THE LAST FRONTIER 



We heard beneath the wild weird minors the light 

 rhythmic stamping of feet, and the tapping of sticks. 

 The procession debouched from the jungle's edge into 

 the circle of the firelight. Our old chief led, accom- 

 panied by a bodyguard in all the panoply of war: 

 ostrich feather circlets enclosing the head and face, 

 shields of bright heraldry, long glittering spears. 

 These were followed by a dozen of the quaintest 

 solemn dolls of beebees dressed in all the white 

 cowry shells, beads and brass the royal treasury af- 

 forded, very earnest, very much on inspection, every 

 little head uplifted, singing away just as hard as 

 ever they could. Each carried a gourd of milk, a 

 bunch of bananas, some sugarcane, yams or the 

 like. Straight to the fire marched the pageant. 

 Then the warriors dividing right and left, drew up 

 facing each other in two lines, struck their spears up- 

 right in the ground, and stood at attention. The 

 quaint brown little women lined up to close the end 

 of this hollow square, of which our group was, 

 roughly speaking, the fourth side. Then all came to 

 attention. The song now rose to a wild and ecstat- 

 tic minor chanting. The beebees, still singing, one 

 by one cast their burdens between the files and at 

 our feet in the middle of the hollow square. Then 

 they continued their chant, singing away at the tops 

 of their little lungs, their eyes and teeth showing, 



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