A RESIDENCE AT JUJA 



our clothes, we sipped and read the papers — two 

 months off the press, but fresh arrived for all that — 

 until a white-robed, dignified figure appeared in the 

 doorway to inform us that dinner was ready. Our 

 ways were civilized and soft, then, until the morrow 

 when once again, perhaps, we went forth into the 

 African wilderness. 



Juja is a place of startling contrasts — of naked 

 savages clipping formal hedges, of windows opening 

 from a perfectly appointed brilliantly lighted dining- 

 room to a night whence float the lost wails of hyenas 

 or the deep grumbling of lions, of cushioned luxu- 

 rious chairs in reach of many books, but looking out 

 on hills where the game herds feed, of comfortable 

 beds with fine linen and soft blankets where one lies 

 listening to the voices of an African night, or the 

 weirder minor house noises whose origin and nature 

 no man could guess, of tennis courts and summer 

 houses, of lawns and hammocks, of sundials and 

 clipped hedges separated only by a few strands of 

 woven wire from fields identical with those in which 

 roamed the cave men of the pleistocene. But to 

 Billy was reserved the most ridiculous contrast of 

 all. Her bedroom opened to a veranda a few feet 

 above a formal garden. This was a very formal 

 garden, with a sundial, gravelled walks, bordered 

 fiower beds, and clipped border hedges. One night 



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