THE LAST SEFARI 431 
wilderness. There is something in what John Burroughs 
says, who, when he does allow himself a rare excursion into 
poetry, writes well. 
“The moon comes nightly to the sky, 
The tidal wave unto the sea; 
Nor time nor space nor deep nor high 
Can keep my own away from me.” * 
This old world is not a bad, but a good and a beautiful 
world; and a man is better, or should be, for seeing it. 
And even its neglected and forgotten sons, called some- 
times too contemptuously, heathen, men with no history, 
no great tradition to help them along the stony paths 
of life, are still full worthy to be held as brothers by 
the best of us. 
“He hath made of one blood all men to dwell on the 
face of the earth.”’ So the old book has it, and the man 
who moves among his kind with eyes open and heart in 
his bosom, knows it to be true. 
Tried by our standards they are ignorant, and cer- 
tainly they have no hope of any other life beyond the grave. 
But they have a good working morality of their own, and 
I have well proved many of them to be brave, honest, 
faithful, courteous, heathen gentlemen. They gave me, 
a stranger, of their best, and what more can any of us give 
to his friend. Ah! How few give that? 
To know Africa once, they say, is never to forget her; 
and I surely take away memories with me, that have become 
part of myself. Waking and sleeping, they will revisit me 
again and again. 
The delight of early morning riding, through the new 
and wonderful world of the dew. The freshness and peace 
everywhere, when at last the long watch and ward of the 
night were over, and even the most timid beasts cast fear 
*T am obliged to make any quotations I indulge in from memozy, ard mine is very poor. 
