ISO 
IN AFRICA 
dence, for this is a section of the country that has 
suffered much from native uprisings during the last 
few years. We called on the solitary white resident 
one evening, and, true to the creed of the Briton, he 
had dressed for dinner. The sight of a man in a 
dinner-coat miles from a white man and leagues 
from a white woman was something to remember 
and marvel at. 
Northward from Eldoma Ravine for days we 
marched, sometimes in dense forests so thick that 
a man could scarcely force himself through the 
undergrowth that flanked the trail, and sometimes 
through upland meadows so deep in tall yellow 
grass as to suggest a field of waving grain, then 
through miles of country studded with the gnarled 
thorn tree that looks so much like our apple trees 
at home. It was as though we were traversing an 
endless orchard, clean, beautiful, and exhilarating 
in the cool winds of the African highlands. And 
then, all suddenly, we came to the end of the trees, 
and before us, like a great, heaving yellow sea, lay 
the Guas Ngishu Plateau that stretches northward 
one hundred miles and always above seven thousand 
feet in altitude. 
Par ahead, like a little knob of blue, was Ser- 
goi Hill, forty miles away, and beyond, in a fainter 
blue, were the hills that mark the limit of white 
man’s passport. On the map that district is marked: 
“Natives probably treacherous.” Off to the left, 
a hundred miles away, the dim outline of Mount 
Elgon rose in easy slopes from the horizon. Elgon, 
