he tenderest leaves at the end of
the bough; nor did they usually touch willow, for the shoots are bitter
and astringent. Nor would the deer touch it in the spring, when they had
so wide a choice of food.

Nothing could have broken the branch in that manner unless it was the
hand of a man, or a blow with a heavy stick wielded by a human hand. On
coming to the bush he saw that the fracture was very recent, for the
bough was perfectly green; it had not turned brown, and the bark was
still soft with sap. It had not been cut with a knife or any sharp
instrument; it had been broken by rude violence, and not divided. The
next thing to catch his eye was the appearance of a larger branch
farther inside the bush.

This was not broken, but a part of the bark was abraded, and even torn
up from the wood as if by the impact of some hard substance, as a stone
thrown with great force. He examined the ground, but there was no stone
visible, and on again looking at the bark he concluded that it had not
been done with a stone at all, because the abraded portion was not cut.
The blow had been delivered by something without edges or projections.
He had now no longer any doubt that the lesser branch outside had been
broken, and the large inside branch bruised, by the passage of a
Bushman's throw-club.

These, their only missile weapons, are usually made of crab-tree, and
consist of a very thin short handle, with a large, heavy, and smooth
knob. With these they can bring down small game, as rabbits or hares, or
a fawn (even breaking the legs of deer), or the large birds, as the
wood-turkeys. Stealing up noiselessly within ten yards, the Bushman
throws his club with great force, and rarely misses his aim. If not
killed at once, the game is certain to be stunned, and is much more
easily secured than if wounded with an arrow, for with an arrow in its
wing a large bird will flutter along the ground, and perhaps creep into
sedges or under impenetrable bushes.

Deprived of motion by the blow of the club, it can, on the other hand,
be picked up without trouble and without the aid of a dog, and if not
dead is despatched by a twist of the Bushman's fingers or a thrust from
his spud. The spud is at once his dagger, his knife and fork, his
chisel, his grub-axe, and his gouge. It is a piece of iron (rarely or
never of steel, for he does not know how to harden it) about ten inches
long, an inch and a half wide at the top or broadest end, where it is