Guide The Outspan Tales of South Africa

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Contact Us with the details. How it works. Pictorial cloth, neatly recased with new endpapers. Page edges browned.

SOUTH AFRICAN FOLK-LORE TALES - FULL AudioBook - GreatestAudioBooks

Some spotting to preliminary pages and page edges. Six stories of the veld, mainly in the Eastern Transvaal and Swaziland. First published in March Auction 80 begins on 23 Jan GMT. Remember me. Sign in. Sign up for our newsletter. Add to Wants List. Add this lot to your Wants List and we will notify you when another copy is being offered.

Five cartridges, seven matches, no grub, no coat, no compass, and no savvey! Well, he fired off all his cartridges by dark, trying to signal to his camp, and then threw away his rifle. He broke the heads off two matches—he was shaking so from fright—before he realised that there were only seven altogether. Well, you get used to that. It was a bit frosty, and sometimes wet, and at first the lions worried him a lot and treed him several nights; but he says that that was nothing, while the sense of being lost—dead, yet alive—remained.

We were out shooting about five miles down-stream, and on one of the sandy spits of the river we saw fresh footprints. Nigger, we thought, as it was barefoot. We wondered, because there were no kraals near here, and we had seen no cattle spoor or footpaths. Great Caesar! When the others came up, he crawled out, stark naked, sunburnt, scratched, shock-headed—still staring with that strange hunted look—came up to us and—laughed! We led him back to our camp. He could tell nothing, could hardly understand any of our questions.

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He was quite dazed. His hands were cut and disfigured, the nails were worn off with burrowing for roots. We went to his den. It was a big ant-bear hole under an old tree and among rocks—a well-chosen spot. He had burrowed it out a bit, I think, and in a sort of pigeon-hole or socket in the side of it there were a few nuts, and round about there were the remains of nuts and chewed roots, stones of fruit, and such things. I never could understand how it was that, being mad as he certainly was then, he had still the sense—well, really it was an instinct more than any knowledge—to get roots and wild-fruits to keep body and soul together!

A suggestive subject, truly, said a man who had more millions to his credit than you would expect of a traveller in Mashonaland. Among us there was a retired naval man, a clean-featured, bronzed, shrewd-looking fellow, who was a determined listener during these camp-fire chats; in fact, he seldom made a remark at all. He sat cross-legged, with one eye closed—a telescope habit, I suppose—watching Barberton for quite a spell, and at last said, very slowly, and seemingly speaking under compulsion:.


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Well, you never know how they take these shocks. We picked a man up once whose two companions had lain dead beside him for days and days. Before he became delirious, the last thing he remembers was getting some carbolic acid from a small medicine-chest. His mates had been dead two days then, and he had not the strength to heave them overboard.

I believe he wanted to drink the carbolic. Any way, he spilt it, and went off his head with the smell of carbolic around him. He recovered while with us—we were on a weary deep-sea-sounding cruise—but twice during the voyage he had short but violent returns of the delirium and the other conditions that he was suffering under when we found him. By the merest accident our doctor discovered that it was the smell of carbolic that sent him off.

Once—years after this—he nearly died of it. He had had fever, and they kept disinfecting his room; but, luckily for him, he became dangerous and violent, and they had to remove him to another place. He was all right in a few days. I suppose he could , eh! Fancy forgetting the civilised uses of tongue and limbs and brain! It all depends upon the man. Mind you, I do think that the end is always fiasco—tragedy, trouble, ruin, call it what you like.

For good or ill we have taken civilisation, and the man who quits it pays heavy toll on the road he travels, and, likely enough, fetches up where he never expected to.

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I know, he said with kindling eye—"I know. A man of the best calibre and training goes wild and marries two—mark you, two! Drama be damned! It was one case out of twenty of the same sort. Barberton was nervously apprehensive of ridicule, and hated to be traded and walked out for effects.


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  • The Doom That Came to Sarnath (Annotated)?

    • I remember you told me something of them then. It was a warm corner, Swazieland, then—about the warmest in South Africa, I should think. It was.

    But, said Barberton, turning to the correspondent, "you were talking of men going amok through playing white nigger. Do you mean to say, asked the millionaire, that you have known men settle down among natives, living among them as one of themselves, and still retain the manners, customs, instincts, habits of mind and body, even to the ambitions, of a white man?

    The Kaffir ambition may be a temporary one, or it may be that the return to white ways is the passing mania. Who knows, any way?