CHAPTER XV 



THE END OF THE TRAIL 



OUR four years were drawing to a close. On otir 

 last Christmas at the Lake Osa lighted her 

 little Christmas tree and the candles seemed to shoot 

 their beams out over the desert from the roof of the 

 world. For the boys we had a barbecue of roast 

 ox, and doled out khaki cloth and cigarettes after 

 dinner. 



For ourselves Osa and Phishie prepared a great 

 feast. We had sardines for hors d'ceuvres, a soup 

 from tomatoes in the garden. "Tommy" (Thomp- 

 son's gazelle) steaks, roast spurfowl, string beans, 

 alligator pears, apricots, black cranberry sauce, 

 olives, raisin biscuit — Osa's specialty — sweet pota- 

 toes, native coffee, floating island pudding, of which 

 we never grew tired, pecans and Nairobi cigars. 



After dinner we watched the boys dance and chant, 

 while the flames lighted up the lake and the vine-clad 

 cliffs, their orange red lances piercing the aisles of the 

 forest far beyond the boma. We felt a little happier, 

 I think, for not having neglected Christmas. 



Other people had by now found the way to thi^ 



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