The following is quoted from my Diary: 

January 20th, 1872.—­To-day was a halt.  On going out for a hunt I saw a herd of eleven giraffes.  After crossing Mpokwa stream I succeeded in getting within one hundred and fifty yards of one of them, and fired at it; but, though it was wounded, I did not succeed in dropping it, though I desired the skin of one of them very much.

In the afternoon I went out to the east of the village, and came to a herd of six giraffes.  I wounded one of them, but it got off, despite my efforts.

What remarkable creatures they are!  How beautiful their large limpid eyes!  I could have declared on oath that both shots had been a success, but they sheered off with the stately movements of a clipper about to tack.  When they ran they had an ungainly, dislocated motion, somewhat like the contortions of an Indian nautch or a Theban danseuse—­a dreamy, undulating movement, which even the tail, with its long fringe of black hair, seemed to partake of.

The Doctor, who knew how to console an ardent but disappointed young hunter, attributed my non-success to shooting with leaden balls, which were too soft to penetrate the thick hide of the giraffes, and advised me to melt my zinc canteens with which to harden the lead.  It was not the first time that I had cause to think the Doctor an admirable travelling companion; none knew so well how to console one for bad luck none knew so well how to elevate one in his own mind.  If I killed a zebra, did not his friend Oswell—­the South African hunter—­and himself long ago come to the conclusion that zebra meat was the finest in Africa?  If I shot a buffalo cow, she was sure to be the best of her kind, and her horns were worth while carrying home as specimens; and was she not fat?  If I returned without anything, the game was very wild, or the people had made a noise, and the game had been frightened; and who could stalk animals already alarmed?  Indeed, he was a most considerate companion, and, knowing him to be literally truthful, I was proud of his praise when successful, and when I failed I was easily consoled.

Ibrahim, the old pagazi whose feelings had been so lacerated in Ukawendi, when his ancient kibuyu broke, before leaving Ujiji invested his cloth in a slave from Manyuema, who bore the name of “Ulimengo,” which signifies the “World.”  As we approached Mpokwa, Ulimengo absconded with all his master’s property, consisting of a few cloths and a bag of salt, which he had thought of taking to Unyanyembe for trade.  Ibrahim was inconsolable, and he kept lamenting his loss daily in such lugubrious tones that the people, instead of sympathizing, laughed at him.  I asked him why he purchased such a slave, and, while he was with him, why he did not feed him?  Replied he, tartly, “Was he not my slave?  Was not the cloth with which I bought him mine?  If the cloth was my own, could I not purchase what I liked?  Why do you talk so?”