In Untrodden Paths 



Wandering about the other side of the river 

 one evening in search of something succulent for 

 the pot, I chanced upon an old village built by 

 the Wandorobo the hunting tribe of East Africa. 

 They are extremely shy of the white man, and, 

 although never hostile, they seem nervous of 

 having much to do with him. Small settlements 

 of this peculiar race of aborigines may be found 

 in the gloomy depths of almost any large forest 

 in this part of the world. 



The village, shown in the accompanying picture, 

 consisted of a big circular zareba of thorn bushes, 

 high and strong enough to prevent a lion from 

 breaking through and stealing any of their stock. 

 Inside the space was divided into different little 

 "corrals," some containing tiny round houses of 

 sticks and leaves, others for sheep, goats, and 

 cattle. This village was peculiar of its kind, as, 

 owing to the mosquitoes being so troublesome, 

 the savage in this district has taken the infinite 

 trouble to build himself houses perched upon 

 long poles or stilts. The mosquito finds its 

 home close to the ground in the grass, so that a 

 house raised fifteen feet or so is almost immune 

 from its attacks. 



The Wandorobo, by the way, are the poorest 

 of the poor. If they are met in the forest on the 

 march, their worldly possessions and stock-in-trade 

 are interesting. They seldom wear even the 

 conventional fig-leaf. They are armed with a 



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