There is a spot on the edge of the Berg which we made our summer quarters. When September came round and the sun swung higher in the steely blue, blazing down more pitilessly than ever; when the little creeks¹ were running dry and the water-holes became saucers of cracked mud; when the whole country smelt² of fine impalpable dust; it was a relief to quit the Bushveld, and even the hunting was given up almost without regret.  
On the Berg the air was clear and bracing³, as well it might be five to seven thousand feet above the sea. The long green sweeps of undulating country were broken by deep gorges⁵ where the mountain streams had cut their way through the uptilted outer edge of the big plateau and tumbled in countless⁷ waterfalls into the Bushveld below; and behind the rolling downs again stood the remnants of the upper formation—the last tough fragments of those rocks which the miners believed originally held the gold—worn and washed away, inch by inch and ounce by ounce ever since the Deluge⁹. These broken parapets stood up like ruins of giant castles with every layer in their formation visible across their rugged¹⁰ time-worn fronts—lines, in places a few yards only and in others a mile or more in length, laid one upon another as true as any spirit level could set them—and a wealth of colouring over all that, day by day, one thought more wonderful in variety and blend. Grey and black and yellow, white and red and brown, were there; yet all harmonising, all shaded by growths of shrub¹² and creeper, by festoons of moss¹³ or brilliant lichen¹⁴, all weather-stained and softened¹⁵, all toned, as time and nature do it, to make straight lines and many colours blend into the picturesque¹⁶.
 
Paradise Camp perched on the very edge of the Berg. Behind us rolled green slopes to the feet of the higher peaks, and in front of us lay the Bushveld. From the broken battlements of the Berg we looked down three thousand feet, and eastward¹⁷ to the sea a hundred and fifty miles away, across the vast panorama¹⁸. Black densely-timbered kloofs broke the edge of the plateau into a long series of projecting turrets¹⁹, in some places cutting far in, deep crevices²⁰ into which the bigger waterfalls plunged²¹ and were lost. But the top of the Berg itself was bare of trees: the breeze blew cool and fresh for ever there; the waters trickled²² and splashed in every little break or tumbled with steady roar down the greater gorges; deep pools, fringed with masses of ferns, smooth as mirrors or flecked with dancing sunlight, were set like brilliants in the silver chain of each little stream; and rocks and pebbles²³, wonderful in their colours, were magnified and glorified²⁴ into polished gems²⁵ by the sparkling water.
 
But Nature has her moods, and it was not always thus at Paradise Camp. When the cold mist-rains, like wet grey fogs, swept over us and for a week blotted²⁶ out creation, it was neither pleasant nor safe to grope along the edge of the Berg, in search of strayed cattle—wet and cold, unable to see, and checked from time to time by a keener straighter gust²⁷ that leapt up over the unseen precipice²⁸ a few yards off.
 
And there was still another mood when the summer rains set in and the storms burst over us, and the lightning stabbed viciously in all directions, and the crackling crash of the thunder seemed as if the very Berg itself must be split and shattered. Then the rivers rose; the roar of waters was all around us; and Paradise Camp was isolated²⁹ from the rest by floods which no man would lightly face.
 
Paradise Camp stood on the edge of the kloof where the nearest timber grew; Tumbling Waters, where stood the thousand grey sandstone sentinels of strange fantastic shapes, was a couple of miles away facing Black Bluff³⁰, the highest point of all, and The Camel, The Wolf, The Sitting Hen and scores more, rough casts in rock by Nature’s hand, stood there. Close below us was the Bathing Pool, with its twenty feet of purest water, its three rock-ledge ‘springboards,’ and its banks of moss and canopies³¹ of tree-ferns. Further down the stream spread in a thousand pools and rapids over a mile of black bedrock and then poured in one broad sheet over Graskop Falls. And still further down were the Mac Mac Falls, three hundred feet straight drop into the rock-strewn gorge⁴, where the straight walls were draped with staghorn moss, like countless folds of delicate green lace, bespangled by the spray. We were felling and slipping timber for the goldfields then, and it was in these surroundings that the work was done.
 
It was a Sunday morning, and I was lying on my back on a sack-stretcher taking it easy, when Jock gave a growl³² and trotted³³ out. Presently I heard voices in the next hut and wondered who the visitors were—too lazily content to get up and see; then a cold nose was poked³⁴ against my cheek and I looked round to see Jess’s little eyes and flickering³⁵ ears within a few inches of my face. For the moment she did not look cross, but as if a faint smile of welcome were flitting across a soured face; then she trotted back to the other hut where Ted⁶ was patting Jock and trying to trace a likeness³⁶ to The Rat.
 
It was a long time since mother and son had been together, and if the difference between them was remarkable³⁷, the likeness seemed to me more striking still. Jock had grown up by himself and made himself; he was so different from other dogs that I had forgotten how much he owed to good old Jess; but now that they were once more side by side everything he did and had done recalled the likeness and yet showed the difference between them. Many times as we moved about the camp or worked in the woods they walked or stood together, sometimes sniffing³⁸ along some spoor and sometimes waiting and watching for us to come up—handsome son and ugly mother. Ugly she might be, with her little fretful hostile eyes and her uncertain ever-moving ears, and silent sour and cross; but stubborn fidelity³⁹ and reckless courage were hers too; and all the good Jock had in him came from Jess.
 
To see them side by side was enough: every line in his golden brindled⁴⁰ coat had its counterpart in her dull markings; his jaw⁴¹ was hers, with a difference, every whit¹¹ as determined⁴² but without the savage⁴³ look; his eyes were hers—brown to black as the moods changed—yet not fretful and cross, but serenely⁴⁴ observant, when quiet, and black, hot and angry, like hers, when roused—yet without the look of relentless⁴⁵ cruelty; his ears were hers—and yet how different, not shifting, flickering and ever on the move, nor flattened⁴⁶ back with the look of most uncertain temper, but sure in their movements and faithful reflectors of more sober moods and more balanced temper, and so often cocked—one full and one half—with a look of genuinely friendly interest which, when he put his head on one side, seemed to change in a curiously⁴⁷ comical way into an expression of quiet amusement.
 
The work kept us close to camp and we gave no thought to shooting; yet Jess and Jock had some good sport together. We gave them courses for breathers after Oribi in the open, but these fleetest of little antelopes⁴⁸ left them out of sight in very few minutes. Bushbuck too were plentiful⁵⁰ enough, but so wily in keeping to the dark woods and deep kloofs that unless we organised a drive the only chance one got was to stalk them in the early morning as they fed on the fringes of the bush. I often wondered how the dogs would have fared with those desperate fighters that have injured and killed more dogs and more men than any other buck⁴⁹, save perhaps the Sable⁵¹.
 
Once they caught an ant-bear in the open, and there was a rough-and-tumble; we had no weapons—not even sticks—with us, and the dogs had it all to themselves. The clumsy creature could do nothing with them; his powerful digging claws looked dangerous, but the dogs never gave him a chance; he tried hard to reach his hole, but they caught him as he somersaulted to dodge⁵² them, and, one in front and one behind, worried the life out of him.
 
Once they killed a tiger-cat. We heard the rush and the row, and scrambled⁵³ down through the tangled⁵⁴ woods as fast as we could, but they fought on, tumbling and rolling downhill before us, and when we came up to them it was all over and they were tugging⁵⁵ and tearing at the lifeless black and white body, Jess at the throat and Jock at the stomach. The cat was as big as either of them and armed with most formidable claws, which it had used to some purpose, for both dogs were torn and bleeding freely in several places. Still they thoroughly⁵⁶ enjoyed it and searched the place afresh every time we passed it, as regularly as a boy looks about where he once picked up a sixpence.
 
Then the dainty little klipspringers led them many a crazy dance along the crags and ledges⁵⁷ of the mountain face, jumping from rock to rock with the utmost ease and certainty and looking down with calm curiosity at the clumsy scrambling⁵⁸ dogs as they vainly tried to follow. The dassies too—watchful, silent and rubber-footed—played hide-and-seek with them in the cracks and crevices; but the dogs had no chance there.
 
Often there were races after baboons⁵⁹. There were thousands of them along the Berg, but except when a few were found in the open, we always called the dogs in. Among a troop of baboons the best of dogs would have no show at all. Ugly, savage and treacherous⁶¹ as they are, they have at least one quality which compels admiration—they stand by each other. If one is attacked or wounded the others will often turn back and help, and they will literally⁶² tear a dog to pieces. Even against one full-grown male a dog has little or no chance; for they are very powerful, quick as lightning, and fierce fighters. Their enormous jaws⁶³ and teeth outmatch a dog’s, and with four ‘hands’ to help them the advantage is altogether too great. Their method of fighting is to hold the dog with all four feet and tear pieces out of him with their teeth.
 
We knew the danger well, for there was a fighting baboon⁶⁰ at a wayside place not far from us—a savage brute⁶⁴, owned by a still greater savage. It was kept chained up to a pole with its house on the top of the pole; and what the owner considered to be a good joke was to entice⁶⁵ dogs up, either to attack the baboon or at least to come sniffing about within reach of it, and then see them worried to death. The excuse was always the same: “Your dog attacked the baboon. I can’t help it.” Sometimes the dogs were rescued by their owners; but many were killed. To its native cunning this brute added all the tricks that experience had taught, sometimes hiding up in its box to induce the dog to come sniffing close up; sometimes grubbing in the sand for food, pretending not to see the intruder until he was well within reach; sometimes running back in feigned⁶⁶ alarm to draw him on. Once it got a grip the baboon threw itself on its side or back and, with all four feet holding the dog off, tore lumps out of the helpless animal. A plucky⁶⁷ dog that would try to make a fight of it had no chance; the only hope was to get away, if possible.
 
Not every baboon is a fighter like this, but in almost every troop there will be at least one terrible old fellow, and the biggest, strongest and fiercest always dominate and lead the others; and their hostility⁶⁸ and audacity⁶⁹ are such that they will loiter behind the retreating troop and face a man on foot or on horseback, slowly and reluctantly giving way, or sometimes moving along abreast⁷⁰, a hostile escort, giving loud roars of defiance⁷¹ and hoarse⁷² challenges as though ready on the least provocation⁷³ or excuse to charge. It is not a pleasant position for an unarmed man, as at the first move or call from the leader the whole troop would come charging down again. It is not actual danger that impresses one, but the uncanny effect of the short defiant⁷⁴ roars, the savage half-human look of the repulsive⁷⁵ creatures, their still more human methods of facial expression ............