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The Land of Footprints-Part3_Stewart Edward White(1873-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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C. and I carefully organized our plan of campaign. We fixed in

our memories the exact location of each and every bush; we



determined compass direction from camp, and any other bearings

likely to prove useful in finding so small a spot in the dark.



Then we left a boy to keep carrion birds off until sunset; and

returned home.



We were out in the morning before even the first sign of dawn.

Billy rode her little mule, C. and I went afoot, Memba Sasa



accompanied us because he could see whole lions where even C.'s

trained eye could not make out an ear, and the syce went along to



take care of the mule. The heavens were ablaze with the thronging

stars of the tropics, so we found we could make out the skyline



of the distant butte over the rise of the plains. The earth

itself was a pool of absoluteblackness. We could not see where



we were placing our feet, and we were continually bringing up

suddenly to walk around an unexpected aloe or thornbush. The



night was quite still, but every once in a while from the

blackness came rustlings, scamperings, low calls, and once or



twice the startled barking of zebra very near at hand. The latter

sounded as ridiculous as ever. It is one of the many



incongruities of African life that Nature should have given so

large and so impressive a creature the petulant yapping of an



exasperated Pomeranian lap dog. At the end of three quarters of

an hour of more or less stumbling progress, we made out against



the sky the twisted treelet that served as our landmark. Billy

dismounted, turned the mule over to the syce, and we crept slowly



forward until within a guessed two or three hundred yards of our

kill.



Nothing remained now but to wait for the daylight. It had already

begun to show. Over behind the distant mountains some one was



kindling the fires, and the stars were flickering out. The

splendid ferocity of the African sunrise was at hand. Long bands



of slate dark clouds lay close along the horizon, and behind them

glowed a heart of fire, as on a small scale the lamplight glows



through a metal-worked shade. On either side the sky was pale

green-blue, translucent and pure, deep as infinity itself. The



earth was still black, and the top of the rise near at hand was

clear edged. On that edge, and by a strange chance accurately in



the centre of illumination, stood the uncouthmassive form of a

shaggy wildebeeste, his head raised, staring to the east. He did



not move; nothing of that fire and black world moved; only

instant by instant it changed, swelling in glory toward some



climax until one expected at any moment a fanfare of trumpets,

the burst of triumphant culmination.



Then very far down in the distance a lion roared. The

wildebeeste, without moving, bellowed back an answer or a



defiance. Down in the hollow an ostrich boomed. Zebra barked, and

several birds chirped strongly. The tension was breaking not in



the expected fanfare and burst of triumphal music, but in a

manner instantly" target="_blank" title="ad.立即，立刻">instantly felt to be more fitting to what was indeed a



wonder, but a daily wonder for all that. At one and the same

instant the rim of the sun appeared and the wildebeeste, after



the sudden habit of his kind, made up his mind to go. He dropped

his head and came thundering down past us at full speed. Straight



to the west he headed, and so disappeared. We could hear the beat

of his hoofs dying into the distance. He had gone like a Warder



of the Morning whose task was finished. On the knife-edged

skyline appeared the silhouette of slim-legged little Tommies,



flirting their rails, sniffing at the dewy grass, dainty,

slender, confiding, the open-day antithesis of the tremendous and



awesome lord of the darkness that had roared its way to its lair,

and to the massiveshaggyherald of morning that had thundered



down to the west.

III. THE CENTRAL PLATEAU



Now is required a special quality of the imagination, not in

myself, but in my readers, for it becomes necessary for them to



grasp the logic of a whole country in one mental effort. The

difficulties to me are very real. If I am to tell you it all in



detail, your mind becomes confused to the point of mingling the

ingredients of the description. The resultant mental picture is a



composite; it mixes localities wide apart; it comes out, like the

snake-creeper-swamp-forest thing of grammar-school South America,



an unreal and deceitfulimpression. If, on the other hand, I try

to give you a bird's-eye view-saying, here is plain, and there






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