Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 20)( Page 2 ) Jantje

That was Mungo Park--the long, strong, low-built, half-bred Basuto pony--well-trained and without guile. I left Snowball with his previous owner, to use as required, and never called back for him; and if this should meet the eye of Joey the Smith he will know that I no longer hope his future life will be spent in stalking a wart-eyed white horse in a phantom Bushveld.  Mungo made amends. There was a spot between the Komati and Crocodile rivers on the north side of the road where the white man seldom passed and nature was undisturbed; few knew of water there; it was too well concealed between deep banks and the dense growth of thorns and large trees. The spot always had great attractions for me apart from the big game to be found there.  I used to steal along the banks of this lone water and watch the smaller life of the bush.  It was a delightful field for naturalist and artist, but unfortunately we thought little of such things, and knew even less; and now nothing is left from all the glorious opportunities but the memory of an endless fascination and a few facts that touch the human chord and will not submit to be forgotten. There were plenty of birds--guinea fowl, pheasant, partridge, knoorhaan and bush pauw.  Jock accompanied me of course when I took the fowling-piece, but merely for companionship; for there was no need for him on these occasions.  I shot birds to get a change of food and trusted to walking them up along the river banks and near drinking pools; but one evening Jock came forward of his own accord to help me--a sort of amused volunteer; and after that I always used him. He had been at my heels, apparently taking little interest in the proceedings from the moment the first bird fell and he saw what the game was; probably he was intelligently interested all the time but considered it nothing to get excited about.  After a time I saw him turn aside from the line we had been taking and stroll off at a walking pace, sniffing softly the while.  When he had gone a dozen yards he stopped and looked back at me; then he looked in front again with his head slightly on one side, much as he would have done examining a beetle rolling his ball. There were no signs of anything, yet the grass was short for those parts, scarce a foot high, and close, soft and curly.  A brace of partridges rose a few feet from Jock, and he stood at ease calmly watching them, without a sign or move to indicate more than amused interest.  The birds were absurdly tame and sailed so quietly along that I hesitated at first to shoot; then the noise of the two shots put up the largest number of partridges I have ever seen in one lot, and a line of birds rose for perhaps sixty yards across our front.  There was no wild whirr and confusion: they rose in leisurely fashion as if told to move on, sailing  nfinitely slowly down the slope to the thorns near the donga.  Running my eye along the line I counted them in twos up to between thirty and forty; and that I could not have been more than half. How many coveys had packed there, and for what purpose, and whether they came every evening, were questions which one would like answered now; but they were not of sufficient interest then to encourage a second visit another evening.  The birds sailed quietly into the little wood, and many of them alighted on branches of the larger trees.  It is the only time I have seen a partridge in a tree; but when one comes to think it out, it seems commonsense that, in a country teeming with vermin and night-prowlers, all birds should sleep off the ground.  Perhaps they do!

Sighting of the month October 2012

Looking around

Mom and cubs

Walking in the road next to the open vehicle

 

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 20)( Page 1 ) Jantje

There was no hunting for several days after the affair with the koodoo cow.  Jock looked worse the following day than he had done since recovering consciousness: his head and neck swelled up so that chewing was impossible and he could only lap a little soup or milk, and could hardly bend his neck at all. On the morning of the second day Jim Makokel' came up with his hostile-looking swagger and a cross worried look on his face, and in a half-angry and wholly disgusted tone jerked out at me, "The dog is deaf. I say so!  Me!  Makokela!  Jock is deaf.  He does not hear when you speak.  Deaf! yes, deaf!" Jim's tone grew fiercer as he warmed up; he seemed to hold me responsible.  The moment the boy spoke I knew it was true--it was the only possible explanation of many little things; nevertheless I jumped up hurriedly to try him in a dozen ways, hoping to find that he could hear something.  Jim was right; he was really stone deaf.  It was pathetic to find how each little subterfuge that drew his eyes from me left him out of reach: it seemed as if a link had broken between us and I had lost my hold.  That was wrong, however!  In a few days he began to realise the loss of hearing; and after that, feeling so much greater dependence on sight, his watchfulness increased so that nothing escaped him.  None of those who saw him in that year, when he was at his very best, could bring themselves to believe that he was deaf.  With me it made differences both ways: something lost, and something gained.  If he could hear nothing, he saw more; the language of signs developed; and taking it all round I believe the sense of mutual dependence for success and of mutual understanding was greater than ever. Snowball went on to the retired list at the end of the next trip. Joey the Smith stood at the forge one day, trimming a red-hot horse-shoe, when I rode up and dropping the reins over Snowball's head, sang out "Morning, Joey!" Joey placed the chisel on the shoe with nice calculation of the amount he wanted to snip off; his assistant boy swung the big hammer, and an inch cube of red-hot iron dropped off.  Then Joey looked up with, what seemed to me, a conflict of innocent surprise and stifled amusement in his face.  The boy also turned to look, and--the insignificant incident is curiously unforgettable--trod upon the piece of hot iron.  "Look where you're standing," said Joey reproachfully, as the smoke and smell of burning skin-welt rose up; and the boy with a grunt of disgust, such as we might give at a burned boot, looked to see what damage had been done to his `unders.'  It gave me an even better idea of a nigger's feet than those thorn digging operations when we had to cut through a solid whitish welt a third of an inch thick. Joey grinned openly at the boy; but he was thinking of Snowball. "I wonder you had the heart, Joey, I do indeed!"  I said, shaking my head at him. "You would have him, lad, there was no refusin' you!  You arst so nice and wanted him so bad!" "But how could you bear to part with him, Joey?  It must have been like selling one of the family." "'Es, Boy, 'es!  We are a bit stoopid--our lot!  Is he still such a fool, or has he improved any with you?" "Joey, I've learned him--full up to the teeth.  If he stops longer he will become wicked, like me; and you would not be the ruin of an innocent young thing trying to earn a living honestly, if he can?" "Come round behind the shop, Boy.  I got a pony'll suit you proper!"  He gave a hearty laugh, and added "You can always get what you arsk for--if it ain't worth having.  Moril!  Don't arsk!  I never offered you Snowball.  This one's different.  You can have him at cost price; and that's an old twelve month account!  Ten pounds.  He's worth four of it! Salted _an'_ shootin'!  Shake!" and I gripped his grimy old fist gladly, knowing it was jonnick and `a square deal.'