THE NEW YORKER FICTION by Doris Lessing January 21, 1956

Nowadays, when I meet types who flush grouse or work salmon (I think these are the correct terms), I can more often than not be heard saving, “All the same, for good, clean sport give me a flock of guinea fowl in open country.” From there, I pass on to casual mention of the higher fauna—deer and lions, and so on—and in no time the most hardened sportsmen are oozing envy of what sounds like a girlhood spent on perpetual safari. I keep the truth to myself.

Not that I haven’t seen lions. I have encountered them, and other interesting animals, in the London Zoo, where I go to look at them from time to time. And on my home ground, which is Mashonaland, Southern Rhodesia, fauna of every kind used to flourish and, for all I know, flourish yet. I do not care. I never did.

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