128 A JOURNEY UP THE RIVER CONGO. 
the natives received us most hospitably, and at once 
invited me into an inhabited hut, where I could remain and 
dry myself until an unoccupied dwelling could be found 
and placed at my disposal. The other inmates of the house, 
excepting the many and constant visitors, were a middle- 
aged man, with his hair en chignon, his wife, suckling ~ 
a baby, whose forehead was ernamented with a band of 
scarlet pigment, and an old man, who might have been a 
poor broken-down uncle of the family. 
After the drenching rain and sodden dampness outside, 
the dry warmth of this interior was a most pleasant 
contrast, and I sat down on a large raised bed of matting 
with a sense of comfort and resignation. There was a 
wood fire in the centre of the floor which served to dry my 
clothes, but the smoke coming from the burning wood 
made my eyes smart considerably. Seeing this, the woman 
removed the burning brands and only left the clear bright 
ashes onthe hearth. The house was clean and tidy, and 
round the walls were ranged many neatly made articles. 
There were long pipes with little bowls, a clarionet, a 
white mug (these last presents from “ Mputo”), a musical 
instrument like a guitar, but with five strings, a collection 
of skilfully made little pouches, containing I know not 
what, hippopotamus harpoons, fishing nets, horns, and a 
multitude of odds and ends, only to be classed under that 
convenient term e¢ cetera. 
I opened my case of provisions, laid the cloth on the bed, 
and sat down with considerable appetite to a frugal repast. 
The sight of the tinned condiments excited a considerable 
amount of half-fearsome interest on the part of such 
natives as watched my proceedings. They tapped their 
mouths with their fingers—a favourite mode of expressing 
surprise—when they saw Faraji cut with a “tin-opener ” 
into what they imagined a solid block of steel, and pro-— 
duce little fish (sardines) floating in oil. But when I 
offered them some to taste they withdrew affrighted. It 
was “ Nkisi” magic, white man’s food—poison, “and some 
of them were so alarmed at my proffering part of my 
lunch that they hurriedly left the hut. But curiosity soon 
