LETTER VIII

SCOUTING ON THE MODDER


THORNHILL FARM, _January 30_, 1900.

On the eastern or Jacobsdal side the country is all a plain, dull and
monotonous like a huge prairie, with no shade from the heat or shelter
from the thunderstorms. On the western side it is very different. Great
hills run roughly parallel to the river course, but leave a wide plain
between themselves and it. They are clothed with a few scant bushes, out
of which their tops rise bare and rocky; but in the shady hollows and
gorges the low thorn-trees (mimosas) grow thickly, and over the plain
that stretches to the river their grey foliage gathers into thick covers
or is sometimes dotted here and there. The smell of the mimosa flowers
(little yellow balls of pollen-covered blossom) is the most delicious I
know, and the air as we ride through these lonely covers, where a few
buck seem the only tenants, is fragrant with it. Far apart there are
farms, prettily situated, generally close to the hills, the rocky sides
of the kopjes rising behind, the wide plain spread in front. Each has
its dam, sometimes more than one, built round with mud embankments, with
huge weeping willows overhanging, and rows of tall poplars and blue gums
(with shreds of bark rattling), and plenty of other trees. The
farmhouses themselves are uninteresting, but the gardens, with their
great thicket hedges of prickly pear and quince and brilliant blossoming
pomegranate, are delightful, especially at this time, when the fruit is
just getting ripe.