Green Hills of Africa

by Ernest Hemingway

firelight with those damned horns sticking out,' Pop said. 'You old

  bastard.'

  'It's wonderful,' P.O.M, said. 'Let's go and look at them again.'

  'You can always remember how you shot them. That's what you really get

  out of it,' Pop said. 'They're damned wonderful kudu.'

  But I was bitter and I was bitter all night long. In the morning,

  though, it was gone. It was all gone and I have never had it again.

  Pop and I were up and looking at the heads before breakfast. It was a

  grey, overcast morning and cold. The rains were coming.

  'They're three marvellous kudu,' he said.

  'They look all right with the big one this morning,' I said. They did,

  too, strangely enough. I had accepted the big one now and was happy to see

  him and that Karl had him. When you put them side by side they looked all

  right. They really did. They all were big.

  'I'm glad you're feeling better,' Pop said. 'I'm feeling better

  myself.'

  'I'm really glad he has him,' I said truly. 'Mine'll hold me.'

  'We have very primitive emotions,' he said. 'It's impossible not to be

  competitive. Spoils everything, though.'

  'I'm all through with that,' I said. 'I'm all right again. I had quite

  a trip, you know.'

  'Did you not,' said Pop.

  'Pop, what does it mean when they shake hands and get hold of your

  thumb and pull it?'

  'It's on the order of blood brotherhood but a little less formal. Who's

  been doing that to you?'

  'Everybody but Kamau.'

  'You're getting to be a hell of a fellow,' Pop said. 'You must be an

  old timer out here. Tell me, are you much of a tracker and bird shot?'

  'Go to hell.'

  'M'Cola has been doing that with you too?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, well,' said Pop. 'Let's get the little Memsahib and have some

  breakfast. Not that I'm feeling up to it.'

  'I am,' I said. 'I haven't eaten anything since day before yesterday.'

  'Drank some beer though, didn't you?'

  'Ah, yes.'

  'Beer's a food,' Pop said.

  We got the little Memsahib and old Karl and had a very jolly breakfast.

  A month later P.O.M., Karl, and Karl's wife who had come out and joined

  us at Haifa, were sitting in the sun against a stone wall by the Sea of

  Galilee eating some lunch and drinking a bottle of wine and watching the

  grebes out on the lake. The hills made shadows on the water, which was flat

  calm and rather stagnant looking. There were many grebes, making spreading

  wakes in the water as they swam, and I was counting them and wondering why

  they never were mentioned in the Bible. I decided that those people were not

  naturalists.

  'I'm not going to walk on it,' Karl said, looking out at the dreary

  lake. 'It's been done already.'

  'You know,' P.O.M, said, 'I can't remember it. I can't remember Mr. J.

  P.'s face. And he's beautiful.

  I think about him and think about him and I can't see him. It's

  terrible. He isn't the way he looks in a photograph. In a little while I

  won't be able to remember him at all. Already I can't see him.'

  'You must remember him,' Karl said to her. 'I can remember him,' I

  said. 'I'll write you a piece some time and put him in.'