Instead of a track of deep sand blocked with huge stones or by veritable chasms of soft, crumbling earth, one finds there good roads, while numerous streams of clear running water constantly intersect the highway.

In England it is difficult to realize the inestimable boon this plentiful supply of water is to the traveller and his beasts, who are thereby saved the very serious necessity of frequently having to push on, weary and thirsty, another stretch of eight or ten miles, simply because of the oft-heard cry, "No water." The scenery itself is fair and restful to the eye; there are no huge mountains, no precipitous dongas, yet an ever-changing kaleidoscope which prevents any monotony.

Now the road winds for several miles through woods and some small trees; again, these are left behind, and the traveller emerges on plains of yellow waving grass (so high as to hide both horse and rider), resembling from afar an English barleyfield, and broken up by clumps of symmetrically arranged trees.
In these clumps the tropical euphorbia sends up its long and graceful shoots, reminding one of Gargantuan candelabra, and the huge "baobab," of unwieldy bulk, seems to stand as the sentinel stretching out its bare arms to protect those who shelter beneath.

These trees are the great feature of the country, owing to the enormous size they attain, and to the fact that, being the slowest-growing trees known, their ages can only be reckoned by thousands of years.

Except these kings of the forest, the trees indigenous to the land are somewhat dwarfed, but cacti of all kinds flourish, clinging to and hanging from the branches of the mahogany and of the "m'pani" trees, looking now and then for all the world like long green snakes.