Dec. 13, 1913 - 
FOREST AND STREAM 
751 
stand, even for the sake of peace. I told him, 
through my interpreter, that the ‘white man never 
ate rats, but that he would drink the cup of 
peace.’ To my great relief, the chief was willing 
to accept this compromise, and the cup of peace 
was quaffed, thus ending the ceremony. 
“I believe that 1 was the happiest man in 
Africa. I succeeded in purchasing a plot of 
ground, and proceeded to study the customs of 
these savages and to learn their language. 1 
soon found them to be as generous as they were 
characteristically barbarous and cruel. One of 
their customs was to compel the wife of a chief, 
in the event of his death, to mourn his loss by 
sitting in close proximity to his corpse, which 
was suspended from the ridge pole of the hut, 
for a period of several months; she was sup¬ 
posed to maintain a fixed gaze upon the corpse. 
During this time her food was brought to her by 
the witch doctor, whose duty it was to observe 
her closely until her period of mourning was 
ended. And if she was detected in the act of 
lowering her gaze, he would seize her and drag 
THE HALL MARK OF THE TRIBE 
her away to be buried up to her neck in earth. 
He would then place a bunch of bananas and a 
gourd of water on each side of her head, just 
beyond her reach. In this condition she was left 
for three days, and even though her own son 
might pass by and hear her cries, he dare not so 
much as alleviate her suffering with a drink of 
water. At the end of the three days, the witch 
doctor would end her agony with a blow from a 
sharp-edged weapon, reserved for that purpose. 
Another brutal custom among these people was 
the direct result of their complete reverence for 
the witch doctor. Whenever one of their tribe 
was suspected of being possessed of an evil spirit 
the witch doctor was called upon to pass judg¬ 
ment; and if the suspect was adjudged guilty— 
which usually happened—the victim was lead 
away to be given, what was regarded as an addi¬ 
tional chance for his life—a potion of deadly 
poison! If, after swallowing this dose, he 
should by any possible chance recover, he was 
vindicated. But the dose invariably proved fatal. 
The moment life was extinct, the witch doctor 
would draw from his girdle a sharp axe and 
cleave the body from neck to breast. He would 
then take from his belt a long, keen-edged knife 
with which he would cut the heart from out the 
body. 
I realized from the beginning that one of my 
greatest difficulties would be to purge from the 
primitive minds of these people their super¬ 
stitious beliefs. The opportunity came in a man¬ 
ner least expected. One night, while I sat medi¬ 
tating in the solitude of my hut, I heard a strange 
sound as of someone moving furtively about the 
entrance. I went to the door and looked out. 
It was a calm, beautiful night, and the full 
African moon was shining over all the surround¬ 
ing landscape. And by its white light I recog¬ 
nized the familiar form of the witch doctor, as 
he stood statue-like, hesitating how to approach 
me. I had been in the habit of administering to 
the members of the tribe when they were sick, 
and I fancied that he was in need of medical 
attention. Imagine my surprise when he told me 
that he had come to learn of the white man's 
God of love. I took him into my hut and talked 
with him far into the night. The next morning 
he did a thing which proved him to be a man of 
dauntless courage. Waiting until Munkamaduda 
made his appearance, he rushed up to him, and, 
throwing his axe to the ground, he renounced 
his calling and loudly proclaimed his conversion. 
Instantly the tribe was in an uproar. With con¬ 
siderable difficulty I got him away from his mad¬ 
dened tribesmen. I kept him close to me all that 
day. and when night came, I took a steel clasp— 
somewhat resembling a pair of handcuffs—and 
with it fastened his ankle to mine. We then lay 
down to rest, and waited for the morning light 
to break. I knew they could not get him away 
from me. fastened together as we were, without 
cutting my leg off—and if they did that I surely 
would wake up. But they never came near us. 
It was the beginning of the end of their barbar¬ 
ous superstition. That necklace which I have 
shown you was given to me by the witch doctor 
as an attestation of his conversion. Every one 
of those beads represents the heart of a sup¬ 
posedly bewitched savage. So you can now see 
why I value it so highly.” 
The doctor here concluded his tale. When I 
passed out of his study, I glanced again at the 
skin of the crocodile; and then at the skins of 
the large Mboma and Cobra snakes which had 
also fallen victims to his marksmanship, and as I 
bade 'him good bye, and felt the hearty grip of 
his hand. I realized that I had. indeed, had the 
rare pleasure of meeting a preaching hunter—"a 
mighty hunter before the Lord.” 
“Huntin’ O’ The Quail” 
BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE. 
Did you ever go a-huritin’ on a crisp November 
morn, 
When the frost had hung his laces on the locust 
and the thorn, 
When the air was like a tonic an’ the sky was 
like a tone, 
An’ a kind o’ huntin’ fever seemed a burnin’ in 
your bone? 
O, the music in the clatter as you canter to the 
fid’s! 
O, the echo in the patter of the dogs upon your 
heels! 
What a picture for a painter when the setter 
makes a stand 
While that dreamy gleamv silence seems to settle 
on the land! 
Are you ready, boys? 
-—Ready! 
(Click! click! click!) 
Come, steady, dogs! 
-—Steady! 
(Click ! click ! click !) 
Then ’tis whir-ir-ir-ir! 
Bang! Bang! Bang! 
An’ ’tis whir-ir-ir-ir! 
Bang! Bang! Bang! 
An’ your heart jumps like a rabbit tho’ you didn’t 
touch a tail—- 
Still, you’d like to live forever—just a-huntin’ o’ 
the quail! 
Did you ever stop for luncheon on a bright No¬ 
vember noon, 
Where the pines were lispin’ lullabies an’ the 
winds were all acroon? 
Where a spring was just a-singin’ an’ a-dancin’ 
down a hill, 
An’ you tap the tank where Nature runs her ever- 
lastin' still? 
How the beaten biscuit fade beneath the ferver 
of your kiss! 
How the sandwiches are laid beneath a blighting 
that is bliss! 
What an’ appetite for eatin’ you discover you 
have got— 
O, wouldn’t you be champion were you half as 
good a shot? 
Are you ready, boys? 
—Ready! 
(Tap, tap, tap!) 
Are you steady, boys? 
—Steady! 
(Tap, tap, tap!) 
Then ’tis guggle, guggle, guggle, guggle! 
Pop ! pop! pop! 
An’ ’tis google, google, google, google! 
Pop ! pop! pop! 
’Til you toss away the bottle as you would a 
twice-told tale—- 
O, ain’t it just too fine a sport!—this huntin’ o’ 
the quail? 
Did you ever come from huntin’ on a sweet No¬ 
vember eve, 
When the sun seemed kinder sorry such a dreamy 
day to leave. 
When your heart was like a feather, an your 
bag was like a lead. 
An’ the liltin’ of a lark was like vespers over¬ 
head? 
An’ you found a poem strayin’ an’ a-swayin’ on 
the gate 
While she chides you for a-stayin’ with Diana out 
so late! 
O. of course you stop to greet ’er an’ to give her 
half your birds— 
Ev’ry poem has a meter so you meet ’er with 
these words: 
Do you love me, Susie? 
—Love you! 
(Kiss, kiss, kiss!) 
Will you wed me, Susie? 
—Wed you! 
(Bliss, bliss, bliss!) 
Then ’tis whir-ir-ir-ir! 
(Your heart, your heart,) 
An’ ’tis whir-ir-ir-ir! 
(Her heart, her heart,) 
Just a-flutterin’ like a covey with Cupid on the 
trail—• 
O. it beats all kinds o’ huntin’ when you bag this 
kind o’ quail! 
Of the two million trees to be planted on the 
National forests of Montana and northern Idaho 
during the present fiscal year, one-half have been 
set out this fall and the rest will be put in next 
spring. 
He's making coin to beat the band 
With ease that is surprising. 
Each day he takes some money and 
Keeps right on advertising. 
