Doves went happily from tree to tree and I never put my gun
up. I had heard a very familiar sound, and wanted to be assured that my
ears were not deceived. No, I was right; I could hear the cuckoo, calling
through the depth of the forest, as though it were my favourite Essex
copse at home. It was pleasant, indeed, to hear the homely notes so far
from any other object, even remotely, connected with England.
I strolled for an hour or more, listening to the "wandering voice,"
heedless of what passed me by, at peace with all the world, and resolved
to shoot no more. Alas, for good intentions! Coming suddenly into a great
clearing girdled by argan trees, I flushed two large birds some forty
yards away. The first was missed, the second came down and proved to be a
Lesser Bustard or _boozerat_--quite a prize. Well content, I emptied the
gun to avoid temptation and walked back to the camp, where there was
quite a fair bag.
"Tell the muleteers, Salam," I said, "that they may have these birds for
their supper, and that I hope they will enjoy themselves."
Salam wore a rather troubled expression, I thought, as he went to the head
muleteer and pointed to the spoils.
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