432 THE LAND OF THE LION 



away. The purple forest ridges sending up their morning 

 oblation of silvery cloud incense to their lord the sun. 



The measured tramp and tap, tap of the porters* sticks, 

 as the Wanyamwazi column marches steadily into camp. 



The tender wonder of evening light you see it in 

 Africa as nowhere else flushing not the sky only, but 

 rolling in a flood of gold and crimson over the wide- 

 flung veldt. 



The delicious cool of the evening, when all work is 

 over and the fragrant smoke of thorn wood fires rises 

 into the still air. 



The long talks and gradually won confidences, as wild 

 men told quietly of deeds done and wrongs suffered, spoke, 

 at first hesitatingly, of strange rites observed by them, 

 they knew not why. They did as their fathers had done 

 before them. 



I shall see the haunting beauty of Kenia's silvery crown, 

 as far up in heaven it rose before me in the twilight, serene, 

 virginal, unearthly. And again long black lines of mighty 

 elephants will come slowly down from the purple slopes 

 of Elgon, and stream across the wide yellow plain. 



My first lion comes forth at last from the shelter of the 

 thorn bushes. The morning sun shining full upon him, 

 as he turns his massive head toward me. 



It is hard to bid Africa good-bye. But harder far to 

 look in the dark faces of the men I have learned to trust 

 my companions and friends for the last time. These 

 true friends and companions of more than a year's wan- 

 dering! How often I shall see them rise before me, as 

 again we trudge along in the white glare of the noonday, 

 or as their faces are lit up by the leaping flame of the camp 

 fire, on glorious African nights! 



There is little Peter, the cook, merry as a grig, tramp- 

 ing with his two kettles, one in each hand, all day, cooking 

 all the evening, and dancing vigorously in every dance 



