CHAPTER XII 



THE EYE OF KURUMAN 



One hundred miles to the west of Vryburg, 

 right in the heart of Bechuanaland, over a 

 desolate road of limestone, dolomite and sand, 

 lies the village of Kuruman. It is best known 

 to fame as the mission station of Moffat and 

 the place where Livingstone lay down on a 

 pillow of stone and dreamt of that sliining 

 ladder which led him to Lake Ngami, to the 

 Smoke- Sounding Falls, and to the shores of 

 Tanganyika. Three miles down the Kuruman 

 River you come to the old mission station, 

 buried amidst a wealth of seringa and willow. 

 There is the mission church built by Moffat, as 

 sound to-day as in 1828. There is the institute 

 for the teaching of the native children — a 

 generous gift from the hard earnings of the good 

 folk in the Homeland, now empty, neglected, 

 and falling in shameful ruins. There is the 

 twisted almond -tree, seared with the lightning 

 stroke and seamed with decay, still bearing 

 bravely its green fruit, where the great ex- 



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