Scarcely less striking is the outlook to the north. Deep shade is already on the terrific slope at our feet, while the setting sun still lights up the vast basin of the Semliki and the Albert Lake. We seem to be standing on the brink of a new world, ourselves in shade cast by the western spur, and the eye wanders on over sunlit plain picked out with silver streaks, where in places we catch a glimpse of the Semliki, and on till the lake lies gleaming like a sea of quicksilver, and yet on and on, ever-fading steel-blue to grey, till we can just see the black outlines of the hills against the blue-green sky, flecked with the gauzy pink of the after-glow. Then like a flash all is grey, for we are very near the equator, and we turn in to "kuku"[#] stew and the luxury of new potatoes and tomatoes. Those kukus! They are like Sinbad’s old man of the sea, you cannot shake them off, for they are really indispensable. Their only resemblance to their English namesake is in name, for neither are they fine birds nor do they fly; nor, if they did fly, would they confine their vocal efforts to the period of their flight, but would, I am sure, still retain that inimitable faculty of producing at all, and more especially unseasonable, times, the most startling and by-no-means-(not-even-by-death)-repressible cries that have justly made them so beloved of African travellers. As I have had so many opportunities of observing the African variety of this world-wide domestic nuisance, less favoured observers may find a few remarks not out of place. [#] _Kuku_: native word for fowl. First, they are essentially gregarious. I have often seen large flocks collecting on any strange piece of clothing or blanket, especially if such blanket be placed out to dry after rain. Secondly, they are capable of feeling and showing great affection for man. In fact, the united efforts of three servants have often failed to prevent them coming into my tent during the heat of the day, and, just out of respect, leaving a few superfluous inhabitants behind. Thirdly, like the nightingale, they sing at night, taking especial delight in those ditties that have a good, full chorus. Fourthly, they never lay fresh eggs--only eggs that have qualified for the seventh heaven. Presumably, as the native likes a good, full egg, it is the old tale of the survival of the fittest, and the hen who can lay a real Blondin has been spared. If so, this must dislodge all geological estimates of the date of the creation, as nothing short of incalculable ages could have brought the breed to its present state of perfection. For a long time I considered this elegant bird exempt from the natural process of decay, as no reasonable period after decease produced any modification in its adamantine structure, but a certain incident not unconnected with soup dispelled this excusable illusion.