162 JUNGLE PEACE 



arose, low and indistinct, lost for a moment, 

 then rising and lost again. Then it rang out 

 rich and harmonious, the full-throated paddling 

 chanty of a gold-boat of blacks coming down 

 river with their tiny pokes of glittering dust. It 

 tore at the heart-strings of memory, and in its 

 wildness, its sad minor strain, was strangely 

 moving. The steersman set the words and in 

 high, quavering tones led the chorus, which broke 

 in, took up the phrase, different each time, and 

 repeated it twice over, with a sweet pathos, a 

 finality of cadence which no trained white chorus 

 could reproduce. 



There was much of savage African rhythm in 

 these boat-songs, and instead of the drum of the 

 Zulus came the regular thump-thump, thump- 

 thump, of paddles on the thwarts. They were 

 paddling slowly, weary and tired after a long 

 day of portaging, passing with the tide down to 

 Bartica. Then on to a short, exciting period of 

 affluence in Georgetown, after which they would 

 return for another six months in the gold bush. 

 They were realizing their little El Dorados in 

 these very waters more successfully than Sir 

 Walter Raleigh was able to do. 



I have said that the wonder windows would 



