ON THE MARCH 



up the men were splashing. And always my mental 

 image of that river's beautiful expanse must include 

 round black heads floating like gourds where the 

 water ran smoothest. 



Our tents stood all in a row facing the stream, the 

 great trees at their backs. Down in the grove the 

 men had pitched their little white shelters. Hap- 

 pily they settled down to ease. Settling down to 

 ease, in the case of the African porter, consists in 

 discarding as many clothes as possible. While on 

 the march he wears everything he owns; whether 

 from pride or a desire to simplify transportation I am 

 unable to say. He is supplied by his employer with 

 a blanket and jersey. As supplemental he can 

 generally produce a half dozen white man's ill-as- 

 sorted garments: an old shooting coat, a ragged pair 

 of khaki breeches, a kitchen tablecloth for a skirt, or 

 something of the sort. If he can raise an overcoat 

 he is happy, especially if it happen to be a long, thick 

 winter overcoat. The possessor of such a garment 

 will wear it conscientiously throughout the longest 

 journey and during the hottest noons. But when 

 he relaxes in camp, he puts away all these prideful 

 possessions and turns out in the savage simplicity 

 of his red blanket. Draped negligently, sometimes 

 very negligently, in what may be termed semi-toga 

 fashion, he stalks about or squats before his little 



79 



