Both sportsman and naturalist in
this must share alike.
No one who has not actually suffered from the effect can
appreciate the misery of bad water in a tropical country, or the
blessings of a cool, pure draught. I have been in districts of
Ceylon where for sixteen or twenty miles not a drop of water is
to be obtained fit for an animal to drink; not a tree to throw a
few yards of shade upon the parching ground; nothing but stunted,
thorny jungles and sandy, barren plains as far as the eye can
reach; the yellow leaves crisp upon the withered branches, the
wild fruits hardened for want of sap, all moisture robbed from
vegetation by the pitiless drought of several months.
A day's work in such a country is hard indeed carrying a heavy
rifle for some five-and-twenty miles, sometimes in deep sand,
sometimes on good ground, but always exposed to the intensity of
that blaze, added to the reflection from the sandy soil, and the
total want of fresh air and water. All Nature seems stagnated; a
distant pool is seen, and a general rush takes place toward the
cheering sight. The water is thicker than pea soup, a green scum
floats through the thickened mass, and the temperature is upward
of 130 Fahrenheit.
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