midday
For a week they journeyed on , each day seeming lovelier than the last , and the dreaming repose of a great content hovered over all of them . There was no need for haste and none was made . There was no pitiless urging of tired mules as in the post-cart ; no shouting natives , no hurried pauses for a snatched rest . The mules jogged contentedly along , realising they were in good hands , and always through the midday hours everyone lazed . An early spring had brought many young leaves out , although it was still August , and these were often beautiful shades of red , bronze , orange , scarlet , gold , and emerald-green , beyond or through which blue kopjes took on a yet more dream-like , ethereal air . Sometimes the red road wound along through woods of loveliest colouring , carpeted already with spring flowers . Sometimes it ran out into open spaces where the trees stood back in line , revealing wonderful glimpses of the fascinating land to their eager gaze .