After the people had looked to the baby's needs and saw that it might

live, they gathered together to listen to what the lad had to say. When

they had heard his account, they started back with him to find his

mother's corpse. They took it up and carried it to her husband's village,

there to hold palaver over the death. As soon as they reached the village,

instead of announcing themselves as visitors to the husband, they went

straight to the brother-in-law's house. They found him sitting in the

veranda. They laid the corpse at his feet. This so startled him that a

look of guilt showed on his face. Looking at the party who had brought the

corpse, he saw among them the lad; and at once he felt sure that this lad

had been a witness of his crime. He lost his self-control, and began to

scold, "What do you put this thing at my feet for? Take it away!"

Then all the townspeople gathered around him, being horrified at the news

of the woman's death. The husband called them all to a council, and the

palaver was held at his house. There the grandfather and the lad told the

whole story.

The brother-in-law began to enter a denial; but the husband said, "No, you

are guilty! and because we are brothers, and we are one, the guilt is also

mine; and I will confess for you. You are guilty. Your actions show it.

Why did you become so angry as soon as you saw the corpse at your feet?"

But the wife's family said to the husband, "We have no quarrel with you.

We want only the person who killed our sister, and a fine of money for our

loss."

Then the husband said, "You are right; this man killed her. Take him, and

for a fine take his slaves and other property. He has deliberately

deprived me of a wife, and my children of a mother. Take all he owns." It

was so done; and the assemblage dispersed.

VI. THE WIZARD AND HIS INVISIBLE DOG.

(This, my informant asserted, actually happened at the town of Libreville,

Gabun.)

One night a young woman was alone in her house. She was married; but, that

particular night, the husband was absent.

After she had gone to her bed for the night, she slept, but not very

soundly. Half awake, she thought she heard something moving in the front

reception-room (ikenga). She had lowered the lamp in her bedroom, but it

still gave enough light for her to see. She slightly opened the

mosquito-net on one side and began to look and listen. But she saw no one

nor anything unusual in her room. But as the door between her bedroom and

the reception-room was slightly ajar, she looked toward its opening, and

thought she saw a figure moving in that room. She felt sure there was some

one there. So she stepped softly out of the bed, and peeped through the

narrow opening of the door. Sure enough, there was a man.

She was frightened, but controlled herself. She was puzzled to know how he

had got into that room, whose outer door she knew she had fastened before

she went to bed. She crept quietly back to her bed, and then began to

shout, "Who is that? How did you get in? I see you!" There was no answer.

The figure ceased moving, and stood still. The woman again cried out, "Who

are you? When did you come in? What do you want?" The man replied in a low

voice, "It is I!" She rejoined, "Who is 'I'? Are you only 'me'? Who are

you? How did you succeed in entering? Go out!" So he apparently opened the

door and went out. She was so frightened that she did not immediately

follow him, nor did she make a public outcry.

Awhile afterward she recovered self-control, and arose and went into the

outer room, and assured herself that the outside door was fast, as she had

left it. She believed he had entered the closed door by witchcraft art.

The next morning she told her village people the story; but she was afraid

to mention the man's name (for she knew who he was), because many people

thought he possessed power as a wizard, and she feared he would revenge

himself on her. She told his name only to her mother.

Not long afterward he came again to her house when she was alone at night,

but did not enter. He came to the outside wall against which he knew her

bedstead stood. Lying there, she could see his form through the cracks in

the bamboo wall. She saw this as she happened to awake from sleep. She saw

his figure standing still, and she heard a sound as of the tinkling of a

bell moving about, such as natives tie to the necks of their dogs in

hunting. The wizard had brought with him this time a small invisible beast

to whose neck the invisible but audible bell was attached; and she heard

a sound along the bottom of the wall, as if the animal was scratching a

hole for its master's entrance. This time she was so alarmed that she

screamed aloud to the people of the village; and then, through the chinks

in the wall, she saw passing by in the street the figure of the same man.

The very next day the woman began to be sick of a fever. For several days

she was quite ill, and people began to be alarmed for her. Her sickness

grew very much worse. Her people sent for a Senegal man, living in

Libreville, who had quite a reputation as a doctor in that kind of

sickness. When this doctor came, she was able to speak only in a low

voice, and she recounted to him what had happened. He asked her to mention

the precise spot on which the man had stood outside of the wall of her

house. She described to her mother the particular spot, and the mother

took the doctor to show him. He scraped up clay from the place and mixed

it in a small bowl of cold water. He directed that after she had been

given a bath morning and evening this muddy water should be rubbed over

her body. She said that when it was thus rubbed over her skin, her flesh

temporarily felt as if it was paralyzed.

Her sickness continued more than a month, and then she recovered. Soon

after her recovery the man who had attempted to enter her room, and who

was suspected of having caused her sickness by witchcraft art, suddenly

left Gabun, and went to another country.

VII. SPIRIT-DANCING.

Antyande, a Mpongwe woman of the town of Libreville, Gabun, is a leader of

a company of ten or a dozen women in a certain native dance called

"ivanga," which is performed only by women. Some dance it only as an

exhibition of their gymnastic skill; others mix with it fetich and

witchcraft arts, and claim that their movements are under spirit power.

Antyande, more than the other women of the company, uses witchcraft in her

performances. She seems almost to glide through the air, alighting on the

knees of sitting spectators without giving them the impression of weight,

gyrating on small stools without moving the stools from their position,

and making many other wonderful physical contortions in an exceedingly

graceful and easy manner. She even goes to graveyards at night,

accompanied by three or four men and women, to get what they call the

spirits of the dead. It is said by some of the men who have gone there

with her that they do not understand what she does, but that it is so very

strange and awful that they are afraid. The reason why she goes for these

abambo (ghosts) of the graves is that she may be spry and alert, and able

to do with her body whatever she pleases. She claims also to be

accompanied by a leopard and a bush-cat that are visible to her but not to

others. As these animals are noted for their quick and agile movements,

and are under her witch-power control, they are able to impart to her

these qualities.

In January, 1902, she was dancing her ivanga, and there was a woman among

the spectators who had been drinking to the point of intoxication. In her

foolishness she determined to help Antyande by assuming to be directress

to keep the spectators in order. But, being drunk, she could not do so;

she only made disorder. In attempting to make matters straight she only

made them crooked. Antyande asked her to get out of her way. Many, also,

of the spectators begged the woman to cease interfering; but she would

not, and finally she vexed Antyande by spoiling her movements in getting

too close in front of her. Antyande's patience was exhausted, and she

suddenly revealed a secret that astonished many even of her intimate

acquaintances, saying, "Whoever is related to this drunken woman, please

tell her to get out of my way while I am dancing, because my dance is not

a mere gymnastic exercise. I have leopards and bush-cats about me, and if

she comes too near me, and the tails of these animals should twist around

her legs, then she will get a sickness: and if that happens, her people

must not hold me responsible for it, for I have given you this warning."

This surprised many of the people; for they had supposed she was nothing

more than an unusually graceful dancer, and that her success was purely

physical. Now, publicly, she admitted that the power in her limbs and body

causing her graceful undulations was a supernatural one. So some of the

women laid hold of the drunken woman, and induced her to get out of the

way.

[Illustration: EKOPE OF THE IVANGA DANCE.--GABUN.]

While dancing, Antyande wears a wide belt called "ekope," which is made

with white and red stripes, and adorned with fringes of small bells in

bands like sleigh-bells. It is known that her ekope has been heard and

seen moving as if in the rhythm of a dance in her own room when she was

not visibly there. Those who heard the sound of its bells would think she

was there practising the dance; but when they went to look, they saw it

moving, but did not see her. A few months afterward, a report came at

night to the villages that Antyande was very much excited and could not

sleep; that she had gone to her room for the ekope, and that it was not

there. So she began to make a great fuss, and begged her associates to

keep watch and go with her to search for the missing ekope. Some of these

friends were willing; others were not, and these went to their beds. She

then went to other villages and told the people there: "My ekope has gone

out on a promenade. Have you seen it?" These people were among the chief

dancers of her band. But they told her they did not know where the ekope

was. So she began to ejaculate a prayer: "Oh, please, you went out for a

walk; come back to me, for if you do not return, then I am lost. It will

be death to me." Just before daylight, as she was still wandering about

with her friends, and singing ivanga songs to attract her ekope, suddenly

she and two of her friends heard the tinkling of the bells among the

bushes lining a certain road which passes by a Roman Catholic chapel. They

all went in the direction of the sound of the bells, and entering a

cluster of the bushes, they saw the ekope moving to and fro. She was so

glad to see it, and she bade one of her companions to go and get it. But

the woman was afraid, and refused, saying, "Me! Oh, no! Go and get it

yourself!" So she went to it, singing her ivanga song, seized it, and

brought it to her house.

As she is noted for her grace and skill in that particular dance, another

woman, by name Ekâmina, asked her to give her power such as hers, as she

also wished to be leader of another band of ivanga dancers. Antyande

assented, saying, "Well, do you want spirits with it?" The other replied,

"Yes, I want two." So the two women, with a young man to escort them, went

at night to the graves and obtained the two desired spirits. It is these

which give them spirit power. When under their influence, their bodies are

thrilled with a new essence which makes them very light and causes them to

act and speak as if insane. The two women came back to Antyande's village,

and she performed all the magic ceremonies that Ekâmina wanted.

Some time after this, when Ekâmina had practised much and had danced

publicly several times, people began to say to her that she danced very

well, and soon she was invited to give exhibitions in various places.

One day it happened that the two women had arranged to dance on the same

night, each with her own party, at villages quite distant from each other.

Antyande asked Ekâmina to give up her play for that night and join with

her, "for," said she, "I want to make mine grand; and you wait for yours

another day." But Ekâmina was not willing. Antyande tried to get her to

change her mind, and was very much displeased because she refused. Ekâmina

said, "I will not give up, for my dance is by special invitation at

Añwondo village, so I have to go." (Libreville is three miles long; one

end is called "Glass," and Añwondo is at the other end.) Ekâmina lived at

Glass, and on her way to Añwondo she had to pass the village of Antyande.

The latter said to herself, "As Ekâmina is not willing to do as I wish,

and I was the one who gave her this power, I will watch her as she passes,

and see what I will do." So, when Ekâmina passed at night with her party

to Añwondo, Antyande watched her chance as Ekâmina neared her. She went

behind her, and did some magic act which would make the latter powerless

to dance and not be aware of her loss of power. When Ekâmina reached

Añwondo and commenced her play, she was not able to dance at all. She

tried till midnight, and failed. She suspected that Antyande was the cause

of the failure, for the latter had not been friendly since their

unsatisfactory talk. So she took a portion of her party that same night

back to Antyande's village, told the latter her trouble, and begged her,

"Please, if you have taken away the power, give it back, so I may finish

the dance to-night." Antyande said, "No; you would not listen to me. I am

a chief dancer, and you are praised as the same. Go and dance!" Ekâmina

said, "But please give me back the power; I am not able to dance without

it." Antyande replied, "No, go to the graveyard and get other spirits

there for yourself." So there was no dance done by Ekâmina that night.

VIII. ASIKI, OR THE LITTLE BEINGS.

People believe that Asiki (singular "Isiki") were once human beings, but

that wicked men, wizards and witches, or other persons who assert that

they have memba (witchcraft powers), caught them when they were children

and could not defend themselves, nor could their cries for help be heard

when playing among the bushes on the edge of the forest. These wicked

persons cut off the ends of the children's tongues, so that they can never

again speak or inform on their captors. They carry them away, and hide

them in a secret place where they cannot be found. There they are

subjected to a variety of witchcraft treatment that alters their natures

so that they are no longer mortal. This treatment checks their entire

physical, mental, and moral growth. They cease to remember or care for

their former homes or their human relatives, and they accept all the

witchcraft of their captors. Even the hair of their head changes, growing

in long, straight black tresses down their backs. They wear a curious

comb-shaped ornament on the back of their head. It is not stiff or

capable of being used as a comb, and is made of some twisted fibre

resembling hair. The Asiki value it almost as a part of their life.

These Asiki will sometimes be seen walking in paths on dark nights, and

people meet them coming toward them. It is believed that in their meeting,

if a person is fearless by natural bravery, or by fetich power as a wizard

or witch, and dares to seize the Isiki and snatch away the "comb," the

possession of this ornament will bring him riches. But whoever succeeds in

obtaining that "comb" will not be allowed to remain in peaceful possession

of it. The poor Isiki will be seen at night wandering about the spot where

its treasure was lost, trying to obtain it again.

It happened in the year 1901 that there was a report, even in civilized

Gabun, about these Asiki,--that two of them were seen near a certain place

on the public road at that part of the town of Libreville known as the

"Plateau," where live most of the French traders and government officers.

A certain Frenchman, who is known as a freemason, in returning from his 8

P. M. dinner at his boarding-house to his dwelling-place, observed that a

small figure was walking on one side of the road, keeping pace with him.

He accosted it, "Who are you?" There was no answer; only the figure kept

on walking, advancing and retreating before him.

Also, a few nights later, a Negro clerk of a white trader met this small

being on that very road, and near the spot where the Frenchman had met it,

and it began to chase the Negro. He ran, and came frightened to his

employer's office, and told him what had happened. His employer did not

believe him, laughed at his fears, and told him he was not telling the

truth. The very next night the Frenchman, the trader, and other white men

and Negro women were sitting in conversation. The trader told the story of

his clerk, whereupon the Frenchman said, "Your clerk did not lie; he told

the truth. I have myself met that small being two or three times, but I

made no effort to catch it." The women told him of the comb-ornament which

Asiki were believed to wear, and of the pride with which Asiki regarded

it, and the value it would be to any one who could obtain it. Then the

Frenchman replied, "As the little being is so small, the very next time I

see it I will try to catch it and bring it here, so that you can see it

and know that this story is actually true."

[Illustration: A STREET IN LIBREVILLE, GABUN.]

On a subsequent night they two--the Frenchman and the trader--went out to

see whether they could meet the Isiki. They did not meet with it that

night; but a few evenings later the Frenchman went alone, and met the

Isiki near the place where it had first been seen. The Frenchman ran

toward it and tried to catch it; but it being very agile eluded his grasp.

But, though he failed to seize its body, he succeeded in catching hold of

its "comb," and snatched it away, and ran rapidly with it toward his

house. It did not consist of any hard material as a real comb, but was

made of strands resembling the Isiki's hair, and braided into a comb-like

shape. The little being was displeased, and ran after him in order to

recover the ornament. Having no tongue, it could not speak, but holding

out one hand pleadingly and with the other motioning to the back of its

head, it made pathetic sounds in its throat, thus inarticulately begging

that its treasure should be given back to it. On nearing the light of the

Frenchman's house it retreated, and he showed the ornament to other white

men and some native women. (So positive was my informant that the names of

these men and women were mentioned to me.) He said to the trader, "You

doubted your clerk's story. Have you ever seen anything like this in all

your life?" They all said they had not. It was reported that many other

persons hearing of it went there to see it.

From that night the little being was often seen by other Negroes. It was

always holding out its hand, and seemingly pleading for the return of its

"comb." This made the Negroes afraid to pass on that road at night. The

Frenchman also often met it; it did not chase him, but followed slowly,

pleading with its hands in dumb show, and occasionally making a grunting

sound in its throat. This it did so persistently and annoyingly that the

Frenchman was wearied with its begging, and determined that the next night

he would yield up the "comb." But he went prepared with scissors. He found

the little being following him. He stopped, and it approached. He held out

his hand with the ornament. As the Isiki jumped forward to snatch at it,

the Frenchman tried to lay hold of its body; but it was so very agile

that, though it had come so near as to be able to take the comb from the

Frenchman's hand, it so quickly twisted itself aside as to elude his

grasp. He however succeeded in getting his hands in its long hair, and

snipped off a lock with his scissors. The Isiki ran away with its

recovered treasure, and did not seem to resent the loss of a portion of

its hair. This hair the Frenchman is said to have shown to his companions

at their next evening conversation, and I was given to understand that he

had sent it to France. It was straight, not woolly, and long.

These Asiki are supposed not to die, and it is also believed that they can

propagate; but so complete has been the parent's change under witchcraft

power that the Isiki babe will be only an Isiki and cannot grow up to be a

human being.

It is asserted that Asiki are now made by a sort of creative power (just

as leopards and bush-cats are claimed to be made, and used invisibly) by

witch doctors.

* * * * *

I am only writing these tales, I am not explaining them. Some of the

statements in the above story are too circumstantial to be denied. But

there is a wide margin for uncertainty as to what one might see after the

conviviality of an 8 P. M. West African dinner. In my sudden leaving of

Gabun in June, 1903, I had not time to interrogate the men and women named

as having seen the Isiki's tress of hair.

IX. OKOVE.

(The incidents of this story really occurred, and independent of the

fetich belief in okove power, are true. At the request of my native

informant the names of the two tribes are suppressed, for the sake of the

living descendants of the two kings.)

There was an old king of one of the principal tribes of West Equatorial

Africa who had great power and was held in great respect and fear; there

was none other his equal.

He had brothers and cousins. One of these cousins had a servant, a slave,

who had been bought from an interior tribe. It happened that this man had

not always been a slave, but in the tribe from which he had been sold he

was a freeman. The charge on which he had been sold by his own tribe was

that of sorcery and witchcraft murder, the death penalty for which had

been commuted to sale into slavery. He was deeply versed in a mystery of a

certain fetich or magic power called "Okove." He possessed it so

powerfully that no one was able to overcome him in contests of strength,

and people were greatly afraid of him.

So his owners intended to get rid of him by selling him out of the

country. To do this, they planned to catch him in the daytime; for he

exercised his okove power chiefly at night, when he could change himself

into a powerful being ready to overcome any one who should resist him.

One night when this great king, who also possessed the okove power (though

it was not generally known), went out to inspect, he saw a big tall man

walking up and down near his premises. The king said to him, "Ho! who are

you?" The man answered, "It is I." The king asked, "Who is I?" The man

replied daringly, "I have already told you that I am I." So the king asked

again, "Who are you? Where did you come from? And what are you doing

here?" The man said, "I go everywhere, and do what I please at other

people's places, and so I have come here." The king commanded him, "But,

no, not at this place. This is mine. Go back to your own!"

The slave gave answer, "No! that is not my habit. No one can master me!"

The king again ordered him, "Go!" He flatly refused, "No!" The king then

said plainly, "Are you not willing to leave my premises?"

He replied, "No, I never turn away from any one. I go away when I please.

When I am ready, I will go back to my place." At this the king,

restraining himself, slowly said, "Be it so!" and turned away, leaving the

slave standing in his yard.

The next day the king sent word for his cousin the owner of the slave to

come; to whom, when he had arrived at the house, the king told how he had

seen the man at night. And he inquired, "What does he do? Why does he

leave his place on the plantation and come to my place at night?" The

cousin was surprised to hear this, exclaiming, "So! indeed! he comes here

at night?" Then he went back to his house, and calling the slave, asked

him about this matter. "Do you go around at night, even to the king's

place?" The man said, "Yes." His master said, "Why do you do that? Do you

hear of other lower-caste people daring to go to the king's at night?" He

answered, "No; but it is I who do as I please." His master told him, "No;

you better return to the plantation, and live among the other slaves." He

replied "I will go, but not now." His master asked him, "But what are you

waiting for?" He only repeated, "Yes; but not now."

The very next night, on the king's going out as usual, he found this slave

again at his place, and said to him, "So! you here again?" The man

replied, "Yes; just what I told you last night, that I do what I please,

and I can master anybody." Then the king said, "I warn you plainly, clear

off from my place!" He replied, "No, I do not intend to clear out; but I

am ready for a fight."

The king asked, "You really want a fight with me?" The man answered, "Yes,

I am ready for it." Said the king, "It is well."

The fight began, each with his full okove power. In such contests, the

power is able to change the contestants' bodies to many forms. The slave

was quick in his use of them. His first change was to the form of a big

gorilla. This also the king met. As the fight went on, the next form was

into that of leopards. The fight went on, with frequent changes; the slave

always being the first to change. After a while the slave seemed to be

growing tired, and the king asked him, "Are you through?" He answered,

"No, only resting." Again the fight was resumed. Finally, the slave took

an eagle's form; the king did the same.

Presently the slave seemed to hesitate, and the king said, "You said you

wanted a fight. Well, let us go on with it." They continued; but the slave

seemed to be exhausted, and the king said, "Now, are you willing to leave

the place?" He answered, "No; my fatigue is not yet so great as to make me

leave your place." The king had held his power in reserve, and had been

tolerant of the man's audacity; but he now resumed his human form, took

his gun (the slave had none), and aiming it, off it went, and wounded him.

Being wounded, the slave had to acknowledge that he was overcome, and he

had to go. When morning came, the slave was not able to get up to go about

his work, and remained in bed. The gun-shot wound was a small one, and he

was conscious that he was dying of some other cause. He sent some one to

the master's house to ask him to come. When his master came, he said, "Ah!

master! I have something to say to you. Please plead for me!" The master

said, "Plead for you! For what?" The slave then told him, "I went around

last night to the king's place. He told me to leave, and I was not willing

to do so. So we had a great fight. And I am conquered. But please plead

for me, that he may make me well."

The master replied, "Did I not advise you not to go there, but rather to

stay at your plantation?" He assented. "But please plead, and I will stay

at the plantation."

The master answered, "I do not think the king will be willing to help

you." Nevertheless, being a cousin, he went privately to the king, and

told him all that the slave had told him. The king refused, saying, "No,

I am not going to do anything for him. He must die." The next day the

slave was dead.

(Another illustration of that king's okove power was narrated to me.)

There had been ill-feeling between this king's tribe and an adjacent

inferior tribe who had killed two of the king's chief men without cause,

coming suddenly upon them at night in their fishing-camp. The king's

people were very much troubled about it, and asked to be led to war. But

the old king said, "You young people don't know anything. If you go to

war, there will be much blood shed on both sides. Leave the matter with

me. I will attend to it myself."

So at night he went by himself to the town of the king of the offending

tribe, and remained there waiting in ambush on the path. Early next

morning four of the women belonging to that town had gone to their gardens

with their baskets to get food. The old king followed them secretly. After

all of them had filled their baskets, two lifted them upon their backs and

started to return to their town. The other two were just stooping (as is

the custom in lifting burdens, leaning forward on one knee in order to

place their backs against the basket, with a strap passing around the

basket and over their foreheads), when the king came behind then and

struck their necks with his okove. They instantly died in that stooping

position.

The two women who had gone on ahead reached their town without knowing

what had happened to the other two. They waited in town a long time for

the two absent ones to come. But when they did not make their appearance,

the people began to ask those women about the other two. They said they

knew nothing about the delay, only that they had left them ready to come

and preparing to lift their baskets. The townspeople, anxious because it

was late in the day, went out to search for the women. They found them on

the path, dead by their baskets. They examined their bodies for some mark

or wound or sign of a blow. There was none. This very much perplexed them,

for they did not suspect the cause of their death. They carried the dead

bodies to town. The next night the king went again to that same town, and

he happened to meet the other king at the boat-landing of the town. So the

old king made complaint to the other why the servants of the latter had

killed his two chiefs. The other made no reply, having no justification of

what his people had done.

Then the old king said, "As your people have done this, there is war

between us"; and he struck him with his okove. And he added, "Do you know

that I have already begun war with your people? Did you not find two of

your women dead yesterday at your gardens? I killed them. But I am not

through with you. I want you to pay a fine, and I want the man who killed

my two chiefs, for the lives of the two women are not equivalent to those

of my two chiefs."

The other king felt he was conquered by some unseen power, and did not

resist. He agreed to give up the murderer and pay a fine. The next day he

had the murderer caught and brought before a council. He told them that

the old king of the other tribe wanted the life of that man and a sum of

money for the lives of his two chiefs.

They began to collect on the spot goods and food of all kinds, and many

things of little value, with which to make simply the appearance of a full

canoe. They tied the prisoner, put him in the canoe, and went with him and

the goods to the old king. He received them.

But at night he went again to the other king, and began to rebuke him,

saying that what he had sent was not sufficient. The other made a protest:

"I have given you enough,--the lives of the two women, the one man, and

goods equivalent to two more lives. I have thus given you five for your

two."

But the old king, in tribal pride, reckoned the sex and social position of

his two men greater than any five of an inferior tribe, and said, "How

dare you speak to me like that? You shall surely die!" He struck him with

his okove, and went away.

The next day the other king was not able to leave his bed and sent for

many of his people to come, saying that he had a special word to speak to

them. They came, and he told them all about the death of the two women,

and all that had occurred between him and the old king. "And now," he

said, "I am dying. We are overcome. It is useless to resist. I want you to

remember, as long as the world stands, never to fight or quarrel with the

tribe of that king."

Then he turned his face to the wall and died.

X. THE FAMILY IDOLS.

(To a village on the St. Thomè or left bank of Gabun Bay, or "River," away

up a winding mangrove stream, and on the edge of the forest that was

broken by pieces of prairie, I went, in February, 1903, to visit a friend,

a sick Christian woman, who was in the care of a relative of hers named

Adova.

There were only five huts in the village. At the first one from the edge

of the prairie, which was assigned to me in which to sleep, on a bench

outside under the low eaves, was a roughly carved wooden idol, about

fourteen inches in height. From the dressing of the hair of its head, I

supposed it to be intended for a female. Its loins were covered with a

narrow strip of cloth. Near it was what could scarcely be recognized as a

dog, its head looking more like a pig's, and its tail more like an

alligator's. The figures were chalked and painted; and near them were a

few gourd utensils for eating and drinking, and some medicinal barks.

Subsequently, at night, in a curtained-off corner of my room, I saw three

low baskets, in each of which was a pair of wooden images not six inches

high. They were chalked, and adorned with strips of various-colored cloth.

In each basket also was a wooden hourglass-shaped article that seemed

intended for a double bell. Pieces of medicinal barks filled up the spaces

in the baskets. The images were relics of ceremonies held over twins born

long ago in the family.

At the other end of the village, in a very small roughly built hut, open

on one side, were two other idols,--one, a male, standing and chalked and

painted. The female in an ornamented box was not visible; near them was a

nondescript animal.

The story of these idols, as told me by my friend (who has since died), is

more especially connected with this pair.)

PART I. OKÂSI.

It was made by a Loango man, a fetich doctor, very many years ago. The

Mpongwe family that to-day owns these relics had sent south to Loango, to

the Fiât or Ba-Vili tribe, to bring to Gabun for this special purpose this

celebrated magician.

When he arrived, the chief of the family who had summoned him went with

him off to the forest, with all the medicines, and so forth, which the

Loango man had brought. This occurred on that same left side of the

"river" where I was visiting.

The magician began to explain everything in the way of directions about

the medicines that were to be put into the hollow of the abdomen of the

idol (and which to-day is still covered by a small round mirror fastened

over it). After explaining all these matters, he gave also all the orunda

(prohibitions), _viz._: The idol must not be allowed to fall on its face;

it must have a small hut for shelter from rain and sun: it must be given a

light at night, at least of coals of fire. After this, he began to carve

the idol. After making the male of the pair, and before making its female,

he made a duplicate of the male, exactly like it, except that it was only

an imitation without any magic power; and, instead of medicines, only

powdered charcoal was put into the hollow in its abdomen, which, however,

was to be covered with glass, exactly as the real one.

When these two idols were finished, the two men, the magician and the

chief of the family, went with them far into the forest. The Loango said,

"I will put these here, and when we go back to your town I will give the

power of olâgâ [a certain kind of spirit] to one of your women. If she

receives it properly, she herself, without knowing our path, will come to

this forest, and will make no mistake in choosing the real idol from the

imitation; and she will bring it to me in the town." (It is a rule with

the native sorcerers that if the one who aspires to the power should make

a mistake in this choosing, she must pay a fine of from $60 to $100.)

When all was arranged, the Loango man said, "Now let us go back to town."

So they turned back. But when they had gone half of the way, he said to

himself, "This Gabun man now knows everything, and where the idols are,

and which is the real one. It is his sister who wishes to receive the

power; he will go and tell her everything, and she will make no mistake,

not by reason of her possessing power, but by his private information." So

the Loango said, "Go you to the town, await me there; I will come soon."

And he turned back into the forest by himself, took up the two idols from

where he had laid them down, went in another direction and hid them there,

and then returned to town.

He then gave the power to the woman, and said, "Go and bring the olâgâ."

She started, went with only a little power, and was going at random; but

before she had gone half-way, she came under the full power. Then she

turned her face right and left, and gave an olâgâ yell, seeking to know

which way the power would lead her. At once then she knew which was the

way; and she went running and shouting frantically, under the influence of

this power, to the precise spot, and took up the real idol, making no

mistake about the imitation one. Holding it aloft, she returned, shouting

and dancing, under the Delphic frenzy. She entered the town singing and

dancing in the street, and then laid the idol at the feet of the Loango

man. He took it, and knew it was the right one. He then went to the forest

and brought also the other, the duplicate. When he returned, he went with

it and the real one to the ogwerina (backyard) to show to the Gabun man

the slight difference in the two (which he knew by a private mark). In

doing this he had to take off the little mirrors and show the difference

between the medicines and the charcoal. And he again closed the mirrors.

Then, just to test the woman, the magician said to her, "Go and bring me

the idol I have left in the ogwerina." She went there, still under the

power, and with a frenzied scream seized the right one and brought it to

him. He was half glad and half disappointed; for had she mistaken, he

would have received more money.

Then the townspeople held a great dance, and the Loango taught them

special songs for the olâgâ. The female of the pair of idols had also been

made about the same time as the male, but with no special ceremony.

All being finished, the magician named his fee for his services, was paid,

and went back to Loango.

This idol was intended as a family fetich, to protect the family at night,

and to kill any one who would attempt to injure any of the members. The

name of this male of the pair was Okâsi.

The name of the other one, that was under the eaves of the hut in which I

slept, was Kâkâ-gi-bâlâ-dyambo-gi-bâlâ-ve. These are Shekyani words,

and mean "A-great-log-may-rot-but-a-spoken-word-dies-never." That meant

that if an enemy came and injured any one in the town, the wrong would

never be forgotten and would surely be avenged. That idol might almost

stand for a statue of Vengeance.

The above proverb comes from a tale of a cruel old Shekyani chief.

PART II. BARBARITY.

Once there was a very powerful Shekyani chief named Ogwedembe. He had many

sons and daughters and slaves and slave children and nieces and nephews.

He had also a brother. His principal delight was in fighting and killing.

Ogwedembe used to go out on excursions, and would say to his company, "Now

we are out of town." That meant that all restraint was cast aside, and

that he was ready to kill the first person they might meet, even without a

cause.

One day when they were out and were passing through a thick forest, they

saw a man up a tree who had come for palm-wine and had filled two of the

gourd-bottles used for that purpose. So Ogwedembe shouted to him, "Indeed!

what are you doing there? Have you not heard that Ogwedembe and his

brother are out of town? Come down quickly and meet us here!"

The man did not dare disobey, and came down. Ogwedembe took the gourds,

and said, "You may have one; I and my brother will drink the other." After

the drinking, Ogwedembe stripped the man of his clothing, leaving him

standing naked and trembling. In his terror the man did not attempt to

escape.

Ogwedembe drew his knife, and repeated his questions, "Who told you to

come here? Did you not know that Ogwedembe and his brother were out in the

forest? Now I will fix you; and you can carry the news to your town that

Ogwedembe and his brother are in the forest."

He then seized a portion of the man's body, and with his butcher-knife

horribly mutilated him. The man started, bleeding, to go to his town, and

died on the way.

The section of country in which Ogwedembe's portion of the Shekyani tribe

lived was south of Gabun, toward the Orungu people at the mouth of the

Nazareth branch of the Ogowe River. Sometimes he and his brother would

travel in their war canoes all the way from their place, and, passing

Gabun, would go on northward to attack the Benga of Cape Esterias without

cause and in sheer ruthlessness.

Some of his daughters and sisters were married to Mpongwe chiefs at Gabun.

At times his daughters and nieces would go and visit him. They would be

received with firing of guns and other great demonstrations, and on

leaving would be laden with presents.

About twenty years ago one of his sisters, named Akanda, died in the prime

of life. She lived at Gabun, her husband a Mpongwe. (She was the mother of

Adova, my hostess, who is apparently about sixty years of age, and has a

younger brother apparently about thirty years of age.) So, when that

sister died, Ogwedembe came to Gabun, on the St. Thomè side, to the

funeral. My sick friend happened to be there at the time (for, by family

marriage, she is a cousin to Adova) and saw the old chief.

Ogwedembe, according to native custom, demanded of the husband a fine for

his sister's death (as if due to lack of proper care of her). When that

was paid, as a sign that no ill-will was retained, Ogwedembe was to give

the widower another wife.

During this discussion Ogwedembe kept saying, "I wish my sister had not

been married to a Mpongwe, for it is not your custom to shed blood for

this cause. But I feel a great desire to kill some one. If this had been a

Shekyani marriage, I would have gone from town to town killing as I

chose." The Mpongwe replied, "But we have no such custom." He answered,

"Yes, I know that. I only said what I would like to do, though your tribal

custom will not allow me to do it."

His demand of a fine being finally yielded to and paid, to show his

peaceful intentions, he gave the husband one of his daughters, a widow who

had with her two children,--a son and a daughter,--and who afterward bore

him other children.

Ogwedembe's bloody instincts were suppressed at that funeral, and he

remained awhile after the close of the mourning ceremonies, making

friendly visits among his Mpongwe sons-in-law, and then went back to his

Shekyani country.

A short time after that the eldest daughter of that woman Akanda (my

hostess Adova) and her husband Owondo visited Ogwedembe. He made a great

welcome for them, with dancing and rejoicing of various kinds. Every day

he sent his people to fish and hunt, to obtain food for Adova and the

children she had with her.

Before Adova left, Ogwedembe called his principal wife and his

grandchildren, and said, "When I die, you who are here in Shekyani, do not

remain here, but go to Gabun and live with Akanda's children all the rest

of your life." When he finally died, they obeyed and came to St. Thomè,

of Gabun, bringing their idols with them.

The one female image that was under the eaves of the house in which I

slept was for guarding their families; but the three sets of twins were to

prevent their mothers from becoming barren.

PART III. THE RIGHT OF SANCTUARY.

(It was an ancient and universal custom that a refugee, by clasping the

knees of the king of any other tribe, could claim his protection. The king

was bound to accept the claim. The obligation he thus assumed was sacred.)

While Adova was there at Shekyani country, visiting Ogwedembe, there came

to him an Orungu man with a little slave boy, carrying a box. As soon as

they entered the town, both of them came to Ogwedembe, and kneeling and

clasping his feet, claimed his protection, and promised voluntarily to be

under his authority.

The old chief, without asking the cause of their flight or their reason

for coming to him, assented, and summoned the town to make the Ukuku

(Spirit-Society of Law) ceremony of installing the man and his slave boy

as members of their Shekyani tribe.

Adova and her husband were very kind to this adopted "brother," and he at

once became exceedingly intimate with them.

At night this new man had been assigned to the house occupied by

Ogwedembe, in a room near him, so that he could watch him that he should

not run away, now that he belonged to Ukuku. But it was not known that

this man possessed all the power of nyemba (sorcery). Ogwedembe also had

power for fighting, and a certain amount of knowledge that warned him not

to be deceived by sorcerers.

After two days, on the third night, this man rose, and tried to go to

Ogwedembe's room, to put some witchcraft medicine on him. But Ogwedembe

saw him coming, rose, seized his staff, walked toward the man in the

darkness, and struck him violently on the head. The man fell. But neither

of them uttered any word, nor made any outcry.

Very early in the morning Ogwedembe got up, went out, and sat on the

veranda of his house. He called to Adova, "Come, I want to tell you

something." She came, and he said, "I had a bad dream last night. If any

one comes to you to-day to ask you to make medicine for a sore head, do

not do it." "Who is it?" she asked. He refused. "No, I will not tell you.

But I know that before to-day is over some one will come to you, but do

not help him."

The Orungu got up late that day and looked and felt dull. When he left his

room, he sent his boy to call Adova. The boy went. She came to him. He

said, "Can't you find medicine for a headache? I did not sleep well. My

head pains too much." She said, "I do not know a medicine for that kind of

headache." The old chief was sitting near, and, looking significantly at

the Orungu, said to Adova, "Yes, that is right."

The next night the man said, "I do not wish to sleep here to-night. I will

go to an adjacent village, and will be back in the morning." "Well, go,"

assented Ogwedembe, "but be sure to be back in the morning." And the man

said, "Yes."

Scarcely had he left the town to go to the other village, when there came

to Ogwedembe three people from a certain Orungu town carrying a message

from their Orungu chief, thus: "The chief sent us, saying, 'Please give up

this man who came to you and who claimed your protection. Give up the man.

You do not know his habits; they are the habits of a worm that in eating

spoils only the best. He, with his sorcery, always aims at killing the

greatest. If you do not give him up, there will be war; for our chief has

had this same demand made on him from a third chief whose people this man

has been killing, and our chief will have to make war with you.'"

Ogwedembe laughed. "You say 'war' to me? That is nothing to me. You cannot

do it. War cannot touch me."

When the message of the Orungu chief was being sent to Ogwedembe, some of

the attendants on the delegation had awaited half-way on the route, and

only the three had brought the message. Ogwedembe said to these three

messengers, "Go and call your chief, and we will talk about it."

The chief came. (All this while the man was away at the other village, not

having kept his promise to return.)

Ogwedembe said to the Orungu chief, "It is impossible. The law is sacred.

I will not give him up." But in his heart he felt, "I am protecting a

sorcerer who has tried to kill me; better I take the money for his

extradition, and send him away." He and the chief went on discussing. The

point was made that the sorcerer having himself broken his obligation, by

attempting to injure his adopted father, relieved that father of his Ukuku

duty of protection.

Ogwedembe began to yield, and to name the number of slaves that should be

given him as the price of giving up the man. The Orungu chief demurred to

the price: "It is too much!" So Ogwedembe brought down the price to six

slaves,--three slaves, and three bundles of goods equal to the price of

three slaves. And it was so settled. Then the Orungu chief said, "I will

go in haste to my town to get you the goods; but as to the three slaves,

this man's boy must be counted as one of them."

There was a dispute over this, Ogwedembe claiming that the boy was not

guilty of any crime, and that his right to protection still existed. The

Orungu insisted that the boy, being a slave, must follow the fortunes of

his master, must be extradited as one with him, and then would of their

own will be released by them from the penalty of his master's guilt.

Ogwedembe consented. So the Orungu chief and his people went to get the

goods, on the promise that Ogwedembe would have the man caught and ready

to be delivered to them.

At once Ogwedembe sent word to the man to fulfil his promise of returning

to the town, and told his sons to be ready early next day to have the man

caught and tied, ready for delivery on arrival of the goods.

Next day Ogwedembe, seeing the man coming to him, came out of his house to

meet him, and speaking ewiria (hidden meaning), called out to his people,

"Sons, have you tied up the bundle of bush-deer meat?" "Oh yes, father,

we'll have it ready just now," as they came running to him. Then they

suddenly fell upon the man, dragged him inside the house, began to strip

off his clothing, and tied him. He at once knew that there was no mercy,

and he did not resist; but he said to his boy, "Call me Adova and her

husband."

But she knew he was naked, so she told her husband to go and hear what the

man had to say. Owondo went, and the man said, "Owondo, I have no friends

here; only you and Adova have been kind to me, so I call you my friend.

Untie this small strip of cloth I have about my waist. I have four silver

dollars there. I am going to die. These dollars are of no use to me; you

and your wife take them. My box is in Adova's care; she must have the few

things in it." So Owondo untied the girdle, took the money, and went out.

Shortly afterward the Orungu people came, bringing the goods and slaves,

and took away the man. He was taken by the three messengers to the

half-way camp, where they had left their attendants. There were no houses

there for shelter, and only their mosquito-nets as tents. They stopped

there with the intention of passing the night, and next day of going on to

their Orungu town.

When it came evening they began to prepare their sleeping-places, and at

bedtime one by one they went to lie down. A large branch from an

overhanging tree fell very near the bed of one of the Orungu leaders,

which was adjoining that of the sorcerer. So they all said, "Ah! we see

what is being done by his arts. If this has begun so soon, who knows what

will happen before morning? Let us start at once."

So they all made ready that very night, and went out of the forest, down

to the beach, and got into their boat (as they had come part of the way by

sea).

Not long after they had started the sea became very rough. Soon the boat

capsized, broke to pieces, and all their goods were lost. They all escaped

ashore, but the sorcerer was missing. They waited on the beach until

daylight, and then found his loin cloth washed ashore. (His hands had been

tied.) They believed that he had caused the storm, and was willing to die

with them in the general destruction rather than survive to be put to

death by the torture to which sorcerers were usually subjected.

So these people sent back word to Ogwedembe and to the nearer villages to

let them know what had happened to them, and they returned to their Orungu

country by land.

The little slave boy, who had been left with Ogwedembe as one of the three

to be given as the price of extradition, was shortly afterward given by

him as a present to the sick friend I was visiting that day. She stated

that he was a most faithful servant and affectionate attendant on her

infant daughter. He stayed with her, and died in her service a few years

later, about 1883; and she mourned for him, for she had treated him, not

as a slave, but as a son.

XI. UNAGO AND EKELA-MBENGO.

(In the presence of theosophy, telepathy, thought-transference,

astrophysics, and wireless telegraphy, the following Benga legend has at

least a standing-place. It was written more than forty years ago by an

educated native in the Benga dialect. I translate it into English,

preserving some of the native idiom.)

Unago and Ekela were great friends. They lived, Unago at Mbini in Eyo

(Benito River); Ekela at Jeke in Muni (the river Muni, opposite

Elobi islands in Corisco Bay. The two rivers are at least forty miles

apart; Ekela is supposed to make the journey in two hours.)

They were accustomed, if one killed a wild animal, to send for the other.

One day Unago killed a hog. Then he sent for his friend Ekela. He at Mbini

said, "Oh, Chum Ekela! start you out very early in the morning hither.

Come to eat a feast of pig." And his children would say, "Father, your

friend at Jeke, and you right here, will he hear?" Said he, "Yes, he

will hear." And so Ekela, off there, would say to his children, "Do you

hear how my friend is calling to me?" His children answered, "We do not

hear." Says he, "Yes, my friend has called me to eat pig there to-morrow."

Before daybreak Ekela takes his staff and his fly-brush and starts. When

the sun is at the point of shining at Corisco, he reaches Mbini. Unago

says to his children, "Did I not say to you that he can hear?"

And so they eat the feast; the feast ended, they tell narratives. In the

afternoon Ekela says, "Chum, I'm going back." Unago says, "Yes."

Having left him after escorting him part of the way, this one goes on, and

that one returns. When Ekela, going on and on, reaches clear to

Jeke, then day darkens. When his children see the lunch which he

brings, then they believe that he has been at Mbini.

A PROVERB: MANGA MA EKELA.

(Manga means "the sea"; secondarily, "the sea-beach"; thirdly, by

euphemism, "a latrine," or "going to a latrine." For the sea-beach is used

by the natives for that purpose, they going there immediately on rising in

the morning. They stay, of course, but a short time. If one should stay

very long, this proverb would be used of him, because Ekela, when he went,

stayed and made a journey of fifteen or twenty miles.)

Ekela was accustomed, if he started out early to the seaside in the

morning, to say, "I am going to manga"; then he went on and on, clear on

to Hondo (a place at least fifteen miles distant). Passing Hondo, his

"manga" would end only wherever he and his friend Unago met. There having

told their stories, they then each returned. This one went to his village,

and that one to his village. When Ekela was about to go back to his

village, then he would leave his fly-brush at the spot where he and his

friend had been; and when he would arrive at home, he would say to his

children, "Go, take for me the fly-brush which was forgotten of me, there

at the sea, on the place where I was. Follow my foot-tracks." When the

children went, it was step by step to Hondo, and the foot-tracks were

still farther beyond.

The children, wearied, came back together unto their father, and said, "We

did not see the brush." When he went another morning, then he himself

brought it.

XII. MALANDA--AN INITIATION INTO A FAMILY GUARDIAN-SPIRIT COMPANY.

(Manjana was my cook at Batanga in 1902. He is a young married man with

several small children. He is of a mild, kindly disposition, obliging and

smiling, without much force of character, slightly educated, civilized in

manner and dress, but without even a pretence of Christianity; at heart a

heathen, though a member of the Roman Catholic church, into which he

consented to be baptized as the means of obtaining in marriage his wife,

who had been raised in that church.

His Romanism sat lightly on him, for he voluntarily attended my Protestant

evening-prayers, taking his turn with others in reading verses around in

the chapter of Scripture for the day; then he liked to take part in the

general conversation which followed about native beliefs and native

customs.

Yâkâ, or family fetich, is no longer, at Batanga, a matter of dread, even

to the heathen; so Manjana was not afraid to tell me freely what happened

when he was initiated into it as a lad. I wrote down his story hastily, as

soon as he left that evening. I later wrote it out in full, while it was

all fresh in my memory. I could not exactly reproduce his graphic native

words, so I did not attempt them. The description is my own. But I

followed exactly the line of his story, and used only his thoughts. He

said:)

"I knew that a house was being built on the edge of the forest, a short

distance from our village. I and other lads and young men assisted the

strong adult men who were building it. But I did not then know for what

purpose or why it was being built. I remembered afterward that no girls or

women were either assisting or even lounging about it, watching the

process of building and chatting with the workmen, as when other houses

were built. I did not know that they had been told not to look there. I

remembered afterward that the house was located separately from the other

houses of the village, but that did not just then strike me as strange.

Somewhat similar houses had been built, as temporary sheds in making a

boat or canoe. Such houses are built rapidly, and not with the same care

as is used in the erection of dwellings. So it did not occur to me as

noticeable that this house was finished in the short time of two weeks.

One gable of it was left open.

Nor did I connect its erection with the fact that a prominent man of our

family had died just two weeks before. I know now that, in the manner of

his death, or in things that happened immediately afterward, the elders of

the family had seen inauspicious signs that made them fear that evil was

being plotted against us. As I now know, some six or eight of our leading

adult male members of the family had had a secret consultation, and had

decided that Malanda should be invoked.

I did not then know much about Malanda. I knew the name, that it was a

power, that it was dreaded; but how or why I had not been told.

I know now that while this house was being built one or two other men were

carving an image of a male figure; also, that when the house was

completed, that very night some of those elders had secretly disinterred

the corpse that had been already two weeks in its grave, and had brought

it to that house. There they had extracted two teeth, and had fastened

them in the hollowed-out cavities representing the eyes of the image, and

had hidden them there by fastening over them, with a common resinous gum

of the forest, two small pieces of glass. And they had stood the image,

painted hideously, on the cover of a large box, made of the flexible inner

bark of a tree, at the closed end of the house.

Then they had cut off the head of the corpse and had scooped out its

rotten brains. These they had mixed with chalk and powdered red-wood and

the ashes of other plants, and had tied up the mixture carefully in a

bundle of dry plantain leaves. I already knew and had seen such things

regarded as very valuable "medicine," used to rub on the forehead or other

parts of the body. Then they had tied the headless corpse erect against a

side wall of the house, keeping its arms extended by cross pieces of wood.

The first that I knew that anything unusual was about to occur was early

one morning, just after the completion of the house, when the voices of

the elders were heard in the street, "Malanda has come!" The women and

girls were frightened. They knew they were not to look at Malanda. And we

lads were oppressed with a vague dread that subdued us from our usual

boisterous plays. We knew the name "Malanda." It was a power, it was

mysterious. Mystery is a burden; it might be for good or for evil.

Immediately all the adult men went into the forest. In about an hour they

returned, bearing on their shoulders a long, large log of a tree. They

cast it into the middle of the street, facing the sun. The hour was about

8 A. M.

They sternly ordered about twenty of the young men and lads to sit down on

the log. The mystery that had burdened me now fell heavier. Our mothers

and sisters were afraid to look on us, even with sympathy. These men were

our fathers and uncles and elder brothers, but their voices were harsh,

their faces set with severity, their eyes had no light of recognition as

relatives, and their hands handled us roughly. I was dazed and helpless in

my own village and among my own relatives, but not a word of pity nor a

look of even kindness from a single person! Each of the twenty also was

too occupied with his own destiny to speak to a fellow victim. As far as

our treatment was concerned we might have been slaves in another tribe.

With no will of our own we blindly did as we were bidden.

We were told to throw our heads back, bending our necks to the point of

pain, and to stare with unblinking eyes at the sun. As the sun mounted all

that morning, hot and glaring, toward the zenith, we were sedulously

watched to see that we kept our heads back, arms down, and eyes following

the burning sun in its ascent. My throat was parched with thirst. My brain

began to whirl, the pain in my eyes became intolerable, and I ceased to

hear; all around me became black, and I fell off the log.

As each one of us thus became exhausted or actually fainted, we were

blindfolded and taken to that house. On reaching it still blindfolded I

knew nothing that was there. I smelled only a horrible odor. The same

rough hands and hard voices had possession of me. Though blindfolded, I

could feel that the eyes that were looking on me were cruel.

It was useless to resist, as they began to beat me with rods. My outcries

only brought severer blows. I perceived that submission lightened their

strokes. When finally I ceased struggling or crying, the bandage was

removed. The horror of that headless corpse standing extending its rotting

arms toward me, and the staring glass eyes of the image overcame me, and I

attempted to flee. That was futile. I was seized and beaten more severely

than before, until I had no will or wish, but utter submission to the will

of whatever power it might be, natural or supernatural, into whose hands I

had fallen.

When all twenty of us had been thus reduced to abject submission, we were

treated less severely. Some kindness began to be shown. Our physical wants

were looked after and regarded. Food and drink were supplied us. I

observed an occasional look of recognition. I began to feel that I was

being admitted into a companionship. There was something manly in the

thought of being entrusted with a secret to which younger lads were not

admitted and from which all of womankind were debarred. This gave me a

sense of elevation. There were some people whom I could look down upon! It

began to be worth while to have suffered so much. I began to be accustomed

to the corpse of my relative. True, I was a prisoner; but the days were

relieved by a variety of instructions and ceremonies practised over us by

the doctor.

At first we were, in succession, solemnly asked whether we were possessed

of any witchcraft power ("o na jemba?" Have you a witch?) Elsewhere we all

would have indignantly denied having any such evil doings. But in the face

of that corpse, under the presence of the unknown power to which we were

being introduced, in the hands of a pitiless inquisition, and with the

obliteration of our own wills, we did not dare lie. Would not the power

know we were lying? We told what we imagined to be the truth; some

admitted, some denied.

The Yâkâ bundle was opened; some of its dust was added to the

brain-mixture (already mentioned). Of this compound an ointment was made.

On the breasts of those who denied were drawn commendatory longitudinal

lines of that ointment. On the breasts of those who admitted were drawn

corrective horizontal lines with the same mixture. Instructions

appropriate to our respective condition, as witch possessed or

non-possessed, were given by the doctor.

We were interested also in watching the digging of a pit in the floor of

the house. When this had reached a depth of over six feet, a tunnel was

driven laterally under one of the side walls, and opening out, a rod or

two beyond, where a low hut was built to conceal it. Into this tunnel the

doctor and three or four of the strongest of the elders carried the

corpse, and left it there for about ten days, the doctor passing much of

that time with it.

After we had been in the house almost twenty days, although still

confined, I did not feel that I was a prisoner; I was deeply interested in

seeing and taking part in this great mystery. I no longer dreaded the

dead. Even if physical pain were yet to be inflicted on me, I would take

it gladly as the price of a knowledge which ministered to manly pride. I

was being made a sharer in the rights and possession of the family

guardian-spirit.

A few days after this the corpse, now reduced almost to a skeleton, was

brought up from the tunnel, and bisected longitudinally. The halves were

laid a few feet apart, parallel and a short distance away from the two

sides of the house. We were gathered in two companies against the walls,

and were told to advance toward each other, carefully stepping over, and

by no means to tread on, our half of the remains. And the two companies

met in the centre.

We now felt we were free, though not formally told so. We had made a

fearful oath of secrecy. We preferred to remain and assist in the final

order of the house. The doctor and elders now disarticulated the skeleton

(for such it was, the man being dead now at least five weeks, and the

decomposed flesh having almost all fallen away). The bones were put into

the bark box on which stood the image. They were an addition to the

contents of the Yâkâ, or family fetich. Then, at the close of three weeks'

confinement in the house, we emerged in procession, the elders bearing the

box and the image on the top, and proceeded to the village street. There

the box and image were set; and a joyous dance was started with drum and

song, with all the people of the village, male and female. A sheep or goat

was killed, and a feast prepared. While the dance was going on, the elders

around the box were bowing and praying to the image on their knees. From

time to time a man would parade by, lifting his steps high and bowing low,

and as suddenly erecting himself and strongly aspirating, "Hah! hah!" And

the village was glad, for it felt sure no evil could now come to it. I was

safe, and ready, at the next time of danger, to assist in torturing the

next younger set of lads, for was I not a freeman of the family

guardian-spirit?

The box and image were stowed away in a back room of the village headman's

dwelling, who would often take a plate full of food to it, as a sacrifice,

and sometimes an offering of cloth or other goods; and the village felt

safe.

Nevertheless, the house was not torn down; it stood empty and unused. But

if, even a year later, evil still fell on the village, the elders knew

that something about the Malanda had not been rightly performed. And it

must all be done over again with the next dead adult male (never a female)

and with a new lot of neophytes.

A woman may be subjected to a part of the above ceremonies if she is

suspected of witchcraft, or if, on examination, she confess to using black

art. To purge her of this evil, and to counteract the consequences of what

she may have done, she is taken to the little hut over the end of the

tunnel, and some of the above described ceremonies are performed over her;

but she is never taken into the house, nor into the presence of the

corpse.

XIII. THREE-THINGS CAME BACK TOO LATE.

(The following narrative was told me by a Batanga native Christian woman

who, herself less than thirty years of age, is a great-granddaughter of

the man one of whose wives was the witch of this story. I bade her, in

giving me the account, to speak, not from her present Christian standpoint

and her only slight superstitious bias, but from the full heathen

view-point. The confusing mixture of singular and plural pronouns

referring to the witch is an exact reproduction of my informant's words.)

The great-grandfather was a heathen and a polygamist. He had four wives.

One of them was a member of an interior tribe, the Boheba, more heathenish

and superstitious than his own Batanga coast tribe. Unknown to him, she

was a member of the Witchcraft Society, had power with the spirits, and

they with her, attended their secret night meetings, and engaged in their

unhallowed orgies.

The husband, though not a member of the society, had acquired some

knowledge of witchcraft art, and, though without the power to transform

himself, as wizards did, was able to see and know what was being done at

distances beyond ordinary human sight.

One night she arose from her bed to go and attend a witchcraft play. She

left her physical "house," the fleshly body, lying on the bed, so that no

one not in the secret, seeing that body lying there, would think other

than it was herself, nor would know that she was gone out. In her going

out she willed to emerge as Three-Things, and this triple unit went off to

the witchcraft play. The husband happened to see this, and watched her as

she disappeared, saw where she went, and, though distant and out of sight,

knew what she was doing. So he said to himself, "She is off at her play; I

also will do some playing here; she shall know what I have done."

Among the several things of which followers of witchcraft are afraid, and

which weaken their power, is cayenne pepper. So this man gathered a large

quantity of pepper-pods from the bushes growing in the behu

(kitchen-garden), and bruised them in a mortar to a fine soft pulp. This

he smeared thoroughly all over the woman's unconscious body as it lay in

her bedroom. He left not the smallest portion of her skin untouched by the

pepper,--from her scalp, and in the interstices of her fingers and toes,

minutely over her entire body.

Meanwhile, with the woman at her play, the night was passing. The witches'

sacred bird, the owl, began its early morning warning hoot. She prepared

to return. As she was returning, the first morning cock-crow also warned

her to hasten, lest daybreak should find her triple unit outside of its

fleshly "house." So the three came rushing with the speed of wind back to

her village. Her husband was on the watch; he heard this panting sound as

of a person breathing rapidly, and felt the impulse of their wind as she

reached her hut and came in to re-enter their house.

He saw her approach every possible part of the body, seeking to find even

a minute spot that was not barred by the pepper. She searched long and

anxiously, but in vain; and in despair they went and hid herself in a

wood-pile at the back of one of the village huts, waiting in terror for

some possible escape.

All this the husband saw silently. When morning light finally came, he

knew that this wife was dead, for her life-spirit had not succeeded in

returning to its body within the specified time. It was therefore a dead

body. But he said nothing about it to any one, and went off fishing.

As the morning hours were passing while he was away and the woman's door

of her hut was still closed, his children began to wonder and to say,

"What is this? What is the matter? Since morning light our father's wife

has not come out into the street." After waiting awhile longer, their

anxiety and curiosity overcame them, and they broke in the door. There

they saw the woman lying dead. They fled in fear, saying, "What is this

that has killed our father's wife?" They went down to the beach to meet

him as he returned from fishing, and excitedly told him, "Father, we have

found your Boheba wife dead!" The man, to their surprise, did not seem

grieved. He simply said, "Let another one of my wives cook for me; I will

first eat." Still more to their surprise, he added, "And you, my children,

and all people of the village, do not any of you dare even to touch the

body. Only, at once, send word to her Boheba relatives to come."

This warning he gave his people, lest any of them should sicken by coming

close to the atmosphere that the witch had possibly brought back with her

from her play.

By the time he had finished eating, the woman's relatives had arrived.

They were all heavily armed with guns and spears and knives, and were

threatening revenge for their sister's death.

The man quietly bade them delay their anger till they had heard what he

had to say; and took them to the woman's hut, that they themselves might

examine the corpse, leaving to them the chance of contamination.

They examined; they lifted up the body of their sister, and searched

closely for any sign of wound or bruise. Finding none, but still angry,

they were mystified, and exclaimed, "What then has killed her?" And they

seated themselves for a verbal investigation. But the man said, "We will

not talk just yet. First stand up, and you shall see for yourselves." As

they arose, the man said, "Remove all those sticks in that wood-pile. You

will find the woman there." So they pulled away the sticks; and there they

found Three-Things. "There!" said the husband, "see the reason why your

sister is dead!" At that the relatives were ashamed, and said,

"Brother-in-law! we have nothing to say against you, for our eyes see what

our sister has done. She has killed herself, and she is worthy to be

punished by fire." (Burning was a common mode of execution for the crime

of witchcraft.)

In her terror at being unable to get back into her mortal body, the

Three-Things, all the while she was hidden in the wood-pile, had

shrivelled smaller and smaller until what was left were three deformed

crab-shaped beings, a few inches long, with mouths like frogs. These,

paralyzed with fear, could not speak, but could only chatter and tremble.

So the relatives seized these Three-Things, and also carried away the

body; and, followed by all the people of the village, they burnt it and

them on a large rock by the sea.

* * * * *

That rock I pass very often as I walk on the beach. At high tide it is cut

off from the shore a distance of a few yards; at low tide one can walk out

to it. It is only a few hundred yards from our Batanga Mission Station.

CHAPTER XVII

FETICH IN FOLK-LORE

The telling of Folk-lore Tales amounts, with the African Negro, almost to

a passion. By day, both men and women have their manual occupations, or,

even if idling, pass the time in sleep or gossip; but at night,

particularly with moonlight, if there be on hand no dances, either of

fetich-worship or of mere amusement, some story-teller is asked to recite.

All know the tales, but not all can recite them dramatically. The audience

never wearies of repetition. The skilful story-teller in Africa occupies

in the community the place filled in civilization by the actor or

concert-singer.

This is true all over Africa. In any one region there are certain tales

common to all the tribes in that region. But almost every tribe will have

tales distinctive to it. It is part of native courtesy to ask a visitor to

contribute his local story to the amusement of the evening.

Some of these tales are probably of ancient origin, as to their plot and

their characters. I am disposed to give the folk-lore of Africa a very

ancient origin. Ethnology and philology trace the Bantu stream from the

northeast, not by a straight line diagonally to the southwest, but the

stream, starting with an infusion of Hamitic (and perhaps Caucasian) blood

in the Nubian provinces, flowed south to the Cape, and then, turning on

itself, flowed northwestward until it lost itself at the Bight of Benin.

That blood gave to the Bantu features more delicate than those of the

northern Guinea Negro.

That stream, as it flowed, carried with it arts, thoughts, plants, and

animals from the south of Egypt. The bellows used in every village smithy

on the West Coast is the same as is depicted on Egyptian monuments. The

great personages mentioned as "kings" are probably semi-deified ancestors,

or are even confounded with the Creator. It may not be only a coincidence

that the ancient Egyptian word "Ra" exists in west equatorial tribes

(contracted from "rera" = my father) with its meaning of "Lord," "Master,"

"Sir." In these tales the name Ra-Mborakinda is used interchangeably with

the Divine Name, Ra-Nyambe.

But it is true that a doubt can be raised against the antiquity of some of

the tales, in which are introduced words, _e. g._, "cannon," "pistol,"

articles not known to the African until comparatively modern times. And in

the case of a few, such as No. V., the origin is in all probability

modern. In No. V. the reader at once turns in thought to "Ali Baba and the

Forty Thieves." There the internal evidence is positive, either that the

story was heard long ago from Arabs (or perhaps within the last hundred

years from some foreigner), or there may have been an original African

story, to which modern narrators have attached incidents of Ali Baba which

they have overheard within the last fifty years from some white trader or

educated Sierra-Leonian.

But it would not necessarily condemn a tale's claim to antiquity that it

had in it modern words. Such words as "gun," "pistol," "stairway,"

"canvas," and others may be interpolations. It was probably true long ago,

as is now the case, that narrators added to or changed words uttered by

the characters. Where in the plot some modern weapon is named, long ago it

was perhaps a spear, club, or bow and arrow. When Dutch and Portuguese

built their forts on the African shore three hundred years ago, some

bright narrator could readily have varied the evening's performance by

introducing a cannon into the story. Such variations necessarily grew; for

the native languages were not crystallized into written ones until the

days of the modern missionary.

In recitation great latitude is allowed as to the time occupied. Brevity

is not desired. A story whose outline could be told in ten minutes may be

spread over two hours by a vivid use of the speaker's imagination in a

minute description of details. A great deal of repetition (after the

manner of "This is the house that Jack built") is employed, that would be

wearisome to a civilized audience, but is intensely enjoyed by the

African, _e. g._, where the plot calls for the doing of an act for several

days in succession, we would say simply, "And the next day he did the

same." But the native lover of folk-lore will repeat the same details in

the same words for the second and third and even fourth day. In my

reporting I have omitted this repetition.

I have purposely used some native idioms in order to retain local color.

African narrators use very short sentences. Africans in many respects are

grown-up children. One of their daily recognized idioms finds its exact

parallel in the speech of our own children. Listen to a civilized child's

animated account of some act. They repeat. The native does so constantly.

He is not satisfied, in telling the narrative of a journey, by saying

curtly, "I went." His form is, "I went, went, there, there," etc. His

dramatic acting keeps up the interest of the audience in the twice-told

tale.

I. QUEEN NGWE-NKONDE AND HER MANJA.

A king, by name Ra-Mborakinda, had many wives, but he had no children at

all. He was dissatisfied, and was always saying that he wanted children.

So he went to a certain great wizard, named Ra-Marânge, to get help for

his trouble.

Whenever any one went on any business to Ra-Marânge, before he had time to

tell the wizard what he wanted, Ra-Marânge would say, "Have you come to

have something wonderful done?" On the visitor saying, "Yes," Ra-Marânge,

as the first step in his preparations and to obtain all needed power,

would jump into fire or do some other astonishing act.

So, this day, he sprang into the fire, and came out unharmed and strong.

Then he told Ra-Mborakinda to tell his story of what he had come for.

The king said, "Other people have children, but I have none. Make me a

medicine that shall cause my women to bear children." Ra-Marânge replied,

"Yes, I will fix you the medicine; and after I have made the mixture, you

must require all of your women to eat of it." So the wizard fixed the

medicine, and the king took it with him and went home.

His queen's name was Ngwe-nkonde; and among his lesser wives and

concubines were two quite young women who were friends, one of whom lived

with the queen in her hut as her little manja, or handmaid.

As soon as Ra-Mborakinda arrived, he announced his possession of the

medicine, and ordered all his women to come and eat of it. But Ngwe-nkonde

was jealous of her young maid, and did not wish her to become a mother.

So, early in the morning, she purposely sent the manja away to their

mpindi (plantation hut) on a made-up errand, so that she might not be

present at the feast.

At the appointed hour the king spread out the medicine, and called the

women to come. They each came with a piece of plantain leaf as a plate,

and assembled to eat, and Ramborakinda divided out the medicine among

them. Then the other of the two young women remembered her friend the

manja, and observed that she was absent. So she quickly tore off a piece

of her plantain leaf, and divided on it a part of her own share of the

medicine, and hid it by her, to keep it for the manja, so that she could

have it on her return from the mpindi. In the afternoon, when the manja

returned, her friend gave her the portion of the medicine, and she ate it.

Soon after this, all these women told Ra-Mborakinda that they expected to

become mothers.

After a few months he announced to them that he was going away on a long

trade-journey and that he would not return until a stated time. He gave

them directions that in the meanwhile they should leave his town and go to

their parents' homes and stay there until his return.

Now it happened that all these women had homes except the little manja;

her parents were dead, but she remembered the locality of their deserted

village.

So Ra-Mborakinda left to go on his journey, and all the expectant mothers

scattered to the homes of their parents, except the manja, who had to

follow with the queen to her people's village. But soon after their

arrival at Ngwe-nkonde's home, the latter began to treat her maid cruelly;

and finally, in her severity, she said, "Go away to your own home and

sojourn there," the while that she knew very well that her manja had no

home. Her thought and hope were that the manja would perish in the

wilderness.

As the maid knew the spot where her home had been, she left Ngwe-nkonde's

village, and started into the forest to go to her deserted village. On

arriving there, she found no houses nor any remains of human habitation.

But there was a very large fallen tree, with a trunk so curved that it was

not lying entirely flat on the ground. Under this enormous log she sat

down to rest, and it gave her shade and shelter. She accepted it as her

place at which to live and slept there that night. When she awoke in the

morning, she saw lying near her food and other needed things; but she saw

no one coming or going. A few days later on awaking in the morning she saw

a nice little house with everything prepared of food and clothing and

medicines and such articles as would be needed by a mother for her babe.

She stayed there, and in a few days gave birth to a man-child. Each day in

the morning she found, prepared for her hand, food and other needed things

lying near.

So she stayed there a long time till her baby was able to creep. When the

baby had grown strong, she knew it was the time that Ra-Mborakinda had

appointed for the return of his women to his town. She finally gathered

together her things for the journey next day. That night, before she had

gone to sleep, suddenly she saw a little girl standing near her, and she

heard a voice which she remembered as her mother's saying, "I give you

this little girl to carry the babe for you. But when you go back to

Ra-Mborakinda, do not allow anyone but yourself and this girl to carry the

child; if you do, the girl will disappear." So the next morning they

started on their journey, the young mother and baby and the girl-nurse.

During this while each of the other women had also born her baby, and they

were now preparing to return to Ra-Mborakinda's town. But of them all none

had born real human beings, except the manja and her young friend. All the

others had born monstrosities, like snakes, frogs, and other creatures.

Ngwe-nkonde had born two snails, of the kind called "nkâla." (It is a very

large snail.)

So that day Ngwe-nkonde was coming along with her nyamba (a long scarf)

hung over her right shoulder, and her two snails resting in the slack of

the scarf, as in a hammock, over her left hip, and supported by her left

arm. When the manja reached the cross-roads, she found the queen waiting

there. Her object in waiting there was to know whether her maid was still

in existence.

On seeing the manja, Ngwe-nkonde pretended to be pleased and said, "Let me

see the child you have born;" and she stepped forward to take the baby

away from the little girl-nurse. Manja, in her fear of her mistress and

accustomed to submit to her, forgot to resist. Ngwe-nkonde saw that the

babe was healthy and attractive, and she coveted it. She exclaimed, "Oh,

what a nice child you have born! Let me help you carry it!" The moment she

took the baby, the girl-nurse disappeared. Ngwe-nkonde deposited the babe

in her scarf, and gave the two snails to her manja, saying, "You carry

this for me!" She did this, intending to cause Ra-Mborakinda to think that

the baby was her own; she had no intention to return it to its real

mother; and the manja did not dare to complain.

So they went onward on their journey to the king's town.

All the women, as they arrived there, saluted each other, "Mbolo!" "Ai!

mbolo!" "Ai!" and each told her story and showed her baby. Then they all

brought their babies to the King Ra-Mborakinda, that the father might see

his children. In the king's presence Ngwe-nkonde took out the baby boy

from her scarf and placed it at her breast to nurse. But the child turned

its head away and would not nurse, and did nothing but cry and cry. Poor

little manja did not dare to claim her own, and she took no interest in

the snails to show them to the king. For a whole day there was confusion.

The baby boy persisted in rejecting Ngwe-nkonde's breast and kept on

crying, and the snails were moaning.

Not knowing what to make of this trouble, Ra-Mborakinda went again to

Ra-Marânge. The wizard laughed when he saw the king coming with this new

trouble, for, by his magic power, he already knew all that had happened.

"So!" he says, "you have come with another trouble, eh?" And at once he

jumps into the fire, and emerges clean and strong.

Then the king informed the wizard what his difficulty was. And Ra-Marânge

told him, "This is a small thing. It does not need medicine. Go you and

tell all your women each to cook some very nice food; then, sitting in a

circle, each must put the nice food near her feet. All the babies must be

put in a bunch together in the centre, and you will see what will happen."

So Ra-Mborakinda went back to his town and told the women to follow these

directions. They all did so, except the queen and her manja. The former

did not put the baby boy in the bunch of the other babies, but retained

him on her lap, and tried to make him eat of her nice food. But he only

resisted, and kept on crying, and the manja, in her grief and

hopelessness, had not prepared any nice food, only a pottage of greens,

which she thought good enough for her present unhappiness.

The king seeing that the wizard's directions were not fully followed by

the queen, compelled her to put the baby down in the company of the other

creatures, and then he and all the mothers sat around watching what would

happen.

Soon all the children began to creep, each to its own mother. The two

snails went to Ngwe-nkonde, and began to eat of her nice food. The little

baby boy crept rapidly toward the manja, and began with satisfaction to

eat of the poor food at its mother's feet.

That was a revelation to the king and to all the other mothers. They were

surprised and indignant that Ngwe-nkonde had been trying to steal the baby

from the manja; Ra-Mborakinda deposed her from being queen. And the other

women shouted derision at her, "Ngwe-nkonde! O! o-o-o!" and drove her from

the town. She went away in her shame, leaving the two snails behind, and

never returned.

And the king made the manja queen in her place. And the story ends.

II. THE BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER.

There was a married woman, a king's daughter, by name Maria, who was very

beautiful. She had a magic mirror that possessed the power of speech,

which she used every day, particularly when she desired to go out for a

promenade. She would then take this mirror from its hiding-place, and

looking at it, would ask, "My mirror! is there any other beautiful woman

like myself?" And this mirror would reply, "Mistress! there is none."

This she was accustomed to do every day until she became jealous at the

very thought of ever having a rival.

Subsequently she became a mother, and bore a daughter. She saw that the

child was very beautiful, more so than even herself. This child grew in

gracefulness; was amiable, not proud; and was unconscious of her beauty.

When the daughter was about twelve years of age, the mother dreaded lest

her child should know how attractive she was and should unintentionally

rival her. She told her never to enter a certain room where she had her

toilet. And the mother went on as formerly, looking into her mirror, and

then going out to display her beauty.

One day the daughter said to herself, "Ah! I'm tired of this prohibition!"

So she took the keys, and opened the door of the forbidden room. She

looked around, but not observing anything especially noticeable, she went

out again, locking the door. And the next day, the mother went in as

usual, and then went out for her walk. After the mother had gone, the

daughter said again to herself, "No! there must be something special about

that room. I will go in again and make a search." Looking around

carefully, she noticed a pretty casket on a table. Opening it, she saw it

contained a mirror. There was something strange about its appearance, and

she determined to examine it. While she was doing so, the mirror spoke,

and said, "Oh, maiden! there is no one as beautiful as you!" She put back

the mirror in its place, and went out, carefully fastening the door. The

next day, when the mother went as usual to make her toilet and to ask of

the mirror her usual question, "Is there another as beautiful as I?" it

replied, "Yes, mistress, there is another fairer than you."

So she went out of the room much displeased, and, suspecting her daughter,

said to her, "Daughter, have you been in that room?" The girl said, "No, I

have not." But the mother insisted, "Yes, you have; for how is it that my

mirror tells me that there is another woman more beautiful than I? And you

are the only one who has beauty such as mine."

During all these years the mother had kept the daughter in the palace, and

had not allowed her to be seen in public, as she dreaded to hear any one

but herself praised. Then the enraged mother sent for her father's

soldiers, and delivering the girl to them, she commanded, "You just go out

into the forest and kill this girl."

They obeyed her orders, and led the girl away, taking with them also two

big dogs. When they reached the forest, the soldiers said to her, "Your

mother told us to kill you. But you are so good and pretty that we are not

willing to do it. You just go your way and wander in this forest, and

await what may happen."

The girl went her way; and the soldiers killed the two dogs, so that they

might have blood on their swords to show to the mother. Having done this,

they went back to her, and said, "We have killed the girl; here is her

blood on our swords." And the mother was satisfied.

But in the forest the girl had gone on, wandering aimlessly, till she

happened to reach what seemed a hamlet having only one house. She went up

its front steps and tried the door. It was not locked, and she went in.

She saw or heard no one, but she noticed that the house was very much in

disorder; so she began to arrange it. After sweeping and putting

everything in neat order, she went upstairs and hid herself under one of

the bedsteads.

But she did not know that the house belonged to robbers who spent their

days in stealing, and brought their plunder home in the evening. When they

returned that day, laden with booty, they were surprised to find their

house in neat order and their goods arranged in piles. In their wonder

they exclaimed, "Who has been here and fixed our house so nicely?"

So they prepared their food, ate, drank, and slept, but they did not clean

up the table nor wash the dishes.

And the next day they went out again on their business of stealing.

After they were gone, the girl, hungry and frightened, crept out of her

hiding-place, and cooked and ate food for herself. Then, as on the first

day, she swept the floors and washed up the dishes. And then she cooked a

meal for the men to have it ready against their return in the late

afternoon; and again she occupied herself with the arrangement of the

goods in the rooms. Then she went back to her hiding-place.

When the robbers returned that day and laid down their booty, they were

again surprised to find not only their house in good order, but food ready

on the table. And they wondered, "Who does all this for us?"

They first sat down to eat; and then they said, "Let us look around and

find out who does all this." They searched, but they found no one.

The next day they armed themselves as usual to go out, leaving the table

and their recent load of stealings in disorder.

When they had gone, the girl again emerged from her hiding-place, and, as

before, cooked, ate, washed up, swept, arranged, and prepared the evening

meal.

Again the robbers, on their return, were still more astonished, as they

exclaimed, "Whoever does this? If it is a woman, then we will take her as

our sister. She shall take care of our house and our goods, but none of us

shall marry her; but if it is a man, he must be compelled to join in our

business."

The next day, when they were all going out on their ways, they appointed

one of their number to remain behind, hidden, who should watch, and thus

they should know who had been helping them.

When they had gone, the girl, ignorant that one had been left to watch,

came out of her hiding, and began to do as on the other days. When she

went outdoors to the kitchen [kitchens here are all detached] to cook, the

watcher came in sight. She was frightened, and began to run away; but he

called out, "Don't be afraid! Don't run, but come here! What are you

afraid of? You are not doing anything bad, you have been doing us only

good. Come here!" She stood and said, "I was afraid you would kill me!"

He came to her, saying, "What a beautiful girl to look at! When did you

come here, and who are you?" So she told him her story. And when she had

finished all the housework, she sat down with this man to await the coming

of the others. When the others came and saw the two, they said to him, "So

you found her?" He replied only, "Yes." Looking on her, they exclaimed,

"Oh, what a beautiful girl!" To calm her excitement, they told her, "Do

not be alarmed! you are to be our sister."

So they took all their goods and put them in her care, and herself in

charge of the house. Thus they lived for some time,--they stealing, and

she taking care for them.

But one day, at the palace, the wicked mother began to have some uneasy

doubts whether her soldiers had really obeyed her orders to kill her

daughter, and thought, "Perhaps the child was not really killed." She had

a familiar servant, an old woman, very friendly to her. To her she

revealed her story, and said, "Please go out and spy in every town. Look

whether you see a girl who is very beautiful; if so, she is my daughter.

You must kill her." The old woman replied, "Yes, my friend, I will do this

thing for you." So she went out and began her spying.

The very first place at which she happened to arrive was the robbers'

house. There being no people in sight, she entered the house, and found a

girl alone. On account of the girl's great beauty, she felt sure at once

that this was her friend's daughter. The girl gave her a seat and offered

hospitality. The old woman exclaimed, "Oh, what a nice-looking child! Who

are you, and who is your mother?" The girl, not suspecting evil, told her

story.

Then the old woman said, "Your hair looks a little untidy. Come here, and

let me fix it." The girl consented; and the old woman began to braid her

hair. She had hidden in her sleeve a long sharpened nail. When she had

completed the hair-dressing, she thrust the nail deeply into the girl's

head, who instantly fell down, apparently dead. Looking at the limp body,

the old woman said to herself, "Good for that! I have done it for my

friend." And she went away, leaving the corpse lying there, and reported

to the mother what she had done. The mother felt sure her friend had not

deceived her.

When the robbers returned that day, they found the girl lying dead. They

were very much troubled. They began to examine the corpse, to find what

was the cause of death, but they found no sign of any wound; and instead

of the corpse being rigid, it was limp; there was perspiration on the head

and neck. So they decided, "This nice life-looking face we will not put in

a grave." So they made a handsome casket, overlaid it with gold, and

adorned the body with a profusion of gold ornaments. They did not nail on

the lid, but made it to slide in grooves. Supposing the body liable to

decay, they placed the coffin outdoors in the air; and to keep it out of

the reach of any animals, they hung it by the halliards of their

flag-staff. Every day, on their going out and on their return, they pulled

it down by the halliards, drew out the lid, and looked on the fresh,

apparently living face of their "sister."

One day while they were all out on their business there happened to stray

that way a man by name Eserengila (tale-bearer), who lived at the

town of a man named Ogula. Coming to the robbers' house, he saw no one;

but he at once observed the hanging golden box. Exclaiming, "What a nice

thing!" he hasted back to his master Ogula, and called him. "Come and see

what a nice thing I have found; it is something worth taking!" So Ogula

went with him, and Eserengila pulled down the gilded box from the

flag-staff. They did not enter the house, nor did they know anything of

its character; and they carried away the box in haste, without looking at

its contents, to Ogula's, and put it in a small room in his house.

Some days after it had been placed there Ogula went in to examine what it

contained. He saw that the top of this coffin-like box was not nailed, but

slid in a groove. He withdrew it, and was amazed to see a beautiful young

woman apparently dead. Yet there was no look or odor of death. As she was

not emaciated by disease, he examined the body to find a possible cause of

death; but he found no sign, and wondering, exclaimed, "This beautiful

girl! What has caused her to die?"

He replaced the lid, and left the room, carefully closing the door. But he

again returned to look at the beautiful face of the corpse; and sighed,

"Oh, I wish this beautiful being were alive! She would be such a nice

playmate for my daughter, who is just about her size." Again he went and

shut the door very carefully. He told his daughter never to enter that

room, and she said, "Yes"; and he continued his daily visits there.

After many days Ogula's daughter became tired of seeing him enter while

she was forbidden. So one day, when he was gone out of the house, she said

to herself, "My father always forbids me this room; now I will go in and

see what he has there." She entered, and saw only the gilded box, and

exclaimed, "Oh, what a nice box! I'll just open it and see what is

inside."

She began to draw the lid out of its grooves, and a human head was

revealed with a splendid mass of hair covered with gold ornaments. She

withdrew the lid entirely, and saw the form of the young woman, and

delightedly said, "A beautiful girl, with such nice hair, and covered with

golden ornaments!" She did not know why the girl seemed so unconscious,

and began to say, "I wish she could speak to me, so we might be friends,

because she is only a little larger than I." So she gave the stranger's

salutation, "Mbolo! mbolo!" As no response was made, she protested, "Oh, I

salute you, mbolo, but you do not answer!" She was disappointed, and slid

back the cover, and went out of the room. Something about the door aroused

the suspicions of her father on his return to the house, and he asked her,

"Have you been inside that room?" She answered, "No! You told me never to

go there, and I have not gone." Next day Ogula went out again, and his

daughter thought she would have another look at the beautiful face.

Entering the room, she again drew out the lid, and again she gave the

salutation, "Mbolo!" There was no response. Again she protested, "Oh, I

speak to you, and you won't answer me!" And then she added, "May I play

with you, and fondle your head, and feel your hair? Perhaps you have lice

for me to remove?" [one of the commonest of native African friendly

services among both men and women]. She began to feel through the hair

with her fingers, and presently she touched something hard. Looking

closely, she found it was the head of a nail. Astonished, she said, "Oh,

she has a nail in her head! I'll try to pull it out!"

Instantly, on her doing so, the girl sneezed, opened her eyes, stared

around, rose up in a sitting posture, and said, "Oh, I must have been

sleeping a long time." The other asked, "You were only sleeping?" And the

girl replied, "Yes." Then Ogula's daughter saluted, "Mbolo!" and the girl

responded, "Ai, Mbolo!" and the other, "Ai!"

Then the girl asked, "Where am I? What place is this?" The other said,

"Why, you are in my father's house. This is my father's house." And the

girl asked, "But who or what brought me here?" Then Ogula's daughter told

her the whole story of Eserengila's having found the gilded box.

They at once conceived a great liking for each other, and started to be

friends. They played and laughed and talked and embraced, and fondled each

other. This they did for quite a while.

Then the beautiful one was tired, and she said, "It is better that you put

back the nail and let me sleep again." So the girl lay down in the box,

the nail was inserted in her head, and she instantly fell into

unconsciousness.

Ogula's daughter slid back the lid, and went out of the room, carefully

closing the door. She now lost all desire to go out of the house and play

with her former companions. Her father observed this, and urged her to

play and visit as she formerly had done. But she declined, making some

excuses, and saying she had no wish to do so. All her interest lay in that

room of the gilded box and beautiful girl. Whenever her father went out,

she at once would go to the room, draw out the lid, and pull out the nail;

her friend would sit up, and they would play, and repeat their friendship.

Ogula's daughter, seeing that her friend's desire for sleep was weakness

for want of food, daily brought her food. And the girl grew strong and

well and happy.

This was kept up many days without Ogula knowing of it.

But it happened one day, when the two girls were thus sitting in their

friendship, they continued their play and conversation so long that

Ogula's daughter forgot the time of her father's return; and he suddenly

entered the room, and was surprised to see the two girls talking. She was

frightened when she saw her father. But he was not angry, and quieted her,

saying, "Do not be afraid! How is it that you have been able to bring this

girl to life? What have you done?"

She told her father all about it, especially of the nail. Then Ogula sat

down by the girl of the gilded box, and asked the story of her life. She

told him all. Then he said, "As your mother is the kind of woman that

sends people to kill, and I am chief in this place, I will investigate

this matter to-morrow. I will call all the people of this region, and

there will be an ozâzâ (palaver) in the morning; and you shall remain, for

you are to be my wife."

The next day all the country side were called,--the wicked mother, the

soldiers, the old woman, and everybody else (except the unknown robbers).

The palaver was talked from point to point of the history, and, just at

the last, this beautiful girl walked into the assemblage, accompanied by

Ogula's daughter.

As soon as Maria saw her daughter enter, she started from her seat, looked

at the old woman, and fiercely said to her, "Here is this girl again! not

dead yet! I thought you killed her!" The old woman was amazed, but

asserted, "Yes, and I did. I kept my promise to you!"

Then the girl sat down, and Ogula bade her tell her entire story in the

presence of all the people. So she told from the very beginning,--about

the magic looking-glass, about the soldiers, about the robbers' house, and

on till the stay in Ogula's house.

Then all the people began to shout and deride and revile, and threaten

Maria and the old woman. This frightened the cruel Maria and her wicked

friend, and they ran away to a far country, and never came back again.

So the beautiful young woman was married to Ogula, and was happy with his

daughter as a companion.

But the robbers, in their secret house, not having heard of the ozâzâ,

kept on mourning and grieving for their lost sister, not knowing where

she had gone or what had become of her. And so the story ends.

(The above story is probably not more than two hundred or two hundred and

fifty years old; the name "Maria" doubtless being derived from Portuguese

occupants of the Kongo country.)

III. THE HUSBAND WHO CAME FROM AN ANIMAL.

Ra-Nyambie in his great town had his wives and sons and daughters, and

lived in glory.

He had a best-beloved daughter, by name Ilâmbe. There is a certain fetich

charm called "ngalo," by means of which its possessor can have gratified

any wish he may express. Ngalo is not obtainable by purchase or art; only

certain persons are born with it. This Ilâmbe was born with a ngalo. While

she was growing up, her father made a great deal of her and gave her very

many things,--servants and houses, according to her wishes. When Ilâmbe

had grown up to womanhood, she said, "Father, I will not like a man who

has other wives. I shall want my husband all for myself." And the father

said, "Be it so."

As years went on, Ilâmbe thought it was time she should be married, but

she saw no one who pleased her fancy. So she took counsel with her ngalo,

thinking, "What shall I do to get a husband for myself?"

She decided on a plan. Her father's people often went out hunting. One

day, when they were going out, she said to them, "If you find some small

animal, do not kill it, but bring it to me alive."

So they went out hunting, and they found a small animal resembling a goat,

called "mbinde" (wild goat). They brought it to her, asking pardon for its

smallness, and said, "We did not find anything, only this mbinde." She

took it, saying, "It is good." Then turning to one of the men, she bade

him, "Just skin this very carefully for me"; and to another of the

servants, "Bring me plenty of water, and put it in my bathroom for a

bath." Each of these servants did as he was bidden,--this one flaying the

animal, that one bringing the water. When the one had finished flaying,

and brought the entire flesh to her, she said, "Just put it into this

water for a bath." She left it there two days, soaking in the water. The

skin she put in a fire, burned it to black ashes, and carefully saved all

the ash. This she did not do herself, but told a servant to do it,

cautioning him to lose none of it. When it was brought to her, she wrapped

it up with care, and put it safely away so that none of it should be lost.

On the third day she spoke to her ngalo, "Ngalo mine, ngalo mine, I tell

you, turn this mbinde to a very handsome-looking man!" Instantly the

mbinde was changed to a finely formed man, who jumped out of the bath-tub,

dressed very richly.

Then Ilâmbe called one of her servants, and bade, "Go to my father, and

tell him I wish the town to be cleaned as thoroughly and quickly as

possible, because I have a husband, and I want to come and show him to

you; so my father must be ready to greet us."

The father summoned his servant Ompunga (Wind), who came, and at once

swept up the place clean.

Ilâmbe went out from her house with her husband, he and she walking side

by side through the street on the way to her father's house. All along

their route the people were wondering at the man's fine appearance, and

shouting, "Where did Ilâmbe get this man?" When she reached her father's

house, he ordered a salute of cannon for her. He was much pleased to see

the man with the crowd of people, and received him with respect.

Having thus visited her father, Ilâmbe returned to her own house with her

husband, the people still shouting in admiration of him. The news spread

everywhere about Ilâmbe's fine-looking husband, and there was great praise

of them. They lived happily in their marriage for a while, but trouble

came.

Ilâmbe had a younger sister living still at her father's house. One day

Ilâmbe changed her mind about having a husband all to herself, and

thought, "I better share him with my younger sister." So she went out to

her father to tell him about it, saying, "Father, I've changed my mind. I

want my younger sister to live with me, and marry the same man with me."

Her father, though himself having many wives, said, "You now change your

mind, and are willing to share your husband with another woman. Will there

be no trouble in the future?" She answered "No!" He repeated his question;

but she assured him it would be agreeable. So she took her sister (without

consulting the husband, as he was under her control, by power of her

ngalo), led her to her house, and presented her as a new wife to her

husband.