The Night Was Raw And Windy, And Thick Mists Deepened Into A Drizzle, Which Did Not Quench Our Thirst, But Easily Drenched The Saddle Cloths, Our Only Bedding.

In one sense, however, the foul weather was propitious to us.

Our track might easily have been followed by some enterprising son of Yunis Jibril; these tracts of thorny bush are favourite places for cattle lifting; moreover the fire was kept blazing all night, yet our mules were not stolen.

We shook off our slumbers before dawn on the 27th. I remarked near our resting-place, one of those detached heaps of rock, common enough in the Somali country: at one extremity a huge block projects upwards, and suggests the idea of a gigantic canine tooth. The Donkey declared that the summit still bears traces of building, and related the legend connected with Moga Medir. [7] There, in times of old, dwelt a Galla maiden whose eye could distinguish a plundering party at the distance of five days' march. The enemies of her tribe, after sustaining heavy losses, hit upon the expedient of an attack, not _en chemise_, but with their heads muffled in bundles of hay. When Moga, the maiden, informed her sire and clan that a prairie was on its way towards the hill, they deemed her mad; the manoeuvre succeeded, and the unhappy seer lost her life. The legend interested me by its wide diffusion. The history of Zarka, the blue-eyed witch of the Jadis tribe, who seized Yemamah by her gramarye, and our Scotch tale of Birnam wood's march, are Asiatic and European facsimiles of African "Moga's Tooth."

At 7 A.M. we started through the mist, and trotted eastwards in search of a well.

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