The "Khapong," which I mentioned in a former chapter, is supposed to be the abode of the Spirit of Maternity, and women who have no children firmly believe this spirit is able to grant their heart's desire if only they can find favour in his sight. In order that he may see how earnestly they desire a child, they will make either a wooden or clay doll, which they strap on their backs and carry about with them, as they would a living child, for at least six months. At the end of that time, they lay it in the "Khapong" as an offering to the spirit, together with any bangles, beads, or ornaments, or even money, which they can collect. Should no child be born, it is a sign that the woman has not found favour with the spirit yet, so the doll is removed from the "Khapong," and strapped on the woman's back until the spirit is satisfied, when oh, joy! the longed-for child is born. I know of one case where for five years the woman carried one of these dolls about with her before her petition was granted.
The customs with regard to the birth of awoman's first child are decidedly quaint. To begin with, the wife must leave her husband's house about a month, or even longer, before the expected arrival of the child, as it must be born at the home of its maternal grandmother, or else it cannot possibly live to grow up. If it happens to be a boy, the rejoicings are judiciously mixed with regret. As the news-bearers set out at once to carry the tidings to the father (who has remained at his own village), they learn nothing of the woman's condition, that is a matter of slight importance. Upon arrival at their destination they attack the unsuspecting man and beat him vigorously with their sticks. No word is spoken, but the unlucky man at once understands he is the father of a male child instead of the eagerly hoped-for daughter. Naturally he is disappointed, but nevertheless he consoles himself with the reflection that after all a boy is better than no child, for he will certainly be of some use, and the spirits may be kind and give him a daughter next time. If, on the other hand, the infant is a girl, the woman receives many and hearty congratulations; the news-bearers hurry off to carry the joyful tidings to the father. Great caution is observed as they approach the village, lest he should catch sight of them. At length they manage to creep up behind him, when he is sitting outside, probably conversing with one ortwo friends. The messengers are armed this time with a pot of water, which they throw over the happy father, who immediately receives the congratulations of all his friends. The water is supposed to act as a wholesome "damper" upon his joy, lest the good news should prove injurious to him or unsettle his mind. It is not considered correct for him to visit his wife and child, but, when the baby is a month old, the wife returns to her husband, bringing the child with her. Basuto women often nurse their baby until it is eighteen months old. When the first baby is weaned, the mother takes it back to her parents, to whom it will in future belong; the actual parents no longer retain any claim upon it, nor, should it be a girl, do they receive the dowry upon her marriage; that also belongs to the maternal grandparents.
Should a doctor be called in at the birth of a child, the mother can neither wean it nor cut its hair until the doctor has given his consent. Usually the infant's head is shaved on the second day.
Should other children be born, there is no need for the mother to leave her husband's house, as no evil will attend their birth, such as threatens the birth of the first-born. In all cases where no doctor has been in attendance, the father has absolute control over the child, whether absent orpresent, and no step can be taken without first consulting him.
Sometimes rather strange complications arise. For instance, numbers of Basuto leave the country every year to find work in the mines and on the railways. Many of them are married men with young children. Suppose one man left a wife and baby of a few months old behind him, his wife must on no account wean the child until her husband returns. The result is, that now and then one comes across quite big children, able to run about and talk quite intelligently, still unweaned, and, when asked the reason, the mother will reply: "My husband has not yet returned." Occasionally he never comes back.
When the birth of a child is momentarily expected, as many women and old men (the latter being regarded as "old women") crowd into the hut as it will conveniently hold. As soon as the child is born, an appropriate name is suggested, such as "Thibello" (waited for or long expected), "Siluane" (tear-drop), etc., and by this name the child is in future known, the mother taking the name "Ma-Thibello" (mother of waiting), or "Ma" (mother of), whichever name is given to the child.
Should a woman die while her child is still too young to be fed with a spoon, a sheep or goat is killed, and the windpipe, thoroughly cleansed, isused as a feeding-tube, down which the milk is slowly poured into the child's mouth. If it is not expedient to kill an animal, a female goat in milk is procured, and the child taught to drink from the goat's udder. In these cases the goats become more attached to their "foster children" than to their own offspring, and will return at regular intervals to the hut to suckle the child. It is a strange sight to see a goat run bleating to the hut out of which crawls a fat brown baby, over whom the animal rejoices as if it were her own, lying down contentedly to allow it to drink, until, thoroughly satisfied, the child retires to sleep, and the goat trots off to pasture, returning again to her charge in a few hours.
Amongst Christian families Sesuto names are always given to the children at the time of their birth, although, when old enough, they are taken to the missionary to be baptized, the name then chosen being generally a Biblical one. The Basuto also bestow what they consider suitable Sesuto names upon the Europeans and their children living in the country.
Now that education is procurable in the country, the children are sent off to school as soon as they are old enough to master the alphabet. Many of them are bright, clever little creatures, and keenly interested in their studies, with often quite as much ability as the ordinaryEuropean child of the same age, but, as a rule, they can only be educated up to a certain point. When one reaches that one comes, as it were, to a blank wall. There seems to be no further brain power to develop, and, if forced to continue his studies, the youth will become sullen, stupid, and intensely trying to one's patience. This applies to them in all "walks of life"—in domestic work, in carpentry, masonry, etc. The girls are good, honest, nice-tempered servants, capable of becoming fairly efficient in all household work, and especially good as nurses, being devoted to their little charges, who, as a rule, have a great affection for them in return; but one has to realise at once that one must limit one's expectations, and be content with something considerably less than perfection. Their wonderful honesty, on the other hand, is a strong point in their favour. I have lived ten years in the country, and have only had two dishonest servants during that period.
All church services have a great attraction for them, whether heathen or baptized Christians, and they will go long distances to attend "service," on week days as well as Sundays. They are a musical race, and pick up the airs of the hymns and chants with wonderful celerity, learning to sing in parts as easily as though they had been trained to do so for generations. Many of them have beautiful voices. In church they are verydevout, and would put to shame many a civilised congregation. Of course, there are many cases of hypocritical devoutness, but is that to be wondered at in a nation barely in touch with civilisation? and, if we look nearer home, are we in a position to criticise? I fancy not. It is, I admit, a little irritating to come across a self-opinionated, intensely consequential young Mosuto, who evidently thinks his fellow-creatures the coarsest pottery as compared with his own superfine eggshell china self, but another generation of civilisation will show them more clearly where they stand.
The Basuto method of carrying news is as follows. In certain villages, at considerable distances apart, there are men whose business it is to act as "criers," because they possess the art of throwing their powerful voices through long distances. In each district, certain spots are selected from which to call. These spots are chosen because of their natural advantages. When any important news has to be sent through the country, a "crier," or Mohale or a Marumo, as he is called (literally "the brave man of the assegai"), goes to the top of one of these chosen places, and shouts his news to the village in the distance, where dwells the next "crier." It is desirable to call at night, as the voice carries so much more distinctly. Crier No. 2, on hearing the voice,listens, perhaps asks a question or two, and then sets off at a trot to the next spot, from whence he calls to Crier No. 3, and so on. In this way the news travels with astonishing rapidity. Long distances are covered in a few hours. News of battle is never sent until after sunset. During the fighting in Natal and in the Stormberg, the Basuto invariably heard of any big engagement before we did, though we were possessed of telegraphic communication. Of course, I am only referring here to South Basutoland. As far as I know, our headquarters was all along in direct communication with the Generals, and probably received information before other parts of the country.
Often in the evenings, when there is, for South Africa, a great stillness over all, the silence will be broken by the call of one human voice to another. It is by no means unmusical, and there is nothing harsh about it. Somehow the sound seems fitted to the scene, part of the weird strangeness of one's surroundings. I wish my pen were gifted enough to describe it properly, so as to bring the picture before you—the dim twilight; the cool after the great heat of the day; the tiny blinking fires here and there on the dark, frowning mountains from numberless hamlets; the voice of nature hushed to a dreamy murmur; then the deep drawn-out call from one village to another, arousing countless echoes from the kloofs below, orthe steady rise and fall of many voices chanting in the minor key some favourite heathen song as the singers sit round their homes in the refreshing coolness of a Basutoland summer night. One is filled with a great wonder. Life and oneself seem so little, the world so vast, and eternity the vastness beyond all words.
People living in such a country are naturally emotional, and very impressionable, with a firm belief in the supernatural. Their music, too, if such it can be called, is in the minor key, though even that does not have a lastingly depressing effect upon them. They are just like big, undisciplined children, full of "moods" and impulses, and easily influenced by kindness.
Each chief has his own especial rain-maker, who is also the "Ngaka," or doctor. These men are held in great veneration by the people, who firmly believe they are possessed of supernatural power. Of course the "Ngaka" encourages this belief in every possible way, playing upon the credulity of his victims with the solemnity of a seer of old. He makes a paying business of it, too, exacting a goat or sheep, or even several head of cattle, as payment, according to the magnitude of the service performed by him. He knows the family history of each individual in his particular district, and, in a quiet, unnoticed way, finds out everything likely to be of use to him either in his profession as doctor or as prophet. He is a student of nature to no small degree, and certainly possesses a wide knowledge of the use of herbs. He has a wonderful magnetic influence over others, the result, I suppose, of superior brain development.
When rain is needed, the chief calls the "Ngaka," who, armed with his divining rod, arrives at the khotla to hear what is required ofhim. He then proceeds to "doctor" the rod with a black pigment and human blood (I fancy in the remote past a human victim was always sacrificed, but times are changed, and a few drops of blood are all the rain-god now requires). The people assemble in the village and watch him as he ascends the nearest mountain. When on the summit, he raises his rod heavenward, and calls "Pula ha-e-na a bolokue" (Rain come down and save us). This he does several times, and goes through a considerable amount of pantomime; but, as no one is allowed to go near him, only his gestures can be followed after that one loud call. When he is satisfied that rain is coming, he runs back to the village singing. The people join him, and indulge in feasting and merry-making. If, after seven days, no rain comes, there is something wrong with the divining-rod, which has displeased the rain-god, so the rod is again "doctored," and "Ngaka" goes off once more to the mountain, where he remains in supplication until "he brings down rain." In reality, these men consult the heavens before consenting to make rain, and consequently are seldom unsuccessful.
Certain children are selected, in infancy or early childhood, to be made doctors. Their poor little bodies are cut, and various "medicines" rubbed into the wounds, which bestow powers of divination, of healing, and of witchcraft upon thechildren. They become restless and unable to sleep in the hut at night, and, as their minds develop, they are trained by the old doctors to succeed them.
There is in Basutoland a little creature of whom all stand in awe. He is not much bigger than a baboon, but is minus the tail, and is perfectly black, with a quantity of black hair on his body. He has hands and feet like an ordinary mortal, but is never heard to speak. He shuns the daylight, and abhors clothing, even in the coldest weather. Evidently he is above such sensations as heat and cold. This wonderful little creature is "Thokolosi," the Poisoner, the Evil One, whose deeds are cruel, revengeful, apparently unlimited. He has power to kill, to afflict in every imaginable way, to send mad, or to visit with unknown sickness; but to do good is beyond his power. There are several of these little people in the country. They generally are employed by the witch doctors to do their dirty work.
To slight a Thokolosi is to bring down disaster upon oneself. If once you offend him, or he is commanded to injure you, he will hunt you down remorselessly until his object is accomplished. During the day he generally remains hidden in the corner of the witch doctor's hut, behind the enormous juala pots, where it is so dark that he is unseen by even the sharpest eyes. If by any unfortunate chance you meet him at night,you must neither point at him nor speak to him.
Whether there really are creatures in any way answering to the description of these little people or not I cannot say. My own belief is that these doctors keep Bushmen who act the part and impose upon the superstitions of the Basuto, for there certainly issometruth at the bottom of it all, as I can prove from personal experience.
Some years ago, before I knew of the existence of Thokolosi, I was obliged to go to our cowshed rather late one evening to investigate the disturbance amongst the cows. The moon was nearly full at the time, and was shining brightly. The shed was at the bottom of our garden, some little way from the house. I went, accompanied by my native nurse girl and our big black retriever. Nothing occurred until we were returning, when suddenly we heard what I took to be a dog running from the Residency through the dead leaves in the garden towards us. I had barely said "What's that?" when we heard the "ping" of the wire fence, and saw, crossing the path, not a dozen yards in front of us, a little black creature about the size and shape of a boy of six. The night being very clear and bright there was no mistaking the fact that it was a human form of some sort. It ran with a peculiar shuffle, moving its head from side toside, straight through our garden into the darkness beyond. When my girl saw it she caught hold of me in terror, but uttered no word. The dog, on the contrary, gave vent to a sound half growl, half howl, and tore off to the house, where we followed as quickly as possible, and found him under my little son's bed, from whence he refused to stir. This was to my mind conclusive proof that I had not been "imagining things," as was said to me when I described what had occurred; for the dog is a really plucky one, and I had never seen him afraid before. My girl then told me we had seen "Thokolosi."
There is yet another evil influence called Moloi. He is in reality a "doctored" Mosuto, whose fate it is to kill the enemies of his clan or chief. When he is a child a deep wound is cut in his back near the spine; into this is rubbed a "medicine" composed of the necessary parts of a human body and various herbs. When this "medicine" influences him, he shuns his fellow-creatures, discards his clothing, and remains out in the veldt all night. His first duty is to kill a relation of his own, as, until he has done so, he can have no heart, no soul. He may be, and often is, extremely reluctant to do such a thing; but, sooner or later, the fever in his blood (the power of the medicine) will compel him to do the foul deed, after which his body finds rest, the fever leaveshim, and he becomes a peaceable mortal once more, until the time comes when Moloi takes the place of the man, and he is ready for any deed, however brutal. Of course, many of these old superstitions and customs are dying out, but they are by no means altogether dead. They are, however, kept as much as possible in the background, and the whole country is making really wonderful strides towards civilization.
Before going to fight, the chief summoned all his warriors to his village, merely telling them to come supplied with "lipabi." This conveyed the desired meaning to them, and they secretly prepared their weapons of war, and ordered their women-folk to prepare the "lipabi," which is merely roast mealies ground to a powder and mixed with sugar or salt. This is the only food carried during the campaign by a Mosuto warrior. Towards sunset they arrived at their chief's village and prepared to kill the sacrifice. This must be a bull in good condition, and the manner of his death is particularly brutal. The unfortunate animal is driven into a secluded spot some distance from the village, the whole "army" accompanying it. (In cases where several chiefs combine against a common foe, each calls his own men, offers his own sacrifices of one or more bulls according to the number of warriors, and has his own separate war-dance.) Of course the "Ngaka"(doctor) is also present. When it is time to kill the bull, the oldest and bravest warriors step forward armed with three assegais each, which they throw in turn at the quivering, maddened animal, until at last one proves more merciful than its predecessors, and puts an end to the poor brute's sufferings; but on no account must death occurtooquickly. As soon as it was dead, it was skinned, and the meat, partially cooked, was divided amongst the company, nothing but the skin and the bare bones being allowed to remain. "Mogobelo" (the war dance) then began, the warriors presenting a most grotesque appearance, with their faces and bodies smeared with red and white clay, ox tails suspended round their waists, and from elbows, knees, and often shoulders, their ox hide oblong shields in one hand, an assegai in the other, and head-dresses of every shape and form on their heads.
The doctor had already prepared a spot, and round this they danced, growing more and more excited as the night advanced. Every now and then a warrior would break through the circle into the centre, where he would stamp and shout out the number of foes he had killed in battle, and how and where he had killed them, striking his assegai into the ground for every slain foe.
At daybreak they were all "doctored," and at once set out for the battle-field. As far as Ican learn, they had not any recognised order of advance, but merely did soen masse, until within a few hundred yards of the advancing foe. Each side then halted, while from their ranks advanced one of the bravest of their warriors, who in stately manner proceeded to cross the intervening space. Upon his arrival he joined the ranks of the enemy. Whichever warrior succeeded in reaching the foe first, enabled his side to commence the attack.
In former days the warriors were armed only with assegais, battle-axes, shields, and clubs; but now every Mosuto of any standing possesses a firearm of some sort, consequently their method of fighting has undergone considerable changes. They are by no means deadly shots, and would have small chance of success against an European foe in the open; but could give a pretty good account of themselves in the wilds and fastnesses of their own land.
Some of the quaint proverbs, doings, and sayings of the Basuto deserve mention. For instance, it is not correct to pass behind any one, even in a large assembly. It is looked upon as a moral stab in the back. Neither is it correct to insult a foe in the presence of others, the proverb being, "If you prick an enemy with a two-pointed assegai, it will hurt you as well."
When a special blessing is given, the saying is,"May your feet go softly all your days, and may your face be as the Morning Sun!" In times of peace their greeting to a stranger is, "We welcome you. We are sitting down building houses."
Another proverb is, "One hand washes another." Again, when wishing to praise another, "You have taken the wedge from between my teeth." To one in trouble the greeting is, "The Mother of Consolation comfort you."
Another is, "Break not your heart, sorrow will roll away like mists at sunrise." When any one is dying, they say, "It is not a person. It is only the grave of one."
It is perhaps as well, before closing this account of Basutoland, to mention the relation of Boers and Basuto towards each other, though the subject is so distasteful that I may, perhaps, be pardoned for dwelling very briefly upon it.
The Boers, from the earliest times, have been noted for their cruelty to the coloured races, but this has been particularly so with the Basuto. A glance at the Crime Records at each Station or Magistracy, or a short perusal of the Blue Book, will verify this statement.
Frequent cases of theft by Basuto servants from their Dutch masters are brought up for trial all over the country, and upon investigation the greater number prove to have been committed by those who, despairing of ever receiving the wages due to them for months (in some cases even years) of labour, resort to this method of drawing attention to their case.
As a rule the Mosuto helps himself to some of his master's flocks or herds, and flies for protection to Basutoland. He does not look upon this in the light of actual theft, and is quite willing to be brought up by the Magistrate (or AssistantCommissioner as he is called) of his own district, where he knows he may freely state his case with the hope of receiving at least a fair hearing, and, if possible, in the future a portion of the wages due to him, though he knows he will first of all have to endure a certain amount of punishment for the theft he has committed and for desertion, varying in severity according to the enormity of the offence. But all cases cannot be tried in Basutoland. In some instances the Dutchman insists upon the Mosuto being brought up for trial before the Landrost of the nearest Free State town. Small hope is there then that the Mosuto's version will even be listened to.
"That Kaffir dog must learn what it is to steal from a Dutchman." And often poor wretch he does learn—from the "cat"—as well as having to pay a fine or go to prison.
It is no uncommon thing for a Dutchman to hire a Mosuto to work for him for two or three months, holding out as an inducement the promise of a sheep, or a couple of goats, or even a cow, as payment for the work done. When the time has expired, the Mosuto claims his wages, but is put off with an excuse: he must work yet another month, and then he will get something more; or six months longer, and then perhaps he will get a horse. And the poor, ignorant creature remains, only to be again disappointed.
If he is idle he is sjamboked, kicked, and generally ill-used, and in some cases even thus treated simply as a matter of course, though there is no cause for complaint.
The Basuto girls are also beaten both by master and mistress if they fail to give satisfaction, and are generally treated with contempt, if not actually ill-used. If I give one or two examples it will suffice. They are by no means exceptions.
In the Leribe district there lives a man who in his boyhood was leader of the team of oxen belonging to the Dutchman for whom he worked.
It is the duty of the leader, who is generally a boy of from ten to sixteen years of age, to guide the oxen by means of a leather strap attached to the horns of the two leading animals. This little fellow, whom we will call Pete, was employed in this way. His master, as the waggon moved slowly along, used to amuse himself by making a target of little Pete, using the long waggon whip as his weapon, and literally nipping out pieces of flesh from the child's naked body. If Pete ran on ahead to get away from the cruel whip, he was shouted at and threatened with dire punishment, until, terrified, he returned to his work.
At length, one day, a particularly sharp cut of the whip caught the child in the eye dragging it completely out of its socket. No compensation has ever been made to Pete.
Some few years ago a Mosuto girl, who was employed at a Dutch farm-house in the Free State, incurred the anger of her employer, who had her stripped naked and fastened across a bedstead, whereupon he beat her until her back was all cut and bleeding, and a large piece of flesh had been nipped completely out of her thigh. When the pain became so great that for a moment she fainted, she was released, kicked and sworn at, and told to return to her work. Needless to say, she did not do so, but ran away to her home in Basutoland, and returned to her employer no more.
Not so long ago a Dutch farmer was riding round his farm and had occasion to find fault with a native. The man answered him very impertinently, whereupon he rode back to his house, loaded his gun and returned to where the now terrified native was working. With many curses he called the man, telling him he intended to kill him. The poor wretch implored to be spared, but in vain. He was shot, and when the case was tried in one of the Free State towns, the farmer was fined £10!! That night he gave a champagne supper to his friends.
Another similar case was that of a farmer whose habits were not too temperate. One evening he was considerably annoyed by the noise his farm hands were making in their huts, some little distance from the house. The men were havinga small feast, and probably had been drinking a considerable quantity of Kaffir beer, their master had also been drinking—notKaffir beer. He walked down to the hut and told them to be quiet. They obeyed only for a few moments. Then the singing and noise began worse than before. Taking his loaded gun with him, the farmer returned to the hut, called out one of the men and shot him dead on the spot. For this he was fined somewhere about £100 by the Free State Government. He was very wealthy. Both these men I have met, also their wives.
Yet one more case. Two servant girls, who for some offence were tied up to the wheels of the waggon by their master and flogged, were taken away, after his fury had exhausted itself upon them—mutilated corpses.
Of course there are, here and there, amongst the Dutch, men and women who are both kind and generous to their native servants, but they are the exception, not the rule.
The ordinary Boer looks upon a native as no better than a dog, without rights, without a soul, a creature to be made use of, or to turn adrift, or ill-use, according to the mood of his master.
I do not wish to give the idea that I consider the native races should be placed on a level with the white races. Far from it. They need to be treated much as one would treat an unrulychild, withgreatfirmness, and to be taught to regard the white man as theirmaster, as a being infinitely their superior. But a master can be both kind and just, and only punish where punishment is needed. To go from one extreme to the other ismostundesirable, and can be productive only of harm, and those who try to instil ideas of equality into the semi-savage brain are increasing the trouble which some future generation will almost inevitably have to face.
What is sadly needed is that Englishmen and women (men especially) should set the natives in every part of South Africa an example of uprightness, morality, and perseverance, should gain and retain the respect and devotion of the native tribes, and should judiciously train them to become useful members of our Empire.
The missionaries, undoubtedly, do an enormous amount of good, but many of them are as unwise in their treatment of the Basuto as the Boers, though they err on the side of kindness. They fail to realize that civilisationmustcome gradually to be effective; that to try to run and jump before you can walk is foolish, and may often be harmful, and by treating a raw native as an equal, they are very possibly laying the foundation stone for native disturbances in the future. Directly a native begins to look upon himself as an educated being, equal to the white man,in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred he at once loses all respect for the European, whom he treats in an off-hand, condescending manner, intensely offensive to any one who has realized the wide gulf which separates the two races.
So many people fail to understand that a South African native, even the best, can not be placed in the same category as an Indian. I firmly believe that kindness will repay us infinitely better than cruelty,butit must be kindness mixed withgreatfirmness, and there should benolowering of the master to the level of the native. If only a better, a higher standard of "morals and manners" could be instilled into the European races of South Africa, there would be no cause for anxiety as to the future development of the native races.
Once long ago there lived in Basutoland a chief who had many herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, and also a beautiful daughter called Takane, the joy of his heart, and her mother's pride. Takane was loved by Masilo, her cousin, who secretly sought to marry her, but she liked him not, neither would she pay heed to his entreaties. At length Masilo wearied her so, that her anger broke forth, and with scorn she said—"Masilo, I like you not. Talk not to me of marriage, for I would rather die than be your wife." "Ho! is that true?" asked Masilo, the evil spirit shining out of his eyes. "Wait a little while, proud daughter of our chief; I will yet repay you for those words." Takane laughed a scornful laugh, and, taking up her pitcher, stepped blithely down to the well. How stupid Masilo was, and why did he keep on troubling her? Did he think, the great baboon, that she would ever marry him? Ho! how stupid men were, after all!
But in Masilo's heart there raged a devil prompting him to deeds of revenge. It whispered in his ear, and, as he listened, he smiled, well pleased, for already he saw the desire of his heartwithin his reach. Patience and a little cunning, and she should be his.
The next day Masilo obtained his uncle's consent to his giving a feast at a small village across the river for youths and maidens, as was the custom of his tribe. He then paid a visit to the old witch-doctor, who promised to send a terrible hailstorm upon the village in the middle of the feast. Next he went to all the people of the village, and, because he was a chief's son, and had power in the land, and they were afraid to offend him, he made them promise that none of them would allow Takane to enter their huts; but he said no word of the hailstorm, only he told the people the evil eye would smite them if they disobeyed him.
Early the next day all the villages were astir with excitement; the youths set out in companies by themselves, the maidens following later, singing and dancing as they went. How lovely Takane looked, her face and beautifully rounded limbs shining with fat and red clay; the bangles on her arms and ankles burnished until human endeavour could do no more. Soon all were assembled, and dancing, singing, feasting, and gladness held sway. Suddenly the sky grew dark, the rain-god frowned upon the village, and hail poured in fury down upon the feast. Away ran old and young, seeking shelter in the friendlyhuts. Takane alone remained outside. As she ran from hut to hut, the people crowded to the doorway, and, when she implored them to take her in, they replied that indeed they would gladly do so, but how could they find room for even one more? Did she not see how some of them were almost outside the door already? At length she came to a hut in which there was only one old woman, sitting shivering over a small fire. "Mother," exclaimed Takane, "I pray you, let me come in, for I am nearly dead already." The old woman placed herself in the doorway, exclaiming, "Go away; don't you see my house is full?" But the girl gently pushed her aside and entered.
After the storm had passed, the merry-makers returned to their homes, Masilo alone remaining behind, in the hope of discovering Takane's dead body, or hearing something of her fate. As he wandered here and there, he saw her coming towards him, unconscious of his presence, and evidently on her way to cross the river. Quickly he hid behind a huge boulder until she had passed, when he cautiously followed her, overtaking her just as she reached the bank of the river. Now by this time the river was getting almost too full to cross in safety, and the Water Spirit was angrily murmuring, for he wanted a sacrifice of a human being to satisfy him. Masilo went up to Takane, who stood hesitating whether to cross or not, and,seizing her by the hand, drew her into the river, until the water came up to her neck.
"Will you marry me now, Takane, or shall I let the Water Spirit have you? I know you cannot swim; so if you won't marry me, I shall take you into the deep hole by that tree and push you in. Say, now, will you marry me?"
"No, Masilo, I will never marry you, never. Let the Water Spirit take me first;" and she struggled to free her hand, but he was strong, and he held her fast. Again he drew her farther into the river, until the water reached her lips.
"Now, Takane, is not life with me better than death with the Water Spirit for husband? Say, will you marry me now?"
"I choose rather death in the black pool, with the cold stones for my bed and the water for my covering, than life with you as my husband. Haste, haste, for I am weary and would sleep."
Her continued refusal to marry him so infuriated Masilo, that, seizing her by the hair of her head, he swam out towards the pool, into which he pushed her with a fierce laugh, saying, "There! go drown! It is too late now to change your mind." He then turned, and in a few moments reached the bank, and, without one backward glance, walked off to his hut.
Now a wonderful thing happened to Takane. When Masilo pushed her into the pool, thehungry water took her swiftly down towards the tree which grew out of the middle of the river. She did not sink, because her "blanket" (literally the skin mantle worn by Basuto before the introduction of blankets) was not yet wet through, and, as she passed under the tree, the blanket caught in a low branch and held her firmly. There she remained for some time, vainly trying to pull herself up into the tree. At length she succeeded in doing so, and for the moment at any rate was safe, but, as she looked at the water all round her, and realized that even when the river was low she could not reach the bank unaided, she felt that it would be better to drown at once than to die a slow death from starvation, which seemed the only fate before her if she remained in the tree. Still, something might happen, some one might pass and see her. Yes, she would wait at least a little while; so, arranging herself as comfortably as she could, she prepared to pass the night in the tree.
The next morning Masilo came down to the river with the cows. Takane hid herself as much as possible, but his sharp eyes soon discovered her.
"Oh, ho! What strange bird is that?" he exclaimed. "How came it in the tree? I must try to catch it." Then, seeing that Takane remained motionless, he sat down on the bank and began to eat his "bogobe" with great enjoyment. "See what nice bread I have. Are you not hungry,Takane? Shall I send you some? But no, you do not need it. You are so fat, you will live for a long time. Well, I must go away now, but I will come again to-morrow. It is nice to see the dear little Takane so happy."
The next day Masilo came again, and ate his breakfast on the river bank, taunting Takane all the while. This he did on several following days, until Takane became so weak that she neither heard nor saw him, and would have fallen into the water were it not that her blanket held her firmly to the tree. Meanwhile, there was mourning in her father's house and village, for all thought she had been drowned in trying to cross the river after the storm.
One day, Takane's little brother followed Masilo when he took the cattle out to graze. When they came near the river, Masilo told the child not to come any farther, saying if he was a good boy, and did what he was told, he would get a present of some little birds which were in a tree in the river. Masilo then left the child and paid his daily visit to Takane, but the little boy, full of curiosity, followed unseen, and to his great astonishment saw, not a bird's-nest, with the promised young, but his sister Takane, almost unrecognisable from starvation. He listened for a little while to the conversation, then, fearing Masilo's anger if he were discovered, he crept backto the herd. When Masilo returned, he told the child the birds were not quite big enough to leave their nest. The little boy then went home and told his parents what he had seen. They made him promise to keep his secret; then, calling their medicine man, they hurriedly took counsel together. Late that night, when the village was wrapped in darkness, the parents of Takane and the medicine man set out for the spot where the girl was hidden. The medicine man called upon the spirit of the water to aid them, and soon Takane lay in her mother's arms, too weak even to speak. Slowly and tenderly they bore her back to her home, where for days she lay between life and death. Masilo and the other villagers were told that a sick stranger was in the hut, therefore they must not enter, and, as this is the custom of the people, they thought nothing more of it. Masilo, it is true, had been down to the river and had found Takane gone, but he only thought that at last she had fallen into the water and been drowned. Several times he went down to see if the Water Spirit had given up its victim, but no sign of Takane's real fate came to warn him.
When two moons had come and gone, the old chief saw that the time to punish Masilo had come, so, calling all his people to assemble on a certain day, he made preparations for a greatfeast. When the day came, the people all assembled in the open space in front of the khotla (court-house), leaving a wide path from the chief's hut to the centre of the open space. This path was carpeted with new mats, and skin karosses were laid on the ground for the chief and his family to sit upon. Masilo, by right of his near relationship to the chief, took a prominent place in the inner circle, while, unknown to him, several warriors quietly took their stand immediately behind him. Presently the old chief issued from his hut, followed by his chief councillor and medicine man; behind them came Takane's mother, leading by the hand Takane herself, no longer a living skeleton, but plump, smiling, and lovely as ever. A stir like the beginning of a storm shook the people, while Masilo, with a wild cry, turned to escape, but was quickly caught by the armed warriors, who had remained motionless behind him. Briefly the old chief related the story; then, raising his hand and pointing at the terrified Masilo, he cried, "What, my children, shall be the fate of this toad?" With one voice, the people answered, "The cruel death for him! the cruel death for him!"
A smile of approval passed over the chief's face, and, making a sign to the warriors who held Masilo, he turned his back on the trembling wretch, who was dragged off to a distance andtortured to death, while the village feasted and danced.
When darkness once again enfolded the land, the dead body of Masilo was taken to a secret spot and buried, and life at the village returned to its daily duties; but the spirit of Masilo could not rest, and still strove to possess Takane, as his body had longed for her.
One day the daughters of the village, accompanied by Takane, went forth to gather reeds for the making of mats. They wandered far in their search, and were growing weary, when one of them cried: "See! there are reeds, beautiful reeds, as many as we shall need;" and they looking, saw, even as their companion had said, a small bed of beautiful reeds. Soon all were busily engaged in cutting down armsful of the desired plant; but Takane, being a chief's daughter, was not allowed to work as hard as the other girls, and soon seated herself down to rest in the middle of the reed bed.
When the sun was low in the sky the girls prepared to return home, but Takane could not rise from the ground, nor could her companions lift her. Again and again they tried to move her, but to no purpose; she seemed to have become rooted to the ground. Finally, she persuaded them all to return and obtain help from the village.
"Will you not be afraid, sister, if we leave you alone?" they asked.
"Of what shall I be afraid?" Takane replied. "It is yet light, and the home is near. Haste, for I am hungry, and the night is coming."
The girls then left her and ran home. No sooner had they disappeared, than Takane heard a noise amongst the reeds behind her, and, looking round, she saw Masilo standing there.
"Oh, ho! Takane! you are mine at last! Guessed you not that this was my grave, and that it was I who held you firmly to the ground, so that not even all your companions could raise you? Come now, for we must hasten, lest we be caught by your father's people. By the spirits of my fathers, I have sworn that you shall be my wife."
"But you yourself are a spirit. How, then, can you marry me, and what need have you of a wife? Are you going to kill me even as you were killed?"
"True, Iwasa spirit, but I am now a man, and you are my wife. Come, for I tarry no longer." So saying, he seized her hand and began to run with her away from their old home, while she, filled with superstitious dread, offered only slight resistance. On they ran, ever onward, all through the night and far into the new day. At length, utterly weary, Takane lay down, and refused togo any farther. All around them were strange mountains and valleys, but no sign of human habitation. Here, then, Masilo resolved to remain, and here he built his hut, with the aid of Takane, who, now that she was powerless to escape, became a happy and devoted wife, obeying Masilo as even a wife should. Soon other wanderers came to dwell near them, and ere many years passed Masilo was chief of a happy, prosperous little village, and Takane the mother of sons and daughters whose beauty made her heart glad.
In the days of our fathers' fathers there lived a rich chief who had only one wife, whom he loved so much that he would not take even one of the beautiful daughters of the great chief to wife, not even when, after many years, no child was born to them. "I will wait," said the old chief, "the spirits will relent before I die, for we will offer many sacrifices to them." Accordingly the best of the flocks and herds were sacrificed, and the woman found favour in the eyes of the gods, and a daughter, beautiful as the morning, was born. So precious was this child in the eyes of her parents that they hid her from the sight of men, wrapping her in the skin of the crocodile, the sacred beast of the people. Because of this the people called her "Polomahache" (the crocodile scale), and very few believed in her beauty, for they thought she must be deformed or terribly ugly to be hidden away under a covering always; but the maiden grew in beauty and grace, until her parents felt they must strive to find a youth worthy of her, if one was to be had upon the earth.
Now the great chief had a son who was dearerto him than all his wives or his other children, or even his flocks and herds; a son tall and straight as the spear, fleet of foot as the wild deer, and brave as the mighty lion of the mountains. This youth the people called Khosi, the fleet one.
At the time when Polomahache had become old enough to marry, Khosi had begun to think of taking a wife, and had sent round to the neighbouring villages requesting the people to send the prettiest girls for his inspection, naming a certain day upon which he would receive them. Upon the day named, very early in the morning, Polomahache, enveloped in her crocodile skin and accompanied by two female attendants, set out for Khosi's village. Many other damsels passed them with jest and laughter, bidding Polomahache remain at home, as her looks were enough to frighten even the bravest lover. Now the custom was that each damsel should wash in the pool below the village of the expectant bridegroom-elect; accordingly the pool below Khosi's village was soon thronged with merry, laughing girls, who were quite unconscious of the fact that Khosi was hidden in the branches of a tree close by, from whence he could, unseen, inspect his would-be wives. While the other girls bathed, Polomahache remained quietly in the background, but when they had departed she stepped timidlydown to the water's edge, where she stood hesitatingly, as if afraid to throw off her hideous covering. Khosi, upon seeing her, hid himself more securely in the tree, exclaiming, "Ah! what wild beast have we here? Surely she does not hope that I shall choose her?"
"My child," said one of the attendants, "why do you stand in fear? Know you not that it is the custom of our tribe for the damsels to wash ere they approach their master's house. Remove your covering, then, and be not afraid, for we are alone."
Reluctantly Polomahache did so, and stepped into the clear, cold water, revealing herself in all her beauty to the enraptured gaze of the spectator in the tree.
"Ha," exclaimed Khosi, "what beauty, what eyes, what a face! She, and she alone, shall be my bride." And he continued to gaze upon her until, her bathing completed, she once more enveloped herself in the crocodile skin and departed to the village, when Khosi descended from his hiding-place and returned by another path to his home.
When all the maidens were assembled, Khosi, accompanied by his father and mother, came out from the hut and walked slowly along, carefully studying each maid as he passed. Many bright glances were shot at him; many maiden hearts fluttered in hopeful expectation; but one by onehe passed them all until he came to little Polomahache, who had hidden herself away at the end of the row of maidens.
"Ho! hèla! what is this?" exclaimed Khosi. "Surely this is no maiden, but some wild beast."
"Indeed, Chief Khosi," replied a gentle voice from behind the skin, "I am but a poor maid who fears she cannot hope to find favour in the eyes of the Great One."
"Now truly, mother, this is the wife for me. Send all the other maidens away, for I will have none of them." So saying, Khosi turned and re-entered the hut. His mother trembled with rage, for she thought Polomahache had bewitched her son, so she followed him into the hut; but when she heard what he had to tell her, she promised to try to arrange the marriage on condition that Khosi would manage to let her see Polomahache without the skin. Accordingly they arranged that Khosi was to see his bride alone, and if he could persuade her to throw off the crocodile skin he was to clap three times as if in pleasure, and his mother would come in.
When the sun was low in the heavens Khosi conducted Polomahache to his father's hut, where at length he persuaded her to throw off the skin. As it fell to the ground he clapped three times, exclaiming, "Oh! beautiful as the dawn is my beloved; her eyes are tender as the eyes of adeer; her voice is like many waters." As he spoke his mother entered, and being quite satisfied with the maiden's beauty, the marriage was soon arranged, and Khosi and his beautiful bride dwelt long in happiness and prosperity in the land of their fathers.
The village was starving, there was no running away from the fact; the men's eyes were big and hungry-looking, and even the plumpest girl was thin. What was to be done? The maidens must go out to find roots. Perhaps the spirits would take pity on their starved looks and guide them to where the roots grew; so early in the morning all the maidens, led by the chief's two daughters, left the village to seek for food; they walked two by two, a maid and a little girl, side by side. Long they journeyed, and weary were their feet, yet they found nothing, and darkness was creeping over the land. So they laid themselves down to rest under the Great Above, with no shelter or covering over them, to wait for the coming dawn. Next day as they journeyed, behold one of the children espied a root, another, and yet another, until all were busy digging up the precious food. Now a strange thing happened, for, while the maidens only found long thin roots, the children gathered only thick large ones. At length enough had been found to last the village for a time, so the girls set off to return home. As they came near the river they saw itwas terribly flooded, and an old, old woman sat crooning upon the bank.
As they approached they began to distinguish the words she was chanting:—