figures against the bare background of rock is such as to render their Hottentot name of “half men” very appropriate. The plant was first discovered by Paterson, and described by him in his _Voyage into the Country of the Hottentots_ about a century ago. I brought back two of these rare plants on each of my trips. Two were given to Dr. Marloth, the famous botanist, one of which, I believe, he presented to Kew Gardens, and the other to Professor Pearson of the South African Museum. These were, I believe, the first live specimens ever brought to Cape Town. Having explored the mine, we started after the waggon, and soon found ourselves in the formidable ravine known as “Hell’s Kloof.” Our unshod little native ponies made light of the rugged track, hemmed in on either side by precipitous peaks, and until we overtook the waggon we were inclined to think that the difficulties of this particular part of the trek had been much overrated. But when we came in sight of the waggon we realised that what was fairly easy going to lightly laden ponies which could climb like goats was very heavy work for a long and weighty waggon. In the distance at times the oxen looked like flies crawling up a wall, then they disappeared over a ridge, and shouts, yells, and a fusillade of whips showed the kind of toboggan they had struck on the other side. In many places the rise was so steep that it had to be taken literally at the run, for once having lost momentum the whole outfit must have gone over and over till it hit the bottom. Still, by great effort and even more luck we managed to get to the top of the Kloof, and I think the oxen and “boys” were nearly as pleased as we were--not quite, perhaps, for they did not know, as we did, that over a hundred pounds of dynamite and box after box of detonators were among the stores in that waggon! Even at the summit the sun had sunk, but beyond the pass we had just climbed the western sky was still ablaze, and silhouetted against it were innumerable peaks of every shade of mauve and violet grading into deepest purple. It was magnificent, and I sat down on a rock and gazed and gazed, and was still gazing when Ransson, who has no soul, came along and asked me what I was mooning at. I waved my hand to the celestial pageant: “Drinking it in,” I said shortly--I don’t like being talked to when I feel like that. He said, “Yes, I’m thirsty too; but you ought to be kicked for talking about drinking when we’re 200 miles from any beer!” As I said before, Ransson has no soul.