158 TWO DIANAS IN SOMALILAND 
piqued my curiosity naturally, and I gave him no 
peace until I extracted what I wanted to know more 
than anything else just then. Prepared for any mortal 
thing, for the Somali nicknames are nothing if not 
deadly descriptive, I learned I was called by the men 
44 Daga-yera,” small ears. This was not so bad, and 
at least not uncomplimentary. Clarence looked at me 
keenly to see if he noted any signs of offence, but I 
was smiling broadly, so he smiled too. I told him 
that with us small ears are not considered a drawback, 
whatever they may be in Somaliland. 
Almost on every march we came on graves, some 
together, here and there one alone, marking the spot 
where some traveller had fallen by the way. An 
important head-man, or chief, has a perfect stockade 
of thorn bushes and stones piled atop of him to keep 
off the jackals and hysenas. The women, however, 
less important in death as in life, have merely thorn 
piled casually on their tombs with some such relic as 
a bit of an old shield or worse for wear harn strung 
aloft to act as a deterrent to the scratchings of wild 
beasts. When we passed by graves the men would 
cross their hands and say a prayer, whether for them- 
selves or for the dead I do not know. They would 
be solemn for a moment, brooding, and then set off 
a-chanting again. They are a strange romantic people, 
whose sun ever follows on the silver mist of rain. 
A perfect avalanche of water fell after this for two 
whole days and kept us in our drenched tents. And 
again everything was wet through. Rain is a very 
real terror to the poor camper out. Fires are off, and 
