ee dozen of them, having
the finest kind of an untramelled masculine time all by themselves.
Generally, however, I will say for them, they took care of their own
peoples. There would quite likely be one big old fellow, his harem of
varying numbers, and the younger subordinate bucks all together in a
happy family. When some one of the lot announced that something was
about, and they had all lined up to stare in the suspected direction,
the big buck was there in the foreground of inquiry. When finally they
made me out, it was generally the big buck who gave the signal. He
went first, to be sure, but his going first was evidently an act of
leadership, and not merely a disgraceful desire to get away before the
rest did.

But the waterbuck had to yield in turn to the plains
gazelles; especially to the Thompson's gazelle, familiarly-and
affectionately-known as the "Tommy." He is a quaint little chap,
standing only a foot and a half tall at the shoulder, fawn colour on
top, white beneath, with a black, horizontal stripe on his side, like
a chipmunk, most lightly and gracefully built. When he was first made,
somebody told him that unless he did something characteristic,
like waggling his little tail, he was likely to be mistaken by the
undiscriminating for his bigger cousin, the Grant's gazelle. He has
waggled his tail ever since, and so is almost never mistaken for a
Grant's gazelle, even by the undiscriminating. Evidently his religion is
Mohammedan, for he always has a great many wives. He takes good care of
them, however. When danger appears, even when danger threatens, he
is the last to leave the field. Here and there he dashes frantically,
seeing that the women and children get off. And when the herd tops the
hill, Tommy's little horns bring up the rear of the procession. I like
Tommy. He is a cheerful, gallant, quaint little person, with the air of
being quite satisfied with his own solution of this complicated world.

Among the low brush at the edge of the river jungle dwelt also the
dik-dik, the tiniest miniature of a deer you could possibly imagine.
His legs are lead pencil size, he stands only about nine inches tall, he
weighs from five to ten pounds; and yet he is a perfect little antelope,
horns and all. I used to see him singly or in pairs standing quite
motionless and all but invisible in the shade of bushes; or leaping
suddenly to his feet and scurrying away like mad through the dry grass.
His personal opinion