Two Or Three Years Later
He Came To My Father, Whom He Had Come To Know Very Well, And Said He
Had Been Ordered To The Upper Provinces And Was In Great Trouble About
His Horse.
He was twenty years old, he said, and no longer fit to be
ridden in a fight; and of all the people he knew there was but one man
in whose care he wished to leave his horse.
I know, he said, that if
you will take him and promise to care for him until his old life ends,
he will be safe; and I should be happy about him - as happy as I can be
without the horse I have loved more than any other being on earth. My
father consented, and had kept the old horse for over nine years when
he was killed by the hail. He was a well-shaped dark brown animal,
with long mane and tail, but, as I knew him, always lean and old-
looking, and the chief use he was put to was for the children to take
their first riding-lessons on his back.
My parents had already experienced one great sadness on account of
Zango before his strange death. For years they had looked for a
letter, a message, from the absent officer, and had often pictured his
return and joy at finding alive still and embracing his beloved old
friend again. But he never returned, and no message came and no news
could be heard of him, and it was at last concluded that he had lost
his life in that distant part of the country, where there had been
much fighting.
To return to the hailstones. The greatest destruction had fallen on
the wild birds. Before the storm immense numbers of golden plover had
appeared and were in large flocks on the plain. One of our native boys
rode in and offered to get a sackful of plover for the table, and
getting the sack he took me up on his horse behind him. A mile or so
from home we came upon scores of dead plover lying together where they
had been in close flocks, but my companion would not pick up a dead
bird. There were others running about with one wing broken, and these
he went after, leaving me to hold his horse, and catching them would
wring their necks and drop them in the sack. When he had collected two
or three dozen he remounted and we rode back.
Later that morning we heard of one human being, a boy of six, in one
of our poor neighbours' houses, who had lost his life in a curious
way. He was standing in the middle of the room, gazing out at the
falling hail, when a hailstone, cutting through the thatched roof,
struck him on the head and killed him instantly.
CHAPTER VI
SOME BIRD ADVENTURES
Visit to a river on the pampas - A first long walk - Waterfowl - My first
sight of flamingoes - A great dove visitation - Strange tameness of the
birds - Vain attempts at putting salt on their tails - An ethical
question: When is a lie not a lie? - The carancho, a vulture-eagle - Our
pair of caranchos - Their nest in a peach tree - I am ambitious to take
their eggs - The birds' crimes - I am driven off by the birds - The nest
pulled down.
Just before my riding days began in real earnest, when I was not yet
quite confident enough to gallop off alone for miles to see the world
for myself, I had my first long walk on the plain. One of my elder
brothers invited me to accompany him to a water-course, one of the
slow-flowing shallow marshy rivers of the pampas which was but two
miles from home. The thought of the half-wild cattle we would meet
terrified me, but he was anxious for my company that day and assured
me that he could see no herd in that direction and he would be careful
to give a wide berth to anything with horns we might come upon. Then I
joyfully consented and we set out, three of us, to survey the wonders
of a great stream of running water, where bulrushes grew and large
wild birds, never seen by us at home, would be found. I had had a
glimpse of the river before, as, when driving to visit a neighbour, we
had crossed it at one of the fords and I had wished to get down and
run on its moist green low banks, and now that desire would be
gratified. It was for me a tremendously long walk, as we had to take
many a turn to avoid the patches of cardoon and giant thistles, and by
and by we came to low ground where the grass was almost waist-high and
full of flowers. It was all like an English meadow in June, when every
grass and every herb is in flower, beautiful and fragrant, but tiring
to a boy six years old to walk through. At last we came out to a
smooth grass turf, and in a little while were by the stream, which had
overflowed its banks owing to recent heavy rains and was now about
fifty yards wide. An astonishing number of birds were visible - chiefly
wild duck, a few swans, and many waders-ibises, herons, spoonbills,
and others, but the most wonderful of all were three immensely tall
white-and-rose-coloured birds, wading solemnly in a row a yard or so
apart from one another some twenty yards out from the bank. I was
amazed and enchanted at the sight, and my delight was intensified when
the leading bird stood still and, raising his head and long neck
aloft, opened and shook his wings. For the wings when open were of a
glorious crimson colour, and the bird was to me the most angel-like
creature on earth.
What were these wonderful birds?
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