United States or Lithuania ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
The man leaped to his feet. "Simba! simba! simba!" he yelled. "Na piga simba!" Every one in camp also leaped to his feet, taking up the cry. From the water it was echoed as the bathers scrambled ashore. The camp broke into pandemonium. We were surrounded by a dense struggling mass of men.
She was not the piga, as the servant in a Norwegian inn is called, but rather the froken, the young lady of the house, as her mother was the madame. What a charming face was hers, framed in a wealth of pale golden hair, under a thin linen cap projecting in the back to give room for the long plaits of hair!
I had thought of riding nonchalantly up to our own tents, of dismounting with a careless word of greeting "Oh, yes," I would say, "we did have a good enough day. Pretty hot. Roy got a fine waterbuck. Yes, I got a lion." But Memba Sasa used up all the nonchalance there was. As we entered camp he remarked casually to the nearest man. "Bwana na piga simba-the master has killed a lion."
Kingozi's heart bounded, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped his rifle. "Bwana hapana piga?" Simba implored. "Is not bwana going to shoot?" But Kingozi shook his head. The temptation was strong, but he resisted it. He refrained from shooting at the lions for exactly the same reason that he had insulated himself against the Leopard Woman's charms.
Word Of The Day