Rich as the African steppe really is, incomparably rich as it seems when compared with the desert, it nowhere exhibits the full luxuriance of tropical vegetation. It indeed receives everywhere the blessing of life-giving water; but this lasts too short a time to have a permanent influence. With the cessation of the rains the power of growth comes to an end, and heat and drought destroy what the rains have produced. Therefore only those plants can flourish in the steppe the course of whose life is run within a few weeks; those which are capable of outlasting centuries never attain to full development. Only in the low grounds, traversed by streams which never dry up, and watered by these as well as by the rains, where sunlight and water, warmth and moisture, work together, does the magic wealth of tropical lands develop and endure. Here have arisen forests which, in magnificence and beauty, grandeur and luxuriance, are scarce inferior to those of the most favoured lands of lower latitudes. They are primeval forests in the true sense of the word, for they grow and disappear, become old and renew their youth without help of man; even to this day they are sufficient unto themselves, and they support an extraordinary wealth of animal life.

The storms of spring carry the rain-laden clouds from the south over the African countries lying north of the equator. Accordingly, these forests do not burst suddenly on the eye of the traveller journeying from the north, but become gradually more characteristic the farther south he penetrates. The nearer he approaches to the equator the more brilliantly the lightning flashes, the louder and more continuously the thunder rolls, the more noisily the rain-torrents fall, so much the more luxuriantly do all plants thrive, so much the richer in forms does the fauna become; the earlier the rainy season sets in the longer it lasts, and so much the greater is the charm it works. In exact proportion to the increase of moisture, the forest becomes denser, loftier, and more extensive. From the banks of the streams the plant-growth spreads into the interior, and takes possession of every available space, from the thickly-covered ground to the tops of the highest trees. Trees which are only dwarfs elsewhere, become giants here; known species become the hosts of still unknown parasites, and between them a plant-world hitherto unseen struggles towards the light. Even here, however, at least in the northern belt of the forest, the heat and drought of winter have still so strong an influence that they periodically destroy the foliage of the trees and condemn at least most of them to some weeks of complete inactivity. But the awakening call of spring rings the more clearly through the sleeping wood; the life which the first rains of the fertilizing season call forth stirs the more powerfully after the rest of winter.

I shall select spring-time in these countries to depict the primeval forest as best I can. The south wind, herald and bearer of the rain-clouds, must still be in contest with the cooling breezes from the north if the forest is to reveal all its possible magnificence, and one must penetrate to its heart by one of its arteries, the rivers, if one wishes to see the fulness of its life. Let us take the Azrek or “Blue Nile”, rising in the mountains of Habesh, as our highway; for with it are linked the most exquisite pictures which a long life of travel have won for me, and I may prove a better guide on it than on another. I very much doubt, however, whether I shall prove such an interpreter of the forest as I should like to be. For the primeval forest is a world full of splendour, and brilliance, and fairy-like beauty; a land of marvels whose wealth no man has been able fully to know, much less to carry away; a treasure-house which scatters infinitely more than one can gather; a paradise in which the creation seems to take shape anew day by day; an enchanted circle which unfolds before him who enters it pictures, grand and lovely, grave and gay, bright as daylight and sombre as night; a thousand integral parts making up a whole infinitely complex, yet unified and harmonious, which baffles all description.

One of the light little craft which one sees at Khartoum (the capital of the Eastern Soudan, lying at the junction of the two Nile streams) is transformed into a travelling boat, and bears us against the waves of the much-swollen Azrek. The gardens of the last houses of the capital disappear, and the steppe reaches down to the very bank of the river. Here and there we still see a village, or isolated huts lying prettily under mimosas and often surrounded by creeping and climbing plants which hang from the trees; nothing else is visible save the waving grass-forest and the few steppe trees and shrubs which rise from its midst. But after a short journey the forest takes possession of the bank, and spreads out its thorny or spine-covered branches even beyond it. Thenceforward our progress is slow. The wind blowing against us prevents sailing, the forest renders towing impossible. With the boat-hook the crew pull the little craft foot by foot, yard by yard, farther up the stream, till one of their number espies a gap where he can gain a foothold in the thick hedge-wall of the bank, and, committing his mortal body to the care of Muhsa, the patron-saint of all sailors, and praying for protection from the crocodiles which are here abundant, he takes the towing-rope between his teeth, plunges into the water, swims to the desired spot, fastens the rope round the trunk of a tree, and lets his companions pull the boat up to it. Thus the boatmen toil from early morning till late in the evening, yet they only speed the traveller perhaps five, or at most ten miles on his way. Nevertheless the days fly past, and none who have learned to see and hear need suffer from weariness there. To the naturalist, as to every thoughtful observer, every day offers something new; to the collector, a wealth of material of every kind.

Every now and again one comes upon traces of human beings. If one follows them from the bank, along narrow paths hemmed in on either side by the dense undergrowth, one arrives at the abodes of a remarkable little tribe. They are the Hassanie who dwell there. Where the forest is less dense, and where the trees do not form a three-or four-fold roof with their crowns, but consist of tall, shady mimosas, Kigelias, tamarinds, and baobabs, these folk erect their most delightful tent- or booth-like huts, so different from all the other dwellings one sees in the Soudan. “Hassanie” means the descendants of Hassan, and Hassan means the Beautiful; and not without reason does this tribe bear this name. For the Hassanie are indisputably the handsomest people who dwell in the lower and middle regions of the river-basin, and the women in particular surpass almost all other Soudanese in beauty of form, regularity of feature, and clearness of skin. Both men and women faithfully observe certain exceedingly singular customs, which among other people are, with reason, considered immoral. The Hassanie are therefore at once famous and notorious, sought out and avoided, praised and scoffed at, extolled and abused. To the unprejudiced traveller, eager to study manners and customs, they afford much delight, if not by their beauty at least by their desire for approbation, which must please even the least susceptible of men. This trait is much more conspicuous in them than even the self-consciousness which beauty gives: they must and will please. The preservation of their beauty is their highest aim, and counts for more than any other gain. To avoid sunburning, which would darken their clear brown skins, they live in the shade of the forest, contenting themselves with a few goats, their only domestic animals except dogs, and foregoing the wealth that numerous herds of cattle and camels afford their nomadic relatives. That their charms may be in no way spoiled, they strive above all to become possessed of female slaves, who relieve them of all hard work; to decorate face and cheeks they endure heroically, even as little girls, the pain inflicted by the mother as she cuts with a knife three deep, parallel, vertical wounds in the cheeks, that as many thick, swollen scars may be formed, or as she pricks forehead, temples, and chin with a needle and rubs indigo powder into the wounds, so producing blue spirals or other devices; to avoid injury to their dazzling white, almost sparkling teeth, they eat only lukewarm food; to preserve as long as possible their most elaborate coiffure, which consists of hundreds of fine braids, stiffened with gum arabic and richly oiled, they use no pillow save a narrow, crescent-shaped, wooden stand, on which they rest their heads while sleeping. To satisfy their sense of beauty, or perhaps in order that they may be seen and admired by every inhabitant or visitor, they have thought out the singular construction of their huts.

These huts may be perhaps best compared to the booths to be seen at fairs. The floor, which consists of rods as thick as one’s thumb bound closely together, rests upon a framework of stakes rising about a yard from the ground, thus making the dwelling difficult of access to creeping pests, and raising it from the damp ground. The walls consist of mats; the roof, overhanging on the north side, which is left open, is made of a waterproof stuff woven from goat’s hair. Neatly plaited mats of palm-leaf strips cover the floor; prettily-wrought wicker-work, festoons of shells, water-tight plaited baskets, earthen vessels, drinking-cups made from half a bottle-gourd, gaily-coloured utensils also plaited, lids, and other such things decorate the walls. Each vessel is daintily wrought and cleanly kept; the order and cleanliness of the whole hut impress one the more that both are so uncommon.

In such a hut the Hassanie dreams away the day. Dressed in her best, her hair and skin oiled with perfumed ointment, a long, lightly-woven, and therefore translucent piece of cloth enveloping the upper part of her body, a piece of stuff hanging petticoat-like from the waist, her feet adorned with daintily-worked sandals, neck and bosom hung with chains and amulets, arms with bracelets of amber, her nose possibly decorated with a silver, or even a gold ring, she sits hidden in the shade and rejoices in her beauty. Her little hand is busy with a piece of plaiting, some house utensil or article of dress, or perhaps it holds only her tooth-brush, a root teased out at both ends, and admirably adapted to its purpose. All the work of the house is done by her slave, all the labour of looking after the little flock by her obliging husband. The carefully thought-out and remarkable marriage-relations customary in the tribe, and adhered to in defiance of all the decrees and interference of the ruler of the land, guarantee her unheard-of rights. She is mistress in the most unlimited sense of the word, mistress also of her husband, at least as long as her charms remain; only when she is old and withered does she also learn the transitoriness of all earthly pleasure. Till then, she does what seems good in her eyes, her freedom bounded only by the limits which she has herself laid down. As long as the crowns of the trees do not afford complete shade around her hut she does not go out of doors, but offers every passer-by, particularly any stranger who calls upon her, a hearty welcome, and with or without her husband’s aid, does the honours of the tribe with almost boundless hospitality. Yet it is only when the evening sets in that her real life begins. Even before the sun has set, there is a stir and bustle in the settlement. One friend visits her neighbour, others join them; drum and zither entice the rest, and soon slender, lithe, supple figures arrange themselves for a merry dance. Delicate hands dip the drinking-cups into the big-bellied urn, filled with Merieza or dhurra beer, that the hearts of the men also may be glad. Old and young are assembled, and they celebrate the evening festival the more joyfully that it is honoured by the presence of strangers. The hospitality of all the Soudanese is extraordinary, but in no other race is it so remarkable as among the Hassanie.

In the course of our journey we come upon other settlements of these forest-shepherds, sometimes also on the villages of other Soudanese, and at length, after travelling nearly a month, we reach the desired region. The dense forest on both banks of the river prevents our searching gaze from seeing farther into the country. In this region there are no settlements of men, neither fields nor villages, not even temporarily inhabited camps; the ring of the axe has not yet echoed through these forests, for man has not yet attempted to exploit them; in them there dwell, still almost unmolested, only wild beasts. Impenetrable hedges shut off the forests, and resist any attempt to force a way from the stream to the interior. Every shade of green combines to form an enchanting picture, which now reminds one of home, and again appears entirely foreign. Bright green mimosas form the groundwork, and with them contrast vividly the silver glittering palm-leaves, the dark green tamarinds, and the bright green Christ-thorn bushes; leaves of endless variety wave and tremble in the wind, exposing first one side and then the other, shimmering and glittering before the surfeited and dazzled eye, which seeks in vain to analyse the leafy maze, to distinguish any part from the whole. For miles both banks present the same appearance, the same denseness of forest, the same grandeur, everywhere equally uninterrupted and impenetrable.

At last we come upon a path, perhaps even on a broad road, which seems to lead into the depths of the forest. But we search in vain for any traces of human footprints. Man did not make this path; the beasts of the forest have cleared it. A herd of elephants tramped through the matted thicket from the dry heights of the bank to the stream. One after another in long procession the mighty beasts broke through the undergrowth, intertwined a thousand-fold, letting nought save the strongest trees divert them from their course. If branches or stems as thick as a man’s leg stood in the way they were snapped across, stripped of twigs and leaves, all that was eatable devoured, and the remainder thrown aside, the bushes which covered the ground so luxuriantly were torn up by the roots, and used or thrown aside in the same manner, grass and plants were trodden under foot. What the first comers left fell to those behind, and thus arose a passable road often stretching deep into the heart of the forest. Other animals have taken advantage of it, treading it down more thoroughly, and keeping it in passable condition. By it the hippopotamus makes his way at night when he tramps from the river to feed in the woods; the rhinoceros uses it as he comes from the forest to drink; by it the raging buffalo descends to the valley and returns to the heights; along it the lion strides through his territory; and there one may meet the leopard, the hyæna, and other wild beasts of the forest. We set foot on it, and press forwards.

After a few steps the magnificent forest surrounds us on all sides. But, here also, it seems in vain to attempt to unravel the confusion of stems and branches, twigs and shoots, tendrils and leaves. The forest hems in such a path on both sides like a wall. The ground is everywhere covered with thickly-matted bushes, which one cannot even see through; but, struggling through these, all sorts of grasses have sprung up, forming a second undergrowth; just above that, tall-stemmed bushes and low trees spread their branches on all sides; over these again rise taller trees, and above them all tower the giants of the forest. By far the greater number of bushes in the undergrowth are thickly covered with thorns, while the mimosas towering above them are armed with long, hard, sharp spines, and even the grasses have burr-like seed-capsules covered with fine prickles, or ears set with sharp hooks, so that every attempt to penetrate the forest from the path is foiled by a thousand obstacles. The bird the huntsman’s gun has brought down is lost to him because in falling it is caught in a bush which he cannot reach without an amount of exertion quite out of proportion to the object; the game which conceals itself in a shrub before our very eyes is saved because we can no longer perceive it; a crocodile about three yards long, which we startled in the wood, escapes us by withdrawing itself into an isolated bush so completely that we cannot see a scale of it, and accordingly cannot fire a shot to any purpose.

Still we continue striving vainly to master the wealth of impressions, to separate one picture from another, to see any one tree from the ground to its top, to distinguish the leaves of one from those of another. From the stream it had been possible to distinguish some of the fresh green tamarinds from the mimosas of various species surrounding them, to recognize the magnificent kigelias, reminding us slightly of our own elms, to delight in the palm-crowns towering over the rest of the trees: here, in the depths of the forest, all the individual parts are fused into an inseparable whole. All the senses are claimed at once. From the leafy dome which the eye attempts to penetrate is wafted the balsamic fragrance of some mimosas now in bloom; and hence also there rings continually in the ear a medley of the most varied sounds and notes, from the guttural cries of the monkeys or the screeching of parrots, to the modulated songs of birds and the buzzing of the insects flying about the blossoming trees. The sense of touch is no less fully, if not quite agreeably stimulated by the innumerable thorns, while that of taste may regale itself with the few attainable, but more or less unpalatable fruits.

But at last we do come upon a distinct and definite picture. A tree, mighty in its whole structure, gigantic even in its minor branches, rises above the innumerable plants surrounding its base; like a giant it presses upwards and takes possession of space for its trunk and crown. It is the elephant, the pachyderm among the trees, the Adansonia, the tabaldie of the natives, the baobab. We stand in amazement to gaze on it; for the eye must become accustomed to the sight before it can take in the details. Picture a tree, the circumference of whose trunk, at a man’s height from the ground, may measure a hundred and twenty feet, whose lower branches are thicker than the trunks of our largest trees; whose twigs are like strong branches, and whose youngest shoots are thicker than one’s thumb; remember that this mighty giant of the plant-world rises to a height of about one hundred and thirty feet, and that its lowest branches spread out to almost sixty, and you will be able to form some idea of the impression it makes on the beholder. Of all the trees of the primeval forests in this region, the baobab is the first to lose its leaves, and it remains longest in its winter repose; during this season all its branches and twigs stretch out leafless into the air, while from most of them there hang, by long flexible stalks, fruits about the size of a melon, containing a mealy, slightly sour pulp between the seeds—the whole a sight which stamps itself ineffaceably on the memory. But, after the first rains of spring, great, five-lobed leaves unfold, enhancing the charm of this wondrous tree, and when, between the leaves, the long-stalked buds disclose white flowers as large as roses, this incomparable giant is transformed, as if by magic, into an enormous rose-bush of indescribable beauty, the sight of which stirs the heart of even the most matter-of-fact of men with admiration.

No other tree in the forest can be compared with the baobab; even the duleb-palm, which raises its head above all the surrounding trees, cannot bear comparison with it in charm and impressiveness. Yet the duleb-palm is one of the most splendid trees found in the interior of Africa, and one of the finest palms in the world; its trunk is a pillar which no artist could have surpassed; its crown a capital worthy of such a pillar. The upright trunk thickens just above the ground, and thins in a remarkable manner to about half its height, then begins to bulge out, then again diminishes, and swells out once more just under the crown. This consists of broad, fan-like leaves, hardly less than a square yard in extent, whose stalks stand out straight on all sides round a middle point, thus giving the tree a most impressive individuality. The fruits attain to about the size of a child’s head, and the clusters hanging among the leaves greatly enhance the beauty of the crown, which is, indeed, an ornament to the whole forest.

The legendary always clings about the gigantic; it lives on it, and takes form and meaning from it. This thought occurs to one when one sees, as frequently happens, the baobab overgrown with the tendrils of one of the climbing plants which beautify these forests in rich abundance. Climbing plants have always seemed to me a fitting emblem of the Arabian fairy tales. For as they appear to require no soil, although they have sprung from it, but to take their chief nourishment from the air; as they wind their flexible stems from tree to tree, attaching themselves firmly to each, yet struggling on, until, at length, they unfold on some flowerless tree-top, covering it with radiant, fragrant blossoms: so the fairy tale, though it may have been firmly rooted in fact, is not sustained by any real connection therewith, but reaches up to heaven for strength, and sends its poetry over all the world until it finds a heart which beats responsive. When I speak of climbing plants I do not mean any one species, but include under the term all those plants which here thickly cover a trunk with their tortuous coils, and there spread their tendrils over a bare tree-top; which in one place link many trees together, and in another cover a single tree with wreaths of green; which in one part of the forest link branch to branch with bridges of naked tendrils, and in another region combine to render the way impassable; occurring in a hundred different forms, but always twining and climbing. Their beauty, the charm they exercise on the northerner may be felt but cannot be described, for words to begin or end a satisfactory description would be as difficult to find as the beginnings and ends of the climbers themselves. These climbing plants, though within reach of one’s hand, yet do not allow of close observation; one follows the course of their tendrils admiringly, but without being able to say whence they come and whither they go; one revels in the sight of their flowers without being able to reach them, or often do more than guess to what plants they belong. These climbers, above all else, impress on the woodlands the stamp and seal of the primitive forest.

But they have other ornaments than the blossoms which they themselves unfold. Their tendrils are the favourite perches of many of the most beautiful birds of the forest, living flowers which far surpass those of the plant in beauty and charm. Sometimes it happens that a sudden flash, like a sun-ray reflected from a smooth, bright surface, catches the eye and guides it to the spot from which it emanated. The shimmer is indeed a sunbeam—a sunbeam reflected from the glossy plumage of a metallic starling, now in one direction, now in another, with every movement. Delighted by the wonderful beauty of this bird, one would gladly observe it carefully, and learn something of its life and habits; but one’s attention is continually being claimed by new phenomena. For here, too, picture crowds upon picture. Where the metallic starling sat a few moments before, there appears a no less brilliant golden cuckoo, a sun-bird or honey-sucker rivalling the humming-birds in beauty of plumage, a pair of charming bee-eaters, a roller displaying his brilliant feathers, a halcyon no less beautiful, a paradise fly-catcher, whose long, drooping, median tail-feathers give the little creature such a surprising splendour, a turaco unfolding his deep purple-red feathers at every stroke of his wings, a shrike whose flaming red breast excels even these wings in brightness, a quaintly-shaped hornbill, a golden weaver-bird, a vidua or “widow-bird”, a wood-hoopoe with its metallic brilliance, a dainty woodpecker, a leaf-green dove, a flight of similarly coloured parrots, and many other feathered inhabitants of the forest. This is a specially favoured home of birds, affording food and shelter to many hundreds and thousands of different species, so that one sees them much sooner and much more frequently than any of the other creatures which have their home in the forest. Birds animate every part, from the ground to the tops of the tallest trees, from the most impenetrable bushes to the leafless branches of the baobab. Among the grasses and other plants growing luxuriantly on the ground the well-trodden paths of francolin and perhaps also guinea-fowl twine and intertwine in every direction; the leafy spaces just above the root-stocks of the bushes are occupied by little doves, the spreading portion of their tops by various beautiful birds, especially sun-birds and finches, while families of colies shoot down, like arrows from a bow, to where the bush-tops are so thickly matted and thoroughly interwoven that they seem quite impenetrable, and, by creeping and clinging, pushing through every possible gap and opening, succeed in forcing their way into the centre, there to seek for food; wood-hoopoes, titmice, and woodpeckers hang or climb about, examining every crevice in the bark of the trunks which rise just above the bushes; delightful bee-eaters or rollers, paradise fly-catchers and drongos sit on the lower twigs of the second layer of tree-tops awaiting their flying prey; on the stronger branches of the third layer turacos hop about, small herons walk with dignity backwards and forwards, horned and other owls cling closely to the stems and sleep; parrots and barbets flit about among the thick foliage of the tallest trees, while eagles, falcons, and vultures have settled on their topmost boughs. Wherever one casts one’s eye there is a bird.

As might be expected from this universal distribution, or indeed omnipresence, we hear continually the most varied bird-voices. They coax and call, pipe and whistle, chirp and twitter, trill and warble, coo and chatter, scream and crow, screech and cackle, cry and sing on all sides of us, above and beneath, early and late, and all day long. A hundred different voices sound together, now blending into a wonderful harmony, now into a bewildering maze of sounds which one seeks in vain to analyse, in which only long practice enables one to differentiate individual voices. With the exception of thrushes, bulbuls, several species of warblers, and drongos, there are no true songsters, but there are many pleasing babblers and delightful chatterers, and an endless number who scream, cackle, croak, and utter various more or less shrill sounds. Taken collectively, therefore, the bird-notes of the primitive forest cannot for a moment compare in tunefulness and sweetness with the spring songs of our own woods, but the individual voices are most remarkable. Wild doves coo, moan, laugh, and call from the tree-tops and the thickest bushes, francolins and guinea-fowl cackle loudly from their midst, parrots screech, ravens croak, plantain-eaters succeed in most accurately mimicking the strange guttural cries of a troop of long-tailed monkeys, while the turacos utter sounds like those made by a ventriloquist; barbets whistle loudly in slurred notes, their voices together making a ringing song, so intricate, yet so full of expression that it must be reckoned one of the most distinctive sounds of the forest; the shimmering metallic starlings sing, and though they can only compass a few rough sounds, now croaking, now screeching, now squeaking, these are arranged, combined, blended, and allowed to die away in endless repetition; the magnificent screaming sea-eagle, resident beside all the water-courses and water-basins of the forest, justifies his name. High on a tree-top sits the “abu tok” (producer of the sound “tok”) of the natives, a small hornbill, calling his “tok” loudly and accompanying each sound with a nod of his head, weighted with its disproportionately large bill. Only this one sound does his unpliant voice produce, yet with it he expresses his love to the mate he is wooing, or has won, as intelligibly as the nightingale tells its tale in its bewitching song. The emotion swelling in his breast struggles for expression. The cries follow each other in more and more rapid succession, the appropriate movements become more and more rapid, until the heavy head is too tired to accompany any longer, and one phrase of this singular love-song comes to an end, to be begun and sung through again in precisely the same manner a few minutes later. From the unapproachable thicket sounds the voice of the hagedash or wood-ibis, and a slight shudder seizes the listener. The song of this bird is a lamentation of the most pitiful kind; it sounds as if a little child were being painfully tortured, perhaps slowly roasted over a small fire, and were crying out in its anguish; for long-drawn plaintive sounds alternate with shrill cries, sudden shrieks with faint moanings. From the high-lying parts of the forest, where there are small bare patches, resound the far-reaching metallic trumpet-tones with which the crested crane accompanies his graceful, lively dances in honour of his mate, and these awaken an echo in the forest, as well as in the throat of every bird possessed, like himself, of a ringing voice, so that his cry is the signal for a simultaneous outburst of song from a large number of other birds. Thus incited, every bird with any voice at all gives utterance to it, and for a time a flood of varied sounds drowns the individual voices. But it is not only the different species of feathered inhabitants of the forest who thus take different parts in the piece; sometimes even the two sexes of one species each sing a different part. The babbling thrushes, plantain-eaters, francolins, and guinea-fowl scream together like the barbets already described, and thus evoke those strange complex phrases, which ring out distinctly from the general confusion of voices. But in a few species, particularly in the bush-shrikes, the male and female each sing a distinct part. In one species which I observed—the scarlet shrike—the male sings a short strophe, reminding one of the intricate whistle of our golden oriole. In another—the flute-shrike—the male utters three bell-like flute-notes, striking third, key-note, and octave. Immediately following comes the answer of the female, in both cases a disagreeable croaking not easily described, but as unfailingly correct in time as if the birds had been instructed by a musician. Sometimes it happens that the female begins, and croaks four or five times before the answer comes; then the male strikes in again, and they alternate with their usual regularity. I have convinced myself experimentally as to this co-operation of the sexes, by shooting now the male and now the female, and in every case only the notes of the surviving sex could be heard. It must be allowed that these notes, enchanting as they are at first, lack the richness and variety, as the collective voices lack the tunefulness and harmony, of the bird songs in our woods at home; nevertheless it is a grand and impressive melody which one hears in the primitive forest in spring-time when hundreds and thousands of voices mingle together, millions of insects swarm with loud bumming and buzzing round the blossom-laden trees, countless lizards and snakes rustle through the dry foliage, and every now and then the shrill yet sonorous call of the eagle sounds down from above, the trumpet notes of the crested crane or the guinea-fowl are heard for the time above all other voices, immediately afterwards a warbler sings his charming song quite close to the listener’s ear, and again, one of the screamers gives the key-note, which awakes an echo from a thousand throats.

If the naturalist succeeds in becoming more at home in the forest than he had at first ventured to hope, he gets many delightful glimpses of the domestic life of animals, and more particularly of birds. It is still spring-time, and love reigns in all hearts. The birds sing and caress, build their nests, and brood. Even from the boat one can observe the brooding colonies of some species.

On a perpendicular part of the river bank, at a safe distance above the high-water mark, the bee-eaters have hollowed out their deep brooding burrows, narrow at the entrance, but widening out into an oven-like form at the inner end. The whole colony only covers a few square yards, though it consists of at least thirty, and more frequently from eighty to a hundred pairs. The circular openings to the various holes, measuring only from one and a half to two inches in diameter, are not more than six inches distant from each other. It is difficult to understand how each pair knows the entrance to its own hole; yet even when they come from a distance the delicately-winged active birds fly straight to the proper holes without hesitation or apparent consideration; their incomparably sharp eyes, which can detect a passing fly a hundred paces away, never mislead them. The bustling life about the colony is a fascinating sight. Every tree or bush in the neighbourhood is decorated with at least one pair of the beautiful, sociable birds; on every branch which affords an outlook sits a pair, and each mate takes a tender interest in all that concerns the other. In front of the nest-holes the bustle is like that about a bee-hive; some glide in, others glide out; some come, others go; many hover continually around the entrance to their brooding-places. Only when night draws on do they disappear into their holes; then all is quiet and still.

At a different part of the bank, where tall trees droop over the water, or are surrounded by it when it is very high, the golden weaver-birds have established a colony. They, too, brood in companies, but they build hanging nests cleverly plaited from stalks or fibres, and attached to the points of the outermost branches of the trees. No covetous monkey or other egg-robber, not even a snake, can approach these nests without running a risk of falling into the water. At least thirty, but more frequently forty to sixty, weaver-birds build on a single tree, and their nests give it a most characteristic aspect; indeed, they have a striking effect on the whole landscape. Unlike other birds, it is in this case not the females but the males who build the nest, and they do it with such unstinted eagerness that they make work for themselves after they have finished what is really necessary. Carrying in their bills a stalk newly bitten off, or a teased-out fibre, they hang by their feet to a twig, or to the nest itself, keep themselves in position by fluttering their wings, and work in their material, singing all the while. When one nest is built and finished inside, they proceed to make a second and a third; indeed, they may even pull a finished work to pieces again to satisfy their love of building. Thus they go on until the female, who has meanwhile been brooding, claims their assistance in the rearing of the young ones. This activity animates the whole colony, and the golden-yellow, mobile, active birds sitting or hanging in the most varied positions, are an ornament to the tree already decorated with their nests.

On the mimosas, which are leafless just at the general brooding time, the cow-weaver birds have erected structures very large for the size of the birds, which are scarcely so large as our starlings. Their nests are placed among the thickest branches at the top of the thorny mimosas, and as they are made entirely of thorny twigs on the outside, they have much the appearance of a scrubbing-brush; they are often more than a yard long, half as high and broad, and enclose roomy brooding-chambers entered by winding tunnels corresponding to the size of the birds, and impassable to other animals. On these trees, and about these nests, too, there is much lively and noisy bustle.

In the heart of the forest itself an attentive observer finds nests everywhere, though it is often difficult to recognize them. Little finches, for instance, build nests which are deceptively like heaps of dried grass blown together by the wind, but inside there is a soft, warm brooding-chamber lined with feathers; other birds choose building materials the colour of which is deceptively like that of the surroundings, while others do not build at all, but lay their earth-coloured eggs on the bare ground. Every cavity in the trees is now inhabited, and woodpeckers, barbets, and parrots are constantly at work making new chambers, or widening and adapting already existing cavities into brooding-holes, while the hornbills, on the other hand, busy themselves plastering up the too-wide entrances. The last-named birds are specially distinctive in their brooding habits, and deserve to be mentioned first.

When the hornbill by ardent wooing has won a mate, he helps her to seek out a suitable hole to serve as a nest. This found, he labours painfully with his clumsy bill to enlarge it to the required size. Then the female prepares to lay her eggs, and both mates plaster up the entrance, the female working from the inside, the male from the outside, until all is closed up save an opening large enough for the female to force her bill through. Shut off from the outer world in this isolated brooding-chamber, the female sits on her eggs, and the male has to feed not only his imprisoned mate, but later the quickly-growing ever hungry young ones, which remain in captivity until they are fully fledged. Then the mother breaks open the entrance from within, and the whole family emerges to the world fat and in good feather, thereby relieving from further toil the husband and father, who is reduced to a skeleton with the labour and anxiety of filling so many mouths.[51]

Similar conjugal and paternal tenderness is exhibited by the umber-bird, a stork-like bird about the size of a raven, which leads a quiet, nocturnal life in the forest, and builds an enormous nest, one of the most remarkable built by any bird. These nests are usually placed at but a short distance from the ground, in forks of the trunk, or on any thick boughs of the lower part of the crown that are strong enough to bear them; for they exceed the nests of the largest birds of prey in circumference and weight, being often from one and a half to two yards in diameter and not much less in height, and consisting of fairly thick branches and twigs, which are neatly stuck together or mortared with clay. If one does not happen to notice how the umber-bird slips out and in one would never imagine that these structures were hollow, but would rather take them for the eyrie of a bird of prey, especially as eagles and horned owls frequently nest on the top of them. But when one has seen the real owner enter, and has inspected the nest closely, one finds that the interior is divided into three compartments, connected by holes which serve as doors, and further observation reveals that these three compartments answer the purpose of hall, reception or dining room, and brooding-chamber. This last room, the farthest back, is slightly higher than the rest, so that if any water should get in it can flow away; but the whole structure is so excellently built that even heavy and long-continuing showers of rain do very little damage. Within the brooding-chamber, on a soft cushion of sedge and other materials, lie the three, four, or five white eggs on which the female sits; in the middle chamber the male meantime stores up all sorts of provisions, a bountiful supply of fish, frogs, lizards, and other dainties which he has caught, so that his mate can choose from these stores, and has only to reach forward to satisfy her hunger; in the entrance chamber the male stands or sits, whenever he is not busy hunting for food, to keep guard and to cheer his mate with his society, until the growing offspring take up the whole attention of both.[52]

The association of umber-bird and eagle or horned owl is not a solitary instance of friendly companionship on the part of birds belonging to different species and totally unlike in their habits. On the broad, fan-like leaves of the magnificent duleb-palm, which stand out horizontally from the trunk, the nests of the dwarf peregrine falcon and the guinea-dove often stand so close together that the falcon could easily grasp one of his neighbour’s young ones. But he does not touch them, for he is only accustomed to attack birds on the wing, and thus the little doves grow up in safety beside the little falcons, and the parents of both often sit peacefully beside each other, near their respective nests.[53]

Another palm gave me an opportunity of observing birds whose brooding surprised and fascinated me greatly. Round a single tom-palm there flew, with constant cries, small-sized swifts, nearly related to our own swifts, and my attention was thus directed to the tree itself. On close observation I saw that the birds frequently repaired between the leaves, and I then discovered on the grooves of the leaf-stalks light points which I took to be nests. I climbed the tree, bent one of the leaves towards me, and saw that each nest, which was made chiefly of cotton, was plastered firmly in the angle between the stalk and the midrib of the leaf, cemented by salivary secretion, after the method usually followed by swifts. But the hollow of the nest appeared to me so flat that I wondered how the two eggs could remain lying when the leaf was shaken by the wind. And it must have shaken with the slightest breath, not to speak of the storms which often raged here! Carefully I reached out my hand to take out the eggs; then I saw with astonishment that the mother had glued them firmly to the nest. And as I examined newly-hatched, tiny, helpless young birds, I saw, with increasing astonishment, that they, too, were attached to the nest in the same way, and were thus secured from falling out.

Apart from the birds, which continually attract the naturalist’s attention by their omnipresence, beauty, vivacity and nimbleness, as well as by their songs, or rather cries; apart also from the very numerous lizards and snakes, or the abundant insects, even a careful observer can see very little of the other denizens of the primeval forest, and especially little of its mammals. But one can hardly fail to see a band of long-tailed monkeys, for the liveliness and restlessness characteristic of these and of all the African monkeys is sure to bring them sooner or later before the most unobservant eye, and their continual gurgling noises must reach the ear; yet one may pass within a few yards of most of the other mammals without having any idea that they are near. The great majority of the mammals inhabiting the primeval forest become active only after sundown, and return to their lairs before daybreak; but even those which are active and busy in full sunlight in the morning and evening are by no means so easily seen as might be imagined, for the thickness of the forest stands them in good stead. A European with whom I hunted in the primeval forest said to me: “Did you see that leopard that bounded from me towards you a few minutes ago? I could not shoot for I had not my gun in order; but you must have seen him.” He was wrong; I had not seen the great beast, so dense was the undergrowth in the forest. Where it is less dense another fact has its importance: the colour-resemblance between the mammals and their surroundings. The grayish lemur, which sits or sleeps huddled up high up on a branch spun over with lichens, resembles a knob or protuberance so clearly and convincingly that its form is only made out when the sportsman, taught by former experience, uses his glass and observes it keenly; the bat, which hangs high up in the crown of another tree, also looks like an outgrowth or a withered leaf; even the spotted skin of the leopard may be a faithful mimicry of the dry leaves and flowering euphorbias, and I myself once had to advance with cocked rifle to within fifteen paces of a bush in which a leopard had taken shelter before I could distinguish the animal from his surroundings. The same holds true of the forest antelopes, and indeed of all the mammals, and they know that this is so.[54] Not everywhere, but here and there throughout the forest, and then always abundantly, there lives a little antelope, the bush or Salt’s antelope. It is one of the most charming of all ruminants, most gracefully built, not bigger than a fawn a few days old, and of a foxy, gray-blue colour. It lives with a mate in the thickest undergrowth of the forest, choosing for its lair or habitual resting-place a bush which is branched and leafy to the ground, and thence treading out narrow paths in all directions through the thicket. I have often shot the animal; but at first it escaped me as it escapes all the travellers and sportsmen who make its acquaintance. I could never see it except when, if startled, it flew past me like an arrow. “Look, sir, there, in front of you in the nearest bush is a little antelope; it is down there in the gap between the two thickly-leaved branches,” whispered my native guide in my ear. I strained every nerve, penetrated every part of the bush with my gaze, and saw nothing but branches and leaves, for the graceful legs had become twigs, the head and body a leafy bough. But the sportsman’s eye becomes accustomed in time even to the primeval forest. When one has become familiar with the dainty creature’s habits, one learns to find it as well as the sharp-sighted natives do. Its acute hearing warns it of the approach of a man long before he can see any trace of its presence. Scared by the rustle of heavy human footsteps it starts up from its lair, takes a few steps forwards, and steps into some gap from which to see what happens. Like a bronze statue it stands stiff and motionless, without even moving an ear or turning an eye, but looking and listening; the leg which was raised to step onwards remains in that position, not a sign betrays life. Now is the time for the sportsman to raise his gun quickly, take aim and shoot; a moment later the cunning antelope has gained the cover of a neighbouring bush at a single bound, or has bent slowly down and crept away so quietly that scarcely a leaf stirs, scarcely a blade of grass moves.

The primeval forest thus presents a succession of varied pictures to the traveller’s eye. If one has learnt to see, and attempts to understand, one finds more in every part of the forest at every season than one can master. But one does not see the same things at every spot, and at every season. Here, where spring lasts only a few weeks, and summer and autumn are counted by days, the long reign of winter sets in directly after the rainy season, just as in the steppe, and the full, rich, overflowing life of animals and plants is crowded into a very short time. As soon as the birds have finished brooding they begin to migrate; as soon as the mammals have exhausted the food-supply in one part of the forest they betake themselves to another. Consequently one meets different animals in the same spot at different times, or at least one sees different aspects of animal life. The river, for instance, becomes animated in proportion as the forest becomes depopulated.

While the river is high, one does not see much of the animals which live in and about the water. All the islands are deeply buried under the water, the banks are likewise flooded, and the birds which usually inhabit them are crowded out for the time. And if a crocodile should raise his head and part of his scaly back above the water, he must be close to the boat if one sees him at all. Strictly speaking, there remain only the hippopotamuses, which are comparatively abundant in some parts, the birds flying about over the water, and perhaps a few diving-birds to prove that any higher vertebrates live in and about the river. But, when the rain has ceased, the river falls, and all the islands, sand-banks, and the river-banks themselves stand out once more. The scene is changed also as far as the animal world is concerned. The hippopotamuses retire to the deepest parts of the river, associating in troops sometimes of considerable strength, and making themselves very conspicuous as they come to the surface to breathe, each breath being inhaled with a snort which can be heard a long way off. During the day they land on islands or sand-banks to rest or stretch themselves in the sun, and they can then be seen from a distance of more than half a mile. The crocodiles eagerly enjoy a pleasure they had to forego while the river was high, that of sunning themselves for hours in the heat of the day. To this end they creep out about mid-day on a flat, sandy island, fall heavily with an audible plump on the sand, open their formidably-toothed jaws wide, and sleep till evening; there may be ten, twenty, or thirty of them on a single sand-bank. Now the sand-banks, both river-banks, and the shores of the larger islands are covered with flocks of birds whose numerical strength is most impressive. For, by this time of year most of the native shore-birds and swimming-birds have ended their brooding labours, and frequent the shores of the river with their young to enjoy, while they are moulting, the abundant and easily-procured food. About the same time, too, the migratory birds from the north arrive to pass the winter here. The last-named are also to be found in every part of the primeval forest, but are not nearly so much in evidence there as by the river, whose banks and islands are covered by the largest and most conspicuous species. It may even happen that the available space by the river is too small, the rich supply of food insufficient for the number of claimants. Thus every space is more than fully occupied, every promising hunting-ground is visited by thousands, every sleeping-place even is fought over. For three days I sailed, in an excellent boat and with a very good wind, up the White Nile, and during the whole long journey both banks were uninterruptedly covered with a gay and motley throng of littoral and aquatic birds. In the midst of the forests about the Blue Nile one can see a similar sight. Extensive sand-banks are completely covered by gray and demoiselle cranes, but they only serve these winter visitors as resting, sleeping, and moulting places, from whence they fly out every morning into the steppe in search of food, returning about mid-day to drink, bathe, dress their feathers, and to spend the night, though they are in continual danger from the crocodiles. Regularly about mid-day they are joined by several crowned cranes whose visit always causes lively excitement, for they are, if not better, at least more ardent dancers than the other cranes, and on their arrival they never fail to exhibit their skill, and thus to incite the others to rivalry. On the same sand-banks one may often see tantalus-ibises, magnificent stork-like birds, with rosy-white plumage and brilliant rose-red wings, which take possession of the extreme edge of the island or the neighbouring damp places. In a good light they literally glow, and they are at all times beautiful, contrasting wonderfully with the light gray cranes, and decorating the whole neighbourhood. Splendid giant or saddle-billed storks step proudly along the shores; ugly, but curiously-formed marabous walk up and down with an air of dignity; glittering, open-bill storks stand in large companies; giant and great white herons wade about in search of fish; and everywhere standing and lying, swimming and diving, grazing and grubbing, cackling and chattering are thousands of Spur-winged, Egyptian, and other geese, widow and pintail ducks, African darters, ibises, curlews, sandpipers, dunlins, redshanks, and many more, a motley throng which decorates the stream even more than the tantalus ibises. But, in addition to all those mentioned, some of whom are constantly coming and going, there fly terns and gulls, sand-martins and bee-eaters, while splendid sea-eagles wheel in circles high up in the air.