"
With this chapter is published the photograph Anfossi took, from the
deck of the steamer, of our hippo--the hippo that was too stupid to
know when he was dead. It is not a good photograph, but of our hippo
it is all we have to show. I am still undecided whether to hang it
in the hall or the dining-room.
[Illustration: The Hippopotamus that Did Not Know He Was Dead.]
The days I spent on my trip up the river were of delightful
sameness, sunshine by day, with the great panorama drifting past,
and quiet nights of moonlight. For diversion, there were many
hippos, crocodiles, and monkeys, and, though we saw only their
tracks and heard them only in the jungle, great elephants. And
innumerable strange birds--egrets, eagles, gray parrots, crimson
cranes, and giant flamingoes--as tall as a man and from tip to tip
measuring eight feet.
Each day the programme was the same. The arrival at the wood post,
where we were given only excuses and no wood, and where once or
twice we unloaded blue cloth and bags of salt, which is the currency
of the Upper Congo, and the halt for hours to cut wood in the
forest.
Once we stopped at a mission and noted the contrast it made with the
bare, unkempt posts of the State. It was the Catholic mission at
Wombali, and it was a beauty spot of flowers, thatched houses,
grass, and vegetables. There was a brickyard, and schools, and
sewing-machines, and the blacks, instead of scowling at us, nodded
and smiled and looked happy and contented.
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