen many a hundred times, and I hope to see
it again before I die.
The first real adventure that befell me on this particular journey was
with elephants, which I will relate because of its curious termination.
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