Samba

g of the

pread with the delicate tracery of lianas and, creeping plants. Here was a spot of red, there a dash of orange; at intervals the pale yellow flowers of climbing gourds and the mauve blossoms

e, on a sandy islet, flashed the scarlet and blue of little kingfishers, contrasting with the sober grey of the bittern, or the black and

eye was caught by a small round soft object lying motionless on the surface. A tiny crocodile, only a few inches long, darted from beneath the leaf of a water-lily, in pursuit of a tinier fish. The round object suddenly contracted: there was a ripple on the water, and the baby crocodile found itself in the grasp of

ear, and turning, he saw a handsome young lizard, pied with yellow and greenish black, flashing along in chase of a fat frog which it ha

and spend hours in the forest or by the river bank, listening to the chatter of the monkeys and the screams of the parrots, watching the little stingless bees at their work, mocking the hollow note of the

d the shining fish darting this way and that in the clear depths. Suddenly a scream of the fishing eagle caused him to glance up. Then a shout made him spring to his feet and look wonderingly in the direction of the sound. He knew n

nkoe

] called Sa

ore strokes of the paddle and it came under the bank. The white man leapt ashore, followed by the two men who had been seated. They were big fierce-looking fellows. Each carried a long strangely-shaped stick with a hollow tube; about his waist dangled a bag of skin. The white man stepped up to Samba, smiled upon him, patted his woolly head. Then one of the negroes began to question him. Where was his village? What was it called? Who was its chief? How many huts did it contain? Was there much forest about it? To these questions Samba replie

y, his body scarred with wounds, his memory stored with the things he had seen and done. Samba's father, Mboyo (or Isekasamba, "father of Samba," as he was called after his boy was born), was the old chief's favourite son, a daring hunter, a skilful fisher, and the most silent man of his tribe. He

om their simple bamboo beds, fling their hunting-nets or fishing-baskets on their shoulders, hang about their necks the charms that would preserve them from accident and ensure success in the work of the day, and repair to the old chief, who, sitting on his forked chair in the middle of the street, gave them the bokaku-

the gardens and cultivated fields, to perform their simple operations of husbandry, and to return by and by with manioc, plantains, ground-nuts, which they would prepare against their husbands' return. The morning's work done, they would dress their hair, carefully, even fastidiously; kindle

ther and thither in mock chase, or spread their fishing-nets in the stream and gleefully boasted of their tiny catches. The girls wove little baskets and played with beads and shells. One and all, the children of Banonga were deft with thei

jaws of crocodiles, of fierce fights with cannibals, of adventurous journeys by field and flood. Samba never tired of one story: how, years before, Mirambo had made a long journey to Wanganga, far, very far away, and had there seen a white man, who wore cloth all over his body, and had come up the river on a wonderful smoke-boat, driven by a fiery snorting devil that devoured insat

the huts above which the wreathing smoke proclaims preparations for the evening meal; the children gather in a laughing chattering flock at the end of the street. The s

-o! I-yo

the women and children welcoming their return. The flesh is cut up, the fish divided: the women return to their huts to cook the supper; the children cling about their fathers' legs and recount the little adventures of the day. The meal is eaten: the whole population form a wide circle in the street, an

sed his happy boyhood, in the village of Banong

tled glance and fled into their huts, where they stood peeping from behind the posts of palm. Mirambo, the chief, rose from his seat and awaited with dignity the approach of the white man. Ceremonious greetings were exchanged. Then ensued a

n with cries of anger, and spears, and knives. Had not he, Mirambo, seen Bula Matadi, the friend of the black man? "When my sons return from their hunting," said Mirambo, "they shall provide the stranger with all that he needs. They shall give him plantai

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