THE JOURNEY
LAMBARENE, _July_, 1913.
[Sidenote: From the Vosges to Teneriffe]
The church bells in my native Alsatian village of Günsbach, in the
Vosges, had just ceased ringing for the afternoon service on Good
Friday, 1913, when the train appeared round the corner of the wood, and
the journey to Africa began. We waved our farewells from the platform
of the last coach, and for the last time saw the _flêche_ on the church
tower peeping up among the trees. When should we see them again? When
next day Strasbourg Cathedral sank out of sight we seemed to be already
in a foreign land.
On Easter Sunday we heard once more the dear old organ of S. Sulpice's
Church in Paris and the wonderful playing of our friend Widor. At two
o'clock the Bordeaux train glided out of the underground station at the
Quai d'Orsay, and we began a delightful journey. Everywhere we saw
people in their holiday dress; the sunshine was brilliant, and the warm
spring breeze brought out of the distance the sound of the village
church bells, which seemed to be greetings to the train that was
hurrying past. It was an Easter Day which seemed a glorious dream.
The Congo steamers do not start from Bordeaux but from Pauillac, which
is an hour and a half by train nearer the sea. But I had to get my big
packing case, which had been sent in advance by goods train, out of
{11} the custom house at Bordeaux, and this was closed on Easter
Monday. There would have been no time on Tuesday to manage it, but
fortunately an official observed and was touched by our anxiety, and
enabled me to get possession of my goods without all the prescribed
formalities. But it was only at the last minute that two motor cars
got us and our belongings to the harbour station, where the train was
already waiting which was to convey the passengers for the Congo to
their ship. The feeling of relief can hardly be described with which,
after all the excitement and the payment of all those who had helped us
off, we sank into our seats in the railway carriage. The guard blew
his whistle; the soldiers who were also going took their places; we
moved out into the open, and for a time had the enjoyment of blue sky
and pleasant breeze, with the sight here and there of water, and yellow
broom in flower, and cows quietly grazing. In an hour and a half we
are at the quay among packing cases, bales, and barrels, ten yards from
the ship, called the _Europe_, which is gently tossing on the somewhat
restless waters of the Gironde. Then came a time of crushing,
shouting, signalling to porters; we push and are pushed till, over the
narrow gangway, we get on board and, on giving our names, learn the
number of the cabin which is to be our home for three whole weeks. It
is a roomy one, well forward and away from the engines, which is a
great advantage. Then we had just time to wash before the bell rang
for lunch.
We had at our table several officers, the ship's doctor, an army
doctor, and two wives of colonial officials who were returning to their
husbands after a voyage home to recruit. All of them, as we soon
discovered, had {12} already been in Africa or in other colonies, so
that we felt ourselves to be poor untravelled home birds. I could not
help thinking of the fowls my mother used to buy every summer from
Italian poultry dealers to add to her stock, and which for several days
used to walk about among the old ones very shyly and humbly! One thing
that struck me as noticeable in the faces of our fellow travellers was
a certain expression of energy and determination.
As there was still a great deal of cargo to come aboard we did not
start till the following afternoon, when under a gloomy sky we drew
slowly down the Gironde. As darkness gradually set in the long roll of
the waves told us that we had reached the open sea, and about nine
o'clock the last shimmering lights had disappeared.
Of the Bay of Biscay the passengers told each other horrid tales. "How
I wish it were behind us!" we heard at every meal-time, but we were to
make full proof of its malice. On the second day after starting a
regular storm set in, and the ship pitched and tossed like a great
rocking-horse, and rolled from starboard to port, and back from port to
starboard, with impartial delight. The Congo boats do this more than
others in a heavy sea because, in order to be able to ascend the river
as far as Matadi, whatever the state of the water, they are of a
comparatively shallow build.
Being without experience of ocean travel, I had forgotten to make the
two cabin trunks fast with cords, and in the night they began to chase
each other about. The two hat cases also, which contained our sun
helmets, took part in the game without reflecting how badly off they
might come in it, and when I tried to catch the trunks, I nearly got
one leg crushed between them and {13} the wall of the cabin. So I left
them to their fate and contented myself with lying quietly in my berth
and counting how many seconds elapsed between each plunge made by the
ship and the corresponding rush of our boxes. Soon there could be
heard similar noises from other cabins and, added to them, the sound of
crockery, etc., moving wildly about in the galley and the dining
saloon. With morning came a steward, who showed me the scientific way
of making the baggage fast.
For three days the storm lasted with undiminished force. Standing or
even sitting in the cabins or the saloons was not to be thought of; one
was thrown about from one corner to the other, and several passengers
received more or less serious injuries. On Sunday we had cold food
only, because the cooks were unable to use the galley fire, and it was
not till we were near Teneriffe that the storm abated.
I had been looking forward to the first sight of this island, which is
always said to be so magnificent, but, alas! I overslept myself and
woke only as we were entering the harbour. Then, scarcely had the
anchor been dropped, when we were hemmed in on both sides by
coaling-hulks from which were hoisted sacks of food for the engines, to
be emptied through the hatches into the ship's hold.
* * * * *
Teneriffe lies on high ground which slopes rather steeply into the sea,
and has all the appearance of a Spanish town. The island is carefully
cultivated and produces potatoes enough to supply the whole coast {14}
of West Africa, besides bananas, early potatoes, and other vegetables
for Europe.
[Sidenote: From Teneriffe to Cape Lopez]
We weighed anchor about three o'clock, and I stood in the bows and
watched how the anchor slowly left the bottom and came up through the
transparent water. I watched also, with admiration, what I took for a
blue bird flying gracefully above the surface of the sea, till a sailor
told me it was a flying fish.
Then, as we moved from the coast southwards, there rose slowly up
behind the island the snow-capped summit of its highest mountain, till
it lost itself in the clouds, while we steamed away over a gently
heaving sea and admired the entrancing blue of the water.
It was during this portion of the voyage that we found it possible to
become acquainted with one another. The other passengers were mostly
army officers and doctors and civil service officials; it surprised me
to find so few traders on board. The officials, as a rule, are told
only where they are to land, and not until on shore do they get to know
their ultimate destination.
Among those whom we got to know best were a lieutenant and a Government
official. The latter was going to the Middle Congo region and had to
leave his wife and children for two years. The lieutenant was in much
the same position, and was expecting to go up to Abescher. He had
already been in Tonquin, and in Madagascar, on the Senegal, the Niger,
and the Congo, and he was interested in every department of colonial
affairs. He held crushing views about Mahommedanism as it prevails
among the natives, seeing in it the greatest danger there is for the
future of Africa. "The Mahommedan negro," he said, "is no longer any
{15} good for anything. You may build him railways, dig him canals,
spend hundreds of thousands of pounds to provide irrigation for the
land he is to cultivate, but it all makes no impression on him; he is
absolutely and on principle opposed to everything European, however
advantageous and profitable it may be. But let a marabout--a
travelling preacher of Islam--come into the village on his ambling
horse with his yellow cloak over his shoulders, then things begin to
wake up! Everybody crowds round him, and brings his savings in order
to buy with hard cash charms against sickness, wounds, and snake bite,
against bad spirits and bad neighbours. Wherever the negro population
has turned Mahommedan there is no progress, either socially or
economically. When we built the first railway in Madagascar, the
natives stood for days together round the locomotive and wondered at
it; they shouted for joy when it let off steam, and kept trying to
explain to each other how the thing could move. In an African town
inhabited by Mahommedan negroes, the local water power was used once
for an installation of electric light, and it was expected that the
people would be surprised at the novel brightness. But the evening
that the lamps were first used the whole population remained inside
their houses and huts and discussed the matter there, so as to show
their indifference to the novelty."[1]
[1] In some African colonies Mahommedan negroes are more open to
progress.
Very valuable I found my acquaintance with a military doctor who had
already had twelve years' experience of Equatorial Africa, and was
going to Grand Bassam as director of the Bacteriological Institute
there. {16} At my request he spared me two hours every morning, during
which he gave me an account of the general system of tropical medicine,
illustrated by his own experiments and experiences. It was very
necessary, he thought, that as many independent doctors as possible
should devote themselves to the care of the native population; only so
could we hope to get the mastery of the sleeping sickness.
The day after we left Teneriffe the troops were ordered to wear their
sun-helmets whenever they were outside the saloons and cabins. This
precaution struck me as noticeable, because the weather was still cool
and fresh, hardly warmer than it is with us in June, but on the same
day I got a warning from an "old African," as I was enjoying the sight
of the sunset with nothing on my head. "From to-day onwards," he said,
"you must, even though the weather is not yet hot, regard the sun as
your worst enemy, and that whether it is rising, or high in heaven, or
setting, and whether the sky is cloudy or not. Why this is so, and on
what the sun's power depends, I cannot tell you, but you may take it
from me that people get dangerous sunstrokes before they get close to
the equator, and that the apparently mild heat of the rising or setting
sun is even more treacherous than the full glow of that fiery body at
mid-day."
At Dakar, the great harbour of the Colony of Senegambia, my wife and I
set foot for the first time on the soil of Africa to which we were to
devote our lives, and we felt it as a somewhat solemn moment. Of Dakar
itself I have no kindly remembrance, for I cannot forget the cruelty to
animals which is universal there. The town lies on a steep slope, the
streets are {17} mostly in very bad condition, and the lot of the poor
beasts of burden which are at the mercy of the negroes is terrible: I
have never seen such overworked horses and mules as here. On one
occasion when I came on two negroes who were perched on a cart heavily
laden with wood which had stuck in the newly mended street, and with
loud shouts were belabouring their poor beast, I simply could not pass
by, but compelled them to dismount and to push behind till the three of
us got the cart on the move. They were much disconcerted, but obeyed
without replying. "If you cannot endure to see animals ill-treated,
don't go to Africa!" said the lieutenant to me when I got back. "You
will see plenty of that kind of horror here."
At this port we took on board a number of Senegalese tirailleurs with
their wives and children. They lay about the foredeck, and at night
crept, head and all, into big sacks, as they had to sleep in the open.
The wives and children were heavily loaded with charms, enclosed in
little leather bags, even the babies at the breast not being exempt.
The shores of Africa I had pictured to myself as desert, and when, on
the way to Konakri, the next place of call to Dakar, we put in towards
the coast, I was surprised to see nothing but magnificently green woods
coming down right to the water's edge. With my telescope I could see
the pointed huts of the negro villages, and rising between us and them,
like a cloud, the spray of the waves on the bar; the sea, however, was
fairly calm, and the coast, so far as I could see, was flat.
"A shark! A shark!" I rushed from the writing saloon, and was shown a
black triangular object {18} projecting from the water and moving in
the direction of the ship. It was a fin of that dreaded sea-monster,
and whoever has once seen it never forgets it or confuses it with
anything else. The West African harbours all swarm with sharks. In
Kotonou I saw one, enticed by the kitchen refuse, come to about twelve
yards from the ship. The light being good and the water very
transparent, I could see for several minutes the whole length of its
glistening grey and yellow body, and observe how the creature turned
over nearly on to its back to get what it considered worth devouring
into its mouth, which, as we all know, is placed on the underside of
its head.
In spite of the sharks the negroes in all these harbours are ready to
dive for coins, and accidents seldom happen to them, because the noise
they make during the proceedings gets on the nerves of even these
wolves of the sea. At Tabou I was astonished to see one of the divers
quite silent while the rest were crying out for more coins, but I
noticed later that he was the most skilful of the lot and had to keep
silent because his mouth served as his purse, and he could hardly shut
it for the number of nickel and silver coins that were in it.
From Konakri onwards we were almost always within sight of the coast.
The Pepper Coast, the Ivory Coast, the Gold Coast, the Slave Coast! If
only that line of forest on the horizon could tell us about all the
cruelty it has had to witness! Here the slave dealers used to land and
ship their living cargoes for transport to America. "It is not all as
it should be, even today," said to me an employee of a big trading
firm, who was returning for a third period of work to his post {19} in
Africa. "We bring the negroes strong drink and diseases which were
previously unknown among them. Do the blessings we bring the natives
really outweigh the evils that go with them?"
Several times during meals I found myself watching the guests at the
different tables. All had already worked in Africa, but with what
objects? What ideals had they? So pleasant and friendly here, what
sort of people were they away in their places of work? What
responsibility did they feel? In a few days the three hundred of us
who left Bordeaux together will have landed in Africa, and in a few
weeks we shall be separated, taking up our duties on the Senegal, on
the Niger, on the Ogowe, on the Congo and its tributaries, some even as
far away as Lake Chad, to work in these different regions for three
years or so. What shall we accomplish? If everything could be written
down that is done during these years by all of us who are now here on
this ship, what a book it would be! Would there be no pages that we
should be glad to turn over as quickly as possible? ...
But the ship is carrying us on and on. Grand Bassam ... Kotonou ...
Each time there are hearty farewells exchanged between many who have
hardly spoken to each other. "Good health to you!" The words are
spoken with a smile, but again and again, and in this climate they have
a serious sound. How will those to whom they are spoken look when they
come on board next? And will they all come back? ... The windlasses
and cranes begin to creak; the boats are dancing on the waves; the red
roofs of the seaside town throw us a bright greeting from out of the
mass of greenery; the waves breaking on the sandy bar send {20} up
their clouds of spray ... and behind them all lies the immeasurable
stretch of land, at some place in which every one who leaves us here is
to be a lord and master, all his doings having a significance of some
sort for the great land's future. "Good health to you! Good health to
you!" It seems to be scarcely a solemn enough farewell for all that
lies in the future!
At Tabou and at Grand Bassam, on the Ivory Coast, and at Kotonou, the
swell is so heavy even in good weather that passengers cannot get into
the boats by the rope-ladder, but must be lowered into them four at a
time in wooden boxes, such as one sees on merry-go-rounds at village
fairs. It is the duty of the engineer who manages the crane to seize
the right moment for letting the cradle with its four occupants safely
down into the bottom of the boat which is dancing up and down on the
waves; the negro in the boat has to see that his craft is exactly below
the cradle as it descends, and accidents are not infrequent. The
unloading of cargo is also a very difficult operation and only possible
in calm weather. I now understand the assertions that West Africa is
very poor in good harbours.
At Tabou we took on board, as is done on every voyage, some fifty
negroes for handling the cargo. They are taken as far as the Congo, to
be landed again on the return voyage, and they helped with the
unloading at Libreville, Cape Lopez, and Matadi, the places to which
most of the freight is consigned. They do their work perfectly, almost
better than the dock labourers at Pauillac, but their behaviour towards
the other coloured folk on board is brutal. Whenever the latter get
the least bit in their way they come to blows.
[Illustration: A RIVER STEAMER ON THE OGOWE.]
{21}
Every evening the glimmer of the sea, as the ship ploughs her way
through it, is wonderful: the foam is phosphorescent, and little
jelly-fishes spring up through it like glowing balls of metal. After
leaving Konakri we saw almost every night the reflection of storms that
swept across the country, and we passed through several deluges of rain
accompanied by tornadoes that did nothing, however, to cool the air.
On cloudy days the heat was worse than on others, and the sun, although
not shining directly on us, was said to be much more dangerous in such
weather than at other times.
Early on April 13th, a Sunday, we reached Libreville, and were welcomed
by Mr. Ford, the American missionary, who brought us a preliminary gift
from Africa of flowers and fruit from the mission-house garden. We
thankfully accepted his invitation to visit the mission station, which
is called Baraka, and is situated on a hill about 2½ miles along the
coast from Libreville. As we mounted the hill through the rows of neat
bamboo huts belonging to the negroes, the chapel doors opened after
service. We were introduced to some of the congregation and had a
dozen black hands to shake. What a contrast between these clean and
decently clothed people and the blacks that we had seen in the
seaports, the only kind of native we had met up to now! Even the faces
are not the same. These had a free and yet modest look in them that
cleared from my mind the haunting vision of sullen and unwilling
subjection, mixed with insolence, which had hitherto looked at me out
of the eyes of so many negroes.
From Libreville to Cape Lopez it is only an eight hours' run. When,
early on Monday, April 14th, we {22} came in sight of the harbour, an
anxiety seized me which I had felt before occasionally during the last
week or so. The custom house and the duties! During the latter part
of the voyage all sorts of tales had been told at meal times about the
colonial duties. "Ten per cent. on the value of all you bring you'll
have to fork out!" said an old African. "And whether the things are
new or old doesn't matter in the least!" added another. However, the
customs officer was fairly gracious to us. Perhaps the anxious faces
we showed, as we laid before him the list of the things in our seventy
cases, toned him down to a gentler mood, and we returned to the ship
with a delightful feeling of relief, to sleep in it for the last time.
But it was an uncomfortable night: cargo was being unloaded and coal
taken in, till the negroes at the cranes could no longer stand for
weariness.
* * * * *
Early on Tuesday we transferred to the _Alembe_, which, being a river
boat, was built broad and shallow, and its two paddle-wheels were side
by side at the stern, where they are safe from wandering tree trunks.
It took up only the passengers and their personal luggage, being
already full of cargo. Our cases were to follow in the next boat a
fortnight later. We started at 9 a.m., so as to pass safely at high
tide over the sandbanks which block the mouth of the Ogowe, and a few
passengers who had stayed on shore too long were left behind. They
overtook us, however, later on in a motor boat.
[Sidenote: Up the Ogowe to Lambarene]
River and forest...! Who can really describe the first impression they
make? We seemed to be {23} dreaming! Pictures of antediluvian scenery
which elsewhere had seemed to be merely the creation of fancy, are now
seen in real life. It is impossible to say where the river ends and
the land begins, for a mighty network of roots, clothed with
bright-flowering creepers, projects right into the water. Clumps of
palms and palm trees, ordinary trees spreading out widely with green
boughs and huge leaves, single trees of the pine family shooting up to
a towering height in between them, wide fields of papyrus clumps as
tall as a man, with big fan-like leaves, and amid all this luxuriant
greenery the rotting stems of dead giants shooting up to heaven.... In
every gap in the forest a water mirror meets the eye; at every bend in
the river a new tributary shows itself. A heron flies heavily up and
then settles on a dead tree trunk; white birds and blue birds skim over
the water, and high in air a pair of ospreys circle. Then--yes, there
can be no mistake about it!--from the branch of a palm there hang and
swing--two monkey tails! Now the owners of the tails are visible. We
are really in Africa!
So it goes on hour by hour. Each new corner, each new bend, is like
the last. Always the same forest and the same yellow water. The
impression which nature makes on us is immeasurably deepened by the
constant and monotonous repetition. You shut your eyes for an hour,
and when you open them you see exactly what you saw before. The Ogowe
is not a river but a river system, three or four branches, each as big
as the Rhine, twisting themselves together, and in between are lakes
big and little. How the black pilot finds his way correctly through
this maze of watercourses is a riddle to me. With the spokes of the
great wheel in {24} his hand he guides the ship, without any map before
him, from the main stream into a narrow side channel, from this into
the lake, and from the lake back into the main stream; and so again and
again. But he has worked up and down this stretch of water for sixteen
years, and can find his way along even by moonlight!
The current in the lower part of the river is sluggish, but it is very
different higher up, though it nowhere becomes as strong as that of the
Rhine. Invisible sandbanks and tree trunks floating just below the
surface demand very cautious navigation, and the boat's average speed
is not more than eight miles an hour.
After a long run we stop at a small negro village, where, stacked on
the river bank, are several hundred logs of wood, such as bakers often
use, and we lie to in order to ship them, as wood is the fuel used for
the engines. A plank is put out to the bank; the negroes form line and
carry the logs on board. On the deck stands another negro with a
paper, and as soon as ten logs have passed, another on the plank calls
to him in musical tones, "Put a one." When the hundredth log comes,
the call, in the same pleasant tone, is, "Put a cross." The price is
from four to five francs a hundred, which is rather high when one
considers that the logs are all windfalls and only have to be collected.
The captain abuses the village elder for not having had logs enough
ready. The latter excuses himself with pathetic words and gestures.
At last they come to an agreement that he shall be paid in spirits
instead of in cash, because he thinks that the whites get their liquor
cheaper than the blacks do, so that he will make a better bargain....
Every litre of alcohol pays two {25} francs duty on coming into the
colony, and I pay for the absolute alcohol which I use for medical
purposes the same duty as is paid on the ordinary liquor for drinking.
Now the voyage continues. On the banks are the ruins of abandoned
huts. "When I came out here fifteen years ago," said a trader who
stood near me, "these places were all flourishing villages." "And why
are they so no longer?" I asked. He shrugged his shoulders and said in
a low voice, "L'alcohol...."
A little after sunset we lay to opposite a store, and two hours were
spent in shipping 3,000 logs. "If we had stopped here in daylight,"
said the merchant to me, "all the negro passengers" (there were about
sixty of them) "would have gone ashore and bought spirits. Most of the
money that the timber trade brings into the country is converted into
rum. I have travelled about in the colonies a great deal, and can say
that rum is the great enemy of every form of civilisation."
Thus with the ennobling impressions that nature makes are mingled pain
and fear; with the darkness of the first evening on the Ogowe there
lowers over one the shadow of the misery of Africa. Through the
gloaming chimes the monotonous call, "Make a one," "Make a cross"; and
I feel more convinced than ever that this land needs to help it men who
will never let themselves be discouraged.
With the help of the moon we are able to go further. Now we see the
forest like a gigantic border on the river bank; now we seem to graze
its dark wall, from which there streams out a heat that is almost
unendurable. The starlight lies gently on the water; in the distance
there is summer lightning. Soon after midnight the {26} vessel is
anchored in a quiet bay, and the passengers creep into their mosquito
nets. Many sleep in the cabins; others on the couches along the walls
of the dining saloon, under which are stored the mail sacks.
About 5 a.m. the engines are set in motion again. We have now covered
nearly 130 miles (200 kilometres), and the forest is more imposing than
further downstream. In the distance appears a hill with red roofs upon
it: the mission station of N'Gômô; and the two hours spent in shipping
logs gives us time to see the station and its sawmill.
Five hours later the slopes of Lambarene come in sight, and the steamer
sounds its syren, though it will take another half hour to reach the
village. But the inhabitants of the widely scattered stores must be
warned in good time, so that they can bring their canoes to the landing
stage and take possession of the goods that we have brought for them.
The Lambarene mission station is an hour further on by canoe, so that
no one could be at the landing stage to greet us, but while the cargo
was being unloaded I suddenly saw a long, narrow canoe, rowed by
merrily singing boys, shoot round the ship, and so fast, indeed, that
the white man in the stern had only just time to throw himself
backwards and save his head from contact with the ship's cable. It is
Mr. Christol, with the lower class of the boys' school, and behind them
comes another boat with Mr. Ellenberger, rowed by the upper class. The
boys had made it a race, and the younger ones had won; perhaps,
however, because they were given the lighter boat. They were,
therefore, allowed to convey the doctor and his wife; the others took
the luggage aboard. What charming young {27} faces! One little man
walked solemnly about, carrying my heavy rifle.
The canoe journey we found at first anything but comfortable. These
vessels are only tree trunks hollowed out and are therefore both flat
and narrow, so that their equilibrium is very easily disturbed.
Moreover, the rowers do not sit, but stand, which, again, does not
contribute to their stability. With a long, narrow paddle, which is
held freely in the hands, the crew strike the water, singing also so as
to keep in time with each other, and a single awkward movement of one
of the rowers may upset the canoe. However, in half an hour's time we
had overcome our anxiety, and enjoyed the trip thoroughly. The steamer
was by now again on its way upstream, and the boys raced it, with such
eagerness, too, that they nearly ran into another canoe with three old
negresses in it.
In half an hour's time we leave the main stream for a branch one, the
singing still going on as merrily as ever, and we can see some white
spots on a hill that is flooded with light from the setting sun: the
houses of the mission station! The nearer we get, the louder is the
singing, and, after crossing a stream which gusts of wind make rather
rough, the canoe glides into a quiet little bay.
First there are a dozen black hands to shake, but that seems now quite
natural. Then, Mrs. Christol, Miss Humbert, the schoolmistress, and
Mr. Kast, the manual worker, conduct us to our little house, which the
children have hastily decorated with palms and flowers. Built of wood,
the house stands on some forty iron piles, which raise it about 20
inches from the ground, and a verandah runs all round its four small
rooms. The {28} view is entrancing: below us is the stream, which here
and there widens into a lake; all round is forest, but in the distance
can be seen a stretch of the main stream, and the background is a range
of blue hills.
We have scarcely time to unpack the things we need at once when night
comes on, as it does here always just after six. Then the bell summons
the children to prayers in the schoolroom, and a host of crickets begin
to chirp, making a sort of accompaniment to the hymn, the sound of
which floats over to us, while I sit on a box and listen, deeply moved.
But there comes an ugly shadow creeping down the wall; I look up,
startled, and see a huge spider, much bigger than the finest I had ever
seen in Europe. An exciting hunt, and the creature is done for.
After supper with the Christols the school children appear in front of
the verandah, which has been decorated with paper lanterns, and sing in
two parts to the tune of a Swiss _Volkslied_ some verses composed by
Mr. Ellenberger in honour of the doctor's arrival. Then we are
escorted by a squad of lantern-bearers up the path to our house, but
before we can think of retiring to rest we have to undertake a battle
with spiders and flying cockroaches, who seem to regard as their own
domain the house which has been so long uninhabited.
At six o'clock next morning the bell rings; the hymn sung by the
children in the schoolroom is soon heard, and we prepare to begin our
new work in our new home.
[Illustration: MY LITTLE BUNGALOW. Above: Distant view, with orange
and citron trees in the foreground: Below: Near view.]
{29}