238 WHERE LIVES PRIMITIVE MAN When all is quiet, and even Mary Ann is too sound asleep to snore, a sound of mighty wings comes up the river ; the slow, measured swish caused by unseen aerial travellers beats crescendo overhead till they pass away in the mirk.

The deep, restful silence—for to our ears the minor sounds become accustomed—is rudelybroken ; we are reminded that the night has its uses which are not for men, and for the greater part of the time of darkness we are treated to a concert almost unimaginable in its weirdness.

The voices range from the deepest bass of the hippo to the shrillest treble of the crickets or bellfrogs ; the mosquito millions are ceaseless in their note as the sustained drone of the bagpipes. Froggy comes in with varied song in varied tempi, hoarse, deep-throated, while an occasional night-bird, careless of discord, sometimes drops in a wild, harsh note. Truly the " Ode to Discord " might well have been inspired here.

The " stars " indeed are the hippos, and the first one speaks from not 20 yards away, for we are tied up at his favourite meshra, or landing-place, plainly marked by the passage through the reeds and the deep-trodden track. On the left bank just here, on both banks in many places, they generally lie in the reedy grass during the day, when not basking in the shallows, and venture into the open river and on to their graizing-places at night. Behemoth emerges from his reedy cave and uplifts his head from the water : he takes an enormous breath, with