"There, still on the boulder, was Collie, barking.""There, still on the boulder, was Collie, barking."
"The third time he collapsed, and was pulled back.""The third time he collapsed, and was pulled back."
'Have either of you fellows ever been in the middle of a fire at sea?' asked Vandeleur one evening, when informed that it was his turn to spin a yarn for the benefit of the rest. 'If not, I advise you to keep as far away from such a thing as you can. My own experience is only, so to speak, on a small scale; that is, I was only, at the time, upon a short journey across a lake in a small Japanese steamer—a voyage of about sixty miles—but I can assure you I was never more frightened in my life. One feels so utterly helpless when apparently at the mercy of the most pitiless of the elements, far from shore, and—for all one can see—confronted by the necessity to choose one of two kinds of death, if one is more terrible than the other—drowning or burning.
'Am I right in believing that you succeeded in cheating both the fire and the water, perhaps out of deference to the hangman?' asked Bobby, 'or am I speaking to a somewhat solid ghost?'
'Escaped, I believe.' replied Vandeleur, 'in order that I might try to teach manners to a certain ruffian of the name of Robert Oakfield.'
With the words, Vandeleur fell suddenly upon Bobby, and quickly upsetting him, rubbed his nose in the soft moss. There was a short, sharp struggle, and Vandeleur returned to his seat.
'I have not yet succeeded in my object,' continued Vandeleur, 'but I hope for the best.'
We had gone about half-way to our destination—town called Shukisama, on the other side of the lake—when it was suddenly discovered that our little steamer, theToki Maru, was on fire. With very little warning, flames sprang up from the hold—no one ever discovered how the fire began—and almost in an instant the half of the steamer which lay aft of the hold became unapproachable on account of the dense volumes of black smoke which flew in clouds over it, driven by the head-wind against which the little steamer was making its way.
The captain quickly ordered every passenger forward into the bows of the vessel, out of the reach of the heat and suffocating smoke. The crew then attempted, with hose and pump, to keep the fire in hand; but already, it appeared, the flames had obtained the mastery, and their attempts came too late. The cargo, I believe, was tow, or some other oily substance difficult to extinguish once the fire had secured a firm hold upon it. Moreover, the smoke and heat were such that it was impossible for the workers to approach near enough to concentrate their efforts where they would be most likely to succeed.
The passengers huddled together in the bows of the little steamer and watched the efforts of the crew. It was obvious that these efforts had failed.
'Have we time to reach Shukisama?' men and women asked one another; 'it is twenty miles, or more—nearly two hours—shall we do it?' The captain, when anxiously asked as to this, replied: 'We hope so; who can tell? Much depends on the man at the wheel.'
The man at the wheel! Not one of us selfish people in safety and comfort—speaking comparatively—in the bows, had thought of the poor fellow back there in the stern, sticking bravely to his post in spite of the dense, hot smoke which must be enveloping him in its suffocating fumes.
'He cannot last long, captain,' said some one, 'in that atmosphere; he will be suffocated, or he will give up and jump into the sea. What will happen if there is no one to steer the ship?'
'She will go round and round,' replied the captain, laughing grimly, 'while we are roasted or drowned. At present he is sticking to his post, and we are travelling in our course. You may be thankful, all of you, that we have a brave man, young Hayashi, at the wheel. He was only married last week, and his wife is at Shukisama; you may be sure he will do his best to get home.'
'A man may be ever so much in love,' said a passenger, 'but he cannot breathe fire and smoke for air: it must be pretty hot where he is, and it will soon be hotter!'
A cry went up for volunteers to relieve the man at the wheel. Several came forward—they are brave as lions, these Japanese. One was selected as the first to make an effort to pass through the smoke and flame to the stern of the vessel. A line was made fast to the good fellow's waist, for, he had said, in case he should collapse in the dense smoke, he would rather be hauled back in any position, than left there!
Three times the brave man rushed into the mass of hot, poisonous vapour, and twice he returned staggering and choking. The third time he entirely collapsed, and was pulled back. His jacket was on fire and he was unconscious. A second man instantly volunteered; he had a new suggestion to make.
'I will slip over the side of the ship, and you can pay out line gradually until I have reached a spot where I think I can climb up. When I pull, you must slack out the line.'
'Mind the screw. Don't get sucked back too far astern,' said the captain; 'be careful.'
The man jumped into the water, and was carried instantly astern; he tugged, and line was paid out. Soon it became evident, by the tension of the line, that he had clung on to the vessel's side; probably he was climbing laboriously upward—his plan was going to succeed.
But the line suddenly sprang outwards; he had jumped into the sea again; a few minutes, and he was hauled back, out of breath and exhausted.
'I couldn't climb it,' he said, 'it's too steep and slippery. I nearly got sucked into the screw. The flames are not near the wheel yet, but the smoke is flying right over it in dense, black volumes. How young Hayashi is standing it, I don't know.'
But the steamer was standing straight as a line upon her course; it was obvious that the good fellow's nerve still held out, his eyes were not yet dimmed with the smoke and heat—good, brave Hayashi!
Some one proposed that the passengers should approach in a body as far aft as the fire permitted, and then shout together words of praise and encouragement. This was done. Some thirty men and women stood together nearly amidships and shouted in time to the beat of a conductor: 'Hayashi—Banzai—brave Hayashi—you shall have glory and reward—Banzai!' Some said they heard a voice reply 'Banzai,' some heard nothing. Other attempts were made to relieve the plucky fellow at the wheel. His lungs and breathing apparatus, a doctor present declared, must be made of cast iron; since he had stood the poisonous fumes so long, he might perhaps last out; people would see the burning vessel from Shukisama before long, and help would come.
But the flames began to gather strength; the after portion of the steamer seemed now to be a kind of seething cauldron of fire. The heat grew intense, even up at our end; what must it be for poor Hayashi, with the wind carrying it at close quarters into his face? Would he actually stand at the wheel, devoted fellow, until the flames caught him and burned his hands as they gripped the spokes, and scorched his eyeballs so that they could see the course no longer? There was no knowing what these marvellous Japanese could not do in the way of pluck and fortitude!
On went the little vessel upon her way; Hayashi could not possibly have steered a better course, said the captain. He had not once deviated by a hair's breadth.
But every moment the heat grew more and more; women wept and hugged their children to them. Another half-hour, and—unless help arrived—every passenger must swim for it. In spite of the headwind, the fire was encroaching forward as well as aft.
Another five minutes of acute suspense was passed. Personally, after a brief prayer, I spent the time in deciding which woman I would try to save when it came to swimming. I had already made my selection, when suddenly a voice called out from the rigging, 'Banzai! they have seen us—a steamer comes!'
Then the heat and the danger were forgotten in the excitement of watching the oncoming steamer. When two vessels, both going at full speed, are meeting one another, the intervening distance is soon covered. Suffice to tell, the succour arrived in time, and every passenger was taken off in safety.
Meanwhile a boat had been sent round the stern, with orders to shout to Hayashi to jump clear of the ship and allow himself to be picked up. The boat returned almost immediately; no one, the crew said, replied to their shouts. Presently the steamer separated from her burning sister and dropped back; then it was seen that the flames now swept the entire stern of the ill-omenedToki Maru. The wheel still stood, but no one was at it, nor could any human form be discerned on deck or in rigging.
Sadly we steamed homewards. We were saved, indeed, every one of us, but he to whom all were indebted for their lives, the young hero, Hayashi, the best and bravest of them all, had fallen a victim. Probably he had sprung, scorched and maddened with pain, into the sea, and had gone down like a stone.
But you will scarcely believe it, while groups of us still stood upon the quay at Shukisama discussing the tragedy, and wondering who would break the sad news to the wife at Hayashi's home, a small boathove in sight, coming in from the lake; in it sat a man rowing, and some one said, 'That is like theToki Maru'sboat which we thought burned.' Another said, 'What if it should be Hayashi in it?' Well, itwasHayashi. He arrived, grinning and well, though black with smoke and fire and half suffocated.
As the largest subscriber (Vandeleur ended), I was asked to present to Madam Hayashi the testimonial which the passengers united to offer to our brave 'man at the wheel.' He could not be made to see that he had deserved it, however.
'It got too hot at last,' he said with a laugh, 'and I cut down the boat and dropped overboard. 'The wheel? Oh, I lashed it so that it couldn't turn. Yes, I choked very much, but that is nothing!'
'I should like to meet a few more of Hayashi's kind before I die,' said Vandeleur, after a pause—'good, simple, humble chap; the very stuff heroes should be made of.'
A cabman, who had for some time been in the habit of drinking too much, signed the pledge at the request of a friend, but soon afterwards broke it. Conscience-stricken and ashamed, he tried to keep out of the way of his friend; but the friend was not to be put off. One day he found the poor, miserable man, and taking hold of his hand he said:
'John, when the road is slippery and your horse falls down, what do you do with him?'
'I help him up again,' replied John.
'Well, I have come to do the same,' said his friend. 'The road was slippery, I know, John, and you fell; but there is my hand to help you up again.'
The cabman's heart was touched. He said: 'God bless you, sir; you will never have cause to regret this. By His help I will never fall again.'
And to this day he has kept his word.
An old Persian died, leaving seventeen camels to be divided among his three sons in the following proportions: the eldest to have half, the second a third, and the youngest a ninth. Of course, camels cannot be divided into fractions, so, in despair, the brothers submitted their difference to a very wise old dervish.
'Nothing easier!' said the wise Ali. 'I will divide them for you.'
How did he do it?
H. B. Score.
[Answer on page371.]
A man who often travelled with large sums of money in his care was persuaded by his friends to carry a pistol as a safeguard.
On one of his journeys be was stopped by a tramp, and, loth to use his weapon, for he was a Friend, he resorted to stratagem, and gave up his money at once. Said he to the tramp: 'I must not be thought to have given up my master's cash without a struggle.'So, taking off his coat and hat, he said, 'Take a shot at that, friend;' and the robber complied.
"Give me back my money!""Give me back my money!"
'Fire away again,' said the Friend. The thief did so. 'Again,' said the other.
'I can't,' said the robber; 'I have no more shot.'
'Then,' said the other, producing his own pistol, 'give me back my money, or I will shoot you myself.'
An Arab Bakery.An Arab Bakery.
The wandering Arabs subsist almost entirely upon bread, wild herbs, and milk. It is rather strange that they should eat so much bread, because they never remain sufficiently long in one place to sow wheat and reap the harvest from it. They are compelled to buy all their corn from the people who live in towns, and have cultivated fields. When these townsmen and villagers have gathered in their harvests, the Arabs of the desert draw near their habitations, and send messengers to buy up corn for the tribe, and perhaps also to sell the 'flocks' of wool which they have shorn from their sheep.
Having obtained their supplies of corn, the Arabs return to the deserts or the open pasture-lands. They always carry with them little hand-mills, and when bread is to be made, it is the women's duty to grind the corn. The hand-mills are two stones, the shape of large, thick cakes, one of which lies upon the top of the other. The stones are about eighteen inches in diameter, and there is a hole through the centre of the upper one. A wooden peg, which is stuck upright in a small hole in the lower stone, projects into the larger hole of the stone above, and serves to keep it in its proper place. A smaller peg, inserted near the edge of the upper stone, forms a handle by means of which the whole stone may be turned round upon the top of the lower stone, and in this way the faces of the stones are made to grind against each other. The Arab woman places the mill upon a cloth spread upon the ground, and taking a few handfuls of corn she pours them into the hole in the centre of the upper stone, and begins to turn the mill. The grain falls through the hole, and passes between the two stones, where it is ground into flour, which flows out all round the mill, and is caught in the cloth.
When sufficient flour has been ground, the woman gathers it together, places it in a wooden bowl, adds a little water, and kneads it. No yeast is put to it, and the dough is of that kind which we call unleavened. It does not 'rise,' or swell, after it is kneaded, and the bread is not full of little holes, as our yeast-made bread is.
The dough is made into round balls, each of which is then rolled out into a thin cake. The oven is nothing but an iron plate, slightly raised in the centre, which is placed over a fire. The cakes are laid upon this plate, and are baked in a few minutes.
This is the manner of baking bread which is adopted by those tribes which are always moving from place to place. There are other tribes which change their encampment at longer intervals, and are often in one place for several weeks. Many of these bake their bread in a different way. They make an oven in the ground by digging a hole about three feet deep, making it wide at the bottom and narrow at the top, and they plaster the inside with mud. Having done this, they light a fire in the hole, and when it is thoroughly heated, they presssmall but thick cakes of dough against the sides, and hold them there for a few minutes until they are baked. These cakes, like those baked on the iron plate, are eaten hot.
WHILE ago the silent houseRe-echoed with their voices sweet—The music that their laughter made,The patter of their little feet.Outside, the wintry winds blew shrill,And all around the snow lay white;But little cared they for the storm,For 'Santa Claus will come to-night.'We heard them running to and fro,So eager in their merry gleeTo hang their stockings, limp and long,Where 'he' will be most sure to see.Such wondrous fairy-tales they weave,Such pictures of those far-off shoresFrom whence each Christmas-tide there comesTheir unknown friend, and all his stores.Now they are all in Slumberland,And Mother comes, with noiseless tread,For one last kiss; the shaded lightGleams softly o'er each curly head.A rustle, and a murmur low;Half-opened are the dreaming eyes.'Hush! hush! it's only Mother, dear!'''Tis Santa Claus!' the sleeper sighs.To-morrow, when the dawning lightBreaks through the wintry eastern skies,What joy will greet the morning bright,What happy hearts and sweet surprise!And we, whose childhood long since fled,Would fain entreat old Time to pause,To give us back our childish faith,And simple trust in Santa Claus.
(Continued from page347.)
Shocked beyond measure at the change in the fine, handsome Dick Peet he remembered years ago, Jack looked at him. His heart died within him. He had not, thank Heaven, killed his friend; but, alas! how little short of that was the mischief he had done! Could Dick ever forgive him? Even if he should, Jack could never forgive himself. Never should he forget his first sight of the changed, ruined Dick, nor that it was his hand which had wrought the change and ruin.
Estelle's touch roused him. 'Jack, dear Jack, come and speak to him. He is ready to forgive. See, he is waiting to do so. Be very gentle, and speak low. He will understand then.'
Jack's face was ashen, and his stalwart frame trembled as he approached the chair in which the invalid reclined. Dick's eyes shone with some of their old intelligence when he saw his former enemy, and his hands were held out in eager welcome. It almost seemed as if he looked upon Jack, not as an enemy to be pardoned, but as an old comrade with whom there had been a grievous misunderstanding.
'I wonder if he remembers there is anything to forgive?' thought Estelle, as she watched him.
Jack took the hands held out to him. He could barely mutter the word—'Forgive!'
'As I hope to be forgiven!' came in clear, steady tones, such as Dick had not been known to utter since his misfortune. There was a long silence. Estelle's eyes were full of tears. Jack, his head raised, was looking at Dick. But Dick's face was radiant with a joy that was not of this earth. His great desire had been granted. He was lying back, still clasping the hand of his enemy, but with his eyes on the blue sky he could see above the trees. Presently, as no one moved, he looked again at Jack, murmuring in his usual half-inarticulate way, but with a smile which meant a great deal to the sailor, 'My friend!'
'To the end of my life, if you will let me!' answered Jack, fervently. 'Thank Heaven you are alive! But that you can treat me so, receive me as a friend, after—— '
'Have waited—hoped—thankful!'
'What can I do for you? Let me do something!'
'You have come! All—clear—now!'
He began to look so faint that Estelle said hastily: 'We will come and see you again, Dick. You must rest now.'
'Come—again!' repeated Dick, his eyes appealing to Jack.
'I will,' replied Jack, getting up to go into the cottage.
'How do you do, Mrs. Peet?' said Estelle, as Dick's mother appeared. 'Poor Dick is quite startled and faint at the sight of us.'
'Lady Estelle!' she exclaimed, lifting her hands in amazement. 'Wherever did you come from? No wonder Dick is startled! Why, you might knock me down with a feather! And how bonnie you look! Not at all the worse for all you've been so long away.'
'I am coming to tell you all about it, but I must first go and see Aunt Betty.'
'Well, it will do her good to see you. It is a sight for old eyes to see your sweet face again, Missie!' Then, glancing at Jack, 'Is that the man who has taken care of you, and brought you home?'
'Yes, Mrs. Peet, it is; and you shall hear some day how good and kind he and his mother have been to me. But I have not time now, and you had better see how poor Dick is.'
Jack had wandered down to the gate in a stunned frame of mind, and here Estelle joined him, to beg him to walk up to the house with her.
'No, no, Missie, I could not—not after what has happened. I couldn't have people thanking me, and all that. I should feel a brute!'
Estelle looked distressed, but Jack went on, his hand on the gate:
'You see the business is not over yet. I must tell Dick's father. Where do you think I can find him?'
'Must you tell him to-day—just to-day?'
'It is best got over at once.'
'Then come up with me and find him, and we can see Aunt Betty at the same time.'
The gate at which they were standing was some dozen yards or so from the road, and, as Estelle spoke, some one rode round the bend and came towards them.
'Father!' cried Estelle, springing towards him, her face radiant, and forgetting everything in the joy of seeing him.
'My little girl!' he cried, springing from his horse.
He clasped her in his arms with a force which at any other time would have startled the child. Neither could speak, for at such an hour speech fails. Who shall describe the meeting? After nearly a year the lost had been found! A year which had laid its mark on all their lives, but which, now that it had passed, seemed to Lord Lynwood as 'a dream when one awaketh.' His child back in his arms, looking well and strong as ever, with every evidence of having been well cared for, her sweet eyes looking up into his!—is it wonderful that for some moments he could think of no one else, look at nothing but the face of his only child?
Jack remained quite still lest he should disturb them, his eyes on the distant hills; he would not, even unnoticed, intrude on their meeting. It was enough that he had seen a light—radiant, beautiful—break over his 'Little Missie's' face before he turned away.
There was a swift question and answer after the silence, and then Lord Lynwood, recovering himself, spoke.
'How can I thank you, my good fellow?' he said, holding out his hand to Jack.
'No thanks required, thank you, sir' returned the sailor, gravely; 'but if you'd be so kind as to tell me where I can find Mr. Peet, the gardener?'
It sounded so very commonplace that Lord Lynwood gave a laugh.
'Do you think he will be more grateful than we are?'
'I want no gratitude, sir,' replied Jack, gruffly; 'it is not for that I want him. If you wish to thank anybody, sir, it is my mother, who has nursed the little Missie through a terrible time.'
'Father,' said Estelle, who could scarcely speak even yet, and was clinging to her father's hand, as his arm rested round her shoulders, 'this is the dearest fellow that ever lived, and I have been cruel to forget him while I was so happy. But for him—— '
'Come now, Missie,' broke in Jack, turning red and pale alternately. His changing colour reminded Estelle that this day, so full of joy to her, must be one of acute pain to him.
'I know why he wants Peet,' she said, a shadow crossing her face. She was puzzled as to her duty in the matter.
'Do not stop my daughter,' said Lord Lynwood; 'I want to hear all that her kind and good friends have done for her. You must come up to the house and let my aunt, Lady Coke, see you. You will be bringing back new life to her with the restoration ofmy little girl. We should like, also, to ask you,' he continued, in a courteous tone, 'how it is that you have not been able to bring back the child before this?'
'I lost my memory, Father,' cried Estelle. 'I was always trying to remember my name, and who I was, but I could not. Then I had a dream—the night when Jack would go out to sea, that kept coming back to me, but still I could not put a name to anybody. Suddenly I saw Thomas, and dreadful things happened, from all of which Jack saved me; and then it all came to me, and I told Jack who I was, and where I lived. Then he brought me back at once.'
Lord Lynwood pressed her to him, and looked down with dim eyes at the sweet little face.
'Wright,' he said, 'I am not going to take a refusal, I must hear all about it. There is so much to ask! My child lost, and nobody knows how it happened, or what followed after you found her! We made all possible search, but no trace of her could we come across, and we had given up all hopes of ever seeing her again. You cannot now go away and leave all our questions unanswered. We will go to Lady Coke, who will like to add her thanks to mine for—— '
'Sir,' returned Jack, becoming very white, but looking determined, 'if that is your wish, then it is my duty to tell you what sort of a man I am before I can accept thanks or go to your house.'
'Jack! Jack!' pleaded Estelle, springing to his side and clasping his hand in both her own.
But he took no notice; perhaps her handclasp only strengthened his resolve.
'Do you see that poor fellow there,' he continued, pointing to Dick, over whom Mrs. Peet was leaning, administering some cordial. 'Do you see that poor wreck of a man? I didthat!'
He turned away.
There was silence. Lord Lynwood stood dumbfounded. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Estelle, looking from one to the other, exclaimed, 'Father, don't look at him like that. He is so miserable; so very, very miserable, and oh,sosorry! And, Father, Dick has forgiven him, and calls him his "friend." What can any one say whenDickforgives?'
'Nothing,' answered her father. 'Wright, my poor fellow, they say the greater the sinner, the greater the saint; so there is your chance for you. As for myself, I owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never repay. So don't expect me to cast stones. Ah, you ask for Peet? Do you wish to make your confession to him?'
'It is my duty, sir.'
Lord Lynwood was silent a moment, but Estelle exclaimed, in anxious tones, 'Dear Father, this need not be told to everybody, need it? Only to you and Aunt Betty, and Peet? Why is poor Jack to have—— '
'Certainly not,' returned Lord Lynwood, looking up. 'Wright, come with me to Peet. He is a gruff sort of chap, but true blue at bottom. He will take it hard at first, so I had better prepare you.'
(Continued on page367.)
"He could barely mutter the word—'Forgive!'""He could barely mutter the word—'Forgive!'"
"Colonel Smith emptied the glass.""Colonel Smith emptied the glass."
O one can rightly understand the African races without knowing something of the terror of witchcraft, magic, and ill-luck which hangs like a cloud over their lives. Differing from each other in many ways, the African tribes are alike in this, that their religion is one of fear, dread of unseen powers that work against man's peace and well-being unless propitiated by gifts, or defied by charms; and the result of this belief is to put unlimited power into the hands of those who profess to have intercourse with the spirit-world, and to foresee, or even to influence, the future of their neighbours. Therefore the European who comes to teach, to civilise, or to govern, finds his mightiest opponent in the witch-doctor, or medicine-man, who knows a little more than his neighbours, and makes capital out of their ignorance.
Some seventy years ago a party of these witch-doctors, who were making an excellent living among the Kaffirs by professing to make rain and find witches to order, met their match for once in the English Governor of the newly annexed province known as 'Queen Adelaide,' the genial and energetic officer of Peninsular fame, Colonel—afterwards Sir Harry—Smith.[5]The English 'father,' as he was styled by the Kaffirs, had acquired an extraordinary influence, by dint of much practical common sense and knowledge of humanity, a rigid military discipline, and last, not least, a stick with a very large knob at the end. Not that he ever used this stick to correct offenders, but it was always present on state occasions, and was reverenced as a sort of magic wand by the natives, for the words spoken by the 'father,' when he took that stick in his hand, were as the laws of the Medes and Persians. 'I shall wait for two hours before I touch my stick,' he said to a trembling, cringing chief, who had tried to stir up rebellion against the English rule. 'I must be quite cool; Englishmen are generous, but they must be just.'
It was a very anxious two hours that the chief spent, waiting for the touch upon the magic wand, and when he was summoned to the presence of the 'father,' and solemnly forgiven, he was cured of treasonable practices once and for all.
Colonel Smith started a vigorous campaign against rain-making and witch-finding, the latter being a practice not altogether unknown in England, where, three hundred years ago, it was not difficult to get rid of an obnoxious neighbour by a charge of witchcraft.
A poor man, robbed of his cattle and cruelly burnt by a chief who was rich enough to pay the witch-doctor, came to the 'father' to declare his innocence, and beg for redress. The knobbed stick, of course, came into action, and from behind it the judgment went forth that the chief should at once restore all the cattle taken from the injured man, with ten extra in compensation for his sufferings, and another ten as a fine to the English Government. East and west the news of the judgment was carried, in native fashion, the watchman on each of the low hills taking up and passing on the news of the 'father's' decision; so that, when the chief took no notice of the order, his evil conduct was known far and wide. Down came the cavalry upon the obstinate chief's territory; his cattle were driven off, and a receipt for them handed to him, that the whole affair might be thoroughly business-like and judicial. The astonished Kaffir had no resource but to cast himself humbly before the 'father' and the knobbed stick; and he became thenceforward the Governor's faithful friend and adherent.
The rain-makers were dealt with after another fashion. The Governor gathered a party of the most famous professors, and, in the presence of their clients and admirers, asked if they could really make rain as they declared. The wizards evidently felt that a bad quarter of an hour was coming. They hesitated; then, looking at the expectant faces of the people, who had doubtless paid many an ox for a shower, or the promise of one, they answered, as stoutly as they dared, that they possessed such power. The Englishman went on to exhibit various articles of English manufacture—his knife, his hat, his boots, and so on—asking, 'Can you make this?' And, as they all agreed in denying, he kindly explained how such things were made, without magic, in his country. Then, suddenly holding up a glass of water, he inquired—
'Is this like the water you cause to come?
'Yes,' agreed the chief doctor, cautiously.
'Very good.' Colonel Smith emptied the glass, and said amicably to the Kaffirs, 'Now, fill it again; put your rain into this glass.'
The rain-makers sought in vain for escape.
'Put more rain into the glass,' demanded the 'father,' sternly.
'We cannot,' faltered the baffled magicians, knowing their reputation gone for ever, while the Governor, addressing the people, announced that since none but God, the Great Spirit, could really make rain, any one who professed to do so henceforward would be promptly 'eaten up'—that is to say, deprived of his property by the 'father's' orders. He had the sagacity, however, to make his peace with the discomfited professors by sending for them afterwards, and providing each with some cattle and a little 'stock-in-trade,' as he calls it, to start them on a more honest way of life.
And if the African's dread of witchcraft makes him ruthless to the accused, he is equally pitiless in his terror of what he calls 'ill-luck.' An 'unlucky' child may, he believes, bring misfortune upon a whole village, and if mother-love triumphs sometimes over fear, and the little one grows out of babyhood without any neighbour knowing that it has cut its top teeth first, or is in some other way marked for misfortune, the secret may none the less leak out some day. And then the poor little bringer of 'bad luck' will quietly disappear, or will sicken and die of poison, administered by some terrified neighbour.
Two or three years ago, a frightened young mother brought her little one to a teacher in East Africa. The poor, precocious baby had been born with one tooth, and it showed some love and courage in the mother that she had come for help to the white friend who taught that it was wicked to kill babies for fear of bad luck. She could never hide it, she declared; the neighbours knew it already. Could the English 'Bibi' save the child?
The English 'Bibi' determined to test the faith of one of her Christian girls, a young wife who had no children of her own. She sent for her and asked the question, 'Rose, would you like a baby to take care of?'
Rose's beaming face was sufficient answer.
'But, Rose, it is akigego(unlucky) baby.'
Rose met the information with disdain. 'I am a Christian; I am not afraid of akigego.'
'But you must ask your husband first.'
The wife, in East Africa, is generally the more powerful influence in the house, and Rose would probably have been prepared to carry off the infant there and then. However, her husband proved to be quite of the same mind; and under the watchful care of the devoted foster-parents the poor littlekigegowill have every chance of bringing happiness into the house.
One more story of the triumph of light over darkness.
Under the banks of a river in West Africa there waited, some years ago, two or three canoes, concealed by the overhanging trees. A great man of the place was dead, and, according to the native custom, a little girl must be thrown alive into the river to drown. The few Christians had protested in vain against the murder, and, finding they could not prevent the deed, waited now in the shadow of the bank to save the child, if they could. They watched the poor little terrified creature flung into deep water, struggling and sinking. But, mercifully for her, one of the customs is to fasten a dozen or so of fowls about the neck of the victim, and the frightened birds, by their fluttering and flapping, kept her head above water until she drifted within reach of the rescuers. The little one was saved, and taken away from the neighbourhood, where her life would never have been secure.
And so, little by little, the sun rises upon the Dark Continent. One by one the old evil customs pass away. The Moorish galleys no longer hold the seas in dread; the slave caravan no longer leaves its terrible track of bleaching bones from Central Africa to the coast. Benin and Omdurman, and other 'cruel habitations,' have been thrown open and broken down. Wise heads have thought and planned, brave blood has been shed, noble lives laid down for the good of Africa, and, by slow degrees, the shadows are fleeing before the dawn.
Mary H. Debenham.
HE foxgloves are the sentinelsThat guard the fairies' sleep,When twilight comes, and to their bedsThe wee elves softly creep.And each wild rose a cradle isTo lull them to repose,While over them, so pink and white,The petals tightly close.They all night long serenely sleep,Until the peep of day;And then the roses open wideTo send the elves away.
During a recent visit at a Western ranch, we saw what was to us an entirely novel vehicle, a 'cow-waggon'—an immense canvas-covered van drawn by four horses. We also enjoyed the experience of a drive in one, lurching over the plain like a yacht in a rough sea.
The cow-waggon is fitted with all the necessary camping outfit used by the cow-boys on a 'round-up,' or cattle-herding expedition. Every bit of space is used, and in its ample canvas cavern are packed the beds, provisions, cooking utensils, tent canvas, and the odds-and-ends of the 'outfit.'
The back of the cow-waggon comes down and turns out on supports, making a shelf-table; behind the movable back are a cupboard and the cook's store-lockers, always well stocked, for the 'punchers' (men who brand the cattle) are men of mighty appetite. Meals served on the prairie by the cow-waggon cook are splendid. They consist of coffee and beans, bacon and beef, dried fruit and delicious rolls. The rolls and other 'sour-dough' dainties are baked in a Dutch oven. The term 'sour-dough' is another Western word. It was first used to denote the light bread baked by the cow-waggon cook, though the bread is usually excellent. A later use of 'sour-dough' is as a title for newly arrived miners in the Arctic goldfields of the Klondyke.
When the camping-ground is reached, a wide canvas is stretched over the cow-waggon; this spreads out on all sides, and is a shade 'in a weary land' for the tired puncher.
Cattle are on the move at sunrise, and it behoves the cow-boy to be also on the alert. The sun, coming up over the great stretches of plain, gives a similar impression to that of a sunrise at sea. If the round-up is in Alberta, the grass is fragrant with wild flowers, especially the dwarf-rose, and the morning air is melodious with bird-songs.
The 'puncher' comes out from his blankets and scans the hundreds of cattle dotted here and there in the shadow of the foot-hills. Presently an animal stretches out its hind legs and comes clumsily to its feet; others follow, and the herds are soon busily cropping the dew-laden grass. The puncher looks at his rope and his horse, sniffs the aroma of coffee, and promptly answers to the call of 'Grub.' There is a flourish of tin plates and cups, and of iron-handled knives and forks, and a rapiddisappearance of the 'chuck.' Then to horse and the duties of the day.