There are some members of this bird-fauna, so rich in every respect, who have to wait till the water is at its lowest before they can begin to brood, for, when the river is full, they are quite unable to find such nesting-places as they desire. Among these is a running bird, prettily and gaily coloured, clever and vivacious by nature, which was well known to the ancients as the Crocodile-bird or the Trochilus of Herodotus. Of it the old historian relates, as Pliny repeats on his authority, that it lives in true friendship with the crocodile. And this old story is no fable, as one might be inclined to suppose, but is based on solid facts, which I have myself been able to verify.[55] The crocodile-bird, whose image is so often represented on the ancient Egyptian monuments, and stands for U in the hieroglyphic alphabet, occurs in Egypt and Nubia, but nowadays it seems to be only in the Soudan that it discharges, on the crocodile’s behalf, those sentinel duties for which it was famous among the ancient peoples. But the service it renders is not to the crocodile alone, but to all other creatures who are willing to take advantage of its watchfulness. Observant, inquisitive, excitable, clamorous, and gifted with a far-reaching voice, it is well fitted to serve as watchman to all less careful creatures. No approach, whether of beast of prey or of man, escapes its suspicious observation; every sailing-boat or rowing-boat on the river attracts its attention; and it never fails to tell of its discovery in loud cries. Thus it brings under the notice of all the other creatures who share its home or resting-place the unusual occurrence, enabling them either to find out for themselves if there is really any danger, or to make good their escape on the strength of its warning. Thus it discharges the duties of a sentinel. Its friendly relations with the crocodile can hardly be called mutual, for to credit the crocodile with friendship is going rather far. Certainly the reptile treats the bird as a harmless creature, but this is not out of any benevolence, but simply because he has a thorough knowledge and a correct estimate of his partner. And as to the bird, it is at home on the sand-banks where the crocodile is wont to rest, and has been from its youth accustomed to the monster; it busies itself about him and associates itself with him, as if he were the master and itself the servant. Without hesitation it hops on his back as he rests; without apprehension it approaches his gaping jaws to see if there be perchance a leech sucking his lips, or if there be some morsel of food sticking between his teeth; and without misgiving it darts off with either. All this the crocodile quietly allows, for doubtless he has learned by experience that he cannot get at the ever watchful, agile, and clever little rogue. I once saw a crocodile-bird having a meal along with a screaming sea-eagle off a fish, which the latter had caught and borne to a sand-bank. While the eagle, which held its booty firmly in its talons or stood upon it, was breaking off pieces of the flesh, the parasite at the lordly bird’s table kept at a respectful distance; but as soon as the eagle raised its head to swallow, the crocodile-bird ran forward, seized one of the prepared fragments, and was off again to his old position, there to enjoy his stolen goods. Not less astonishing than this self-possessed audacity is the way in which the crocodile-bird hides its eggs from prying eyes. For long I searched in vain for the nest. When the brooding period set in was readily enough discovered by dissecting a specimen which I killed; and that the bird must nest on the sand-bank I was already convinced from my observation of its mode of life. But it was in vain that I searched their favourite spots; not a hint of a nest could I find. At last I observed a pair, one sitting on the ground, the other busying itself round about; I brought my field-glass to bear upon the sitting bird and made straight for it. As I came near it rose, hastily scraped some sand together, and flew off, uttering its usual cry, but without any other signs of excitement. I was not diverted from my purpose, but advanced carefully, keeping the exact spot always in view. But even when I reached the place I could see no nest, and it was not till I noticed a slight unevenness in the sand, and dug carefully with my fingers, that I found what I sought, two eggs most deceptively like the sand in their colour and markings. Had the mother-bird been allowed more time than I gave her, it is not likely that I should ever have noticed the slight unevenness in the sand.

Even richer, if that be possible, than the fauna of the river, and at any rate more diverse, is that to be found at the proper season on the shores and surface of all the lakes and larger water-pools which lie within the forest and are filled either by the spring rains or by the full floods of the river. Surrounded by the forest, and not unfrequently so thickly hedged round that one cannot reach them without great difficulty, and more immediately fringed by a scarcely less rich vegetation of canes and reed-thickets, where the papyrus and the lotos still flourish, these rain-lakes, or Fulat as the natives call them, afford most excellent resting-stations and breeding-places for the most diverse kinds of beasts and birds.

Their safe seclusion pleases even the hippopotamus so well that it seeks them out as fit places where to bring forth and suckle, tend and rear its young, safe from dangerous intruders, and without trouble as to food, which the water supplies in abundance. Wild hogs and buffaloes are also attracted to the luxuriant fringe of vegetation and to the creeks which gradually pass into swamp and bog. To all the thirsty race of antelopes the quiet pools afford welcome supplies. On the surface thousands of pelicans gather in the evenings, and fish greedily before they go to roost on the tall trees near by; all day long the darters dive; many ducks and geese swim about, both native species and those which have come from the north to these comfortable winter-quarters; in the creeks and shallows the giant-herons and the beautiful little bush-herons secure rich booty at small cost of exertion; countless hosts of little birds are sheltered among the green, sappy herbage of the shore, and many other shore-and water-birds find resting-places and build their nests on the overtowering trees of the forest.

It is no wonder, then, that these lakes should periodically swarm with birds; and it is likewise plain that such great wealth of booty must also attract all sorts of enemies. The smaller birds are followed by the falcons and owls, the larger birds by the eagle and horned owl, the mammals by the fox and jackal, the leopard and the lion. Sometimes, too, an army of voracious locusts coming in from the steppe falls upon the fresh green girdle around such a lake and ravages it in a few days, devouring all the leaves. Or one should rather say threatening to devour, for at such a time the assemblage of birds becomes even larger than before. From far and near they come flocking—falcons and owls, ravens and rollers, francolins and guinea-fowl, storks and ibises, coots and ducks. Every bird that ever eats insects now confines itself exclusively to the pertinacious visitors. Hundreds of kestrels and lesser kestrels, which are then in these winter-quarters, sweep over the invaded forest, and swoop down upon the locusts, seizing and devouring them, with scarce an interruption in their flight. Ravens, rollers, hornbills, ibises, and storks pick them off the branches of the trees and shake down hundreds which fall victims to the guinea-fowl, ducks, and other birds waiting underneath. Harriers and chanting hawks circle around the trees on which the “defoliating” insects soon take the place of the leaves that were. Even the sedate marabous and saddle-billed storks do not disdain to avail themselves of booty whose abundance compensates for the paltry size of the individual victims. All this bustle greatly enhances the liveliness of a scene which is at no time dull, and makes the lake more than ever a rendezvous of the most diverse forms of life.

At one of these rain-lakes—very treasure-house of the forest’s riches—we spent several days, hunting, observing, and collecting, almost wild with delight in, and admiration of the splendid flora and fauna. We amused ourselves with hunting hippopotamus, and executed justice on the crocodile; we enjoyed to the full the pleasures of exploration and of the chase, forgetful of everything else, even of the time we spent. But when the sun went down and tinged with gold the varied greens of the forest; when the chattering of the parrots was hushed and only the ecstatic song of a thrush floated down to us; when, over there on the opposite bank, the sea-eagle, which a moment ago had seemed like some wonderful blossom on the top of his green perch, drowsily drew his white head between his shoulders; when silence fell even on the guttural gossip of a band of long-tailed monkeys, who had gone to rest on the nearest lofty mimosa; when the night came on with its clear pleasant twilight, cool and mild, melodious and fragrant, as it always is at this season: then would all the wealth of colour, all the splendour and glamour of to-day’s and yesterday’s pictures fade away. Our thoughts flew homewards, and irresistible home-sickness filled our hearts, for in the Fatherland they were celebrating Christmas. We had prepared our punch and filled our pipes with the most precious of tobaccos; our Albanian companion sang his soft melancholy song; the beauty of the night soothed our hearts and senses; but the glasses remained unemptied, “the clouds of smoke did not bear the clouds of melancholy with them”; the songs awoke no responsive echo, and the night brought no solace. But it must bring us a Christmas gift, and it did!

Night in the primeval forest is always grand: the sky above may be illumined with flaming lightning, the thunder may roll, and the wind may rage through the trees; or it may be that the dark starless heaven is relieved only by the slender rays of far-distant suns, while no leaf or blade of grass is stirred. A few minutes after sunset, night descends upon the forest. What was clearly seen by day is now veiled by darkness, what was seen in its true proportions in the sunlight now becomes gigantic. Familiar trees become phantasms, the hedge-like bushes thicken to dark walls. The noise of a thousand voices is stilled, and for a few minutes a deep silence prevails. Then life begins to stir again, the river and the forest are again alive. Hundreds of cicadas raise their chirping, like the jingle of many badly-tuned little bells heard from a distance; thousands of restless beetles, some very large, whirr about the flowering trees with a deep humming, fit accompaniment to the cicadas’ chirping. Frogs add their single note, surprisingly loud for their size, and their voices ring through the forest, like the sound of a slowly-beaten Chinese gong. A great owl greets the night with its dull hooting; a little screech-owl responds with shrill laughter; a goat-sucker spins off the single strophe of his rattling song. From the river come the plaintive cries of a nocturnal member of the gull family, the skimmer or shearwater, which begins to plough the waves, skimming along the surface of the water; from the islands and banks sound the somewhat screeching cries of the thickknee or stone-curlew, and the rich, melodious, song-like trills of the redshank or the plover; among the reeds and sedges of a neighbouring pool croaks a night-heron. Hundreds of glowworms sparkle among the bushes and the tree-tops; a gigantic crocodile, which had left its sand-bank before sundown to bathe its heated coat of mail in the tepid water, is swimming half beneath and half above the surface of the water, and making long streaks of silver which shine in the moonlight, or at least glitter in the flickering light of the stars. Above the tallest trees float noiseless companies of horned and other owls; long-tailed night-jars fly with graceful curves along the river bank; bats describe their tortuous course among the trees; fox-bats and fruit-eating bats cross from bank to bank, sometimes in flocks. This is the time of activity among the other mammals too. A jackal utters its varied call, now plaintive, now merry, and continues with equal expressiveness and persistence; a dozen others join in at once, and strive in eager rivalry for the victor’s crown; some hyænas who seem just to have been waiting for these unrivalled leaders to begin, join the chorus. They howl and laugh, moan piteously, and shout triumphantly; a panther grunts, a lion roars; even a hippopotamus in the river lifts up his paltry voice and grunts.

Thus does night reveal itself in the primeval forest; thus did it claim ear and eye on that never-to-be-forgotten day. Beetles and cicadas, owls and goat-suckers had begun: then a loud, rumbling noise, as of trumpets blown by unskilful mouths, resounded through the forest. At once the songs of our Albanian, and the chattering of our servants and sailors were hushed; all listened as we did. Once more came the trumpeting and rumbling from the opposite bank. “El fiuhl, el fiuhl!” called the natives; “Elephants, elephants!” we, too, exclaimed triumphantly. It was the first time that we had seen and heard the giant pachyderms, though we had constantly trodden their paths and followed their traces. From the opposite bank the great forms, which could be plainly enough seen in the twilight, descended leisurely and confidently to the water, to drink and bathe. One after another dipped his supple trunk in the water, to fill it, and discharge it into his wide mouth, or over his back and shoulders; one after another descended into the river to refresh himself in the cooling flood. Then the noises became so great that it seemed as if the elephants’ trumpeting had acted as an awakening call. Earlier than ever before, the king of the wilderness raised his thundering voice; a second and a third lion responded to the kingly greeting. The sleep-drunken monkeys and the timid antelopes cried out in terror. A hippopotamus reared his uncouth head quite close to our boat, and growled as if he would emulate the lion’s roar; a leopard also made himself heard; jackals gave vent to the most varied song we had ever heard from them, the striped hyænas howled, the spotted ones uttered their hellish, blood-curdling laughter, and, careless of the uproar which the heralds and the king of the forest had conjured up, the frogs continued to utter their monotonous call, and the cicadas their bell-like chirping.

Thus was the “Hosanna in the Highest” sung in our ears by the primeval forest.