Thus, greatly to our ease of mind,
Our foreign foes we left behind;
But dangers even greater
Were menacing our path instead.
In every book I ever read
Of travels on the Equator,
A plague, mysterious and dread,
Imperils the narrator;
He always very nearly dies,
But doesn’t, which is calm and wise.
Said Sin, the indolent and vague,
“D’you think that we shall get the plague?”
It followed tragically soon;
In fording an immense lagoon,
We let our feet get damp.
Next morning I began to sneeze,
The awful enemy, Disease,
Had fallen on the camp!
With Blood the malady would take,
An allotropic form
Of intermittent stomach ache,
While Sin grew over warm;
Complained of weakness in the knees,
An inability to think,
A strong desire to dose and drink,
And lie upon his back.
For many a long delirious day,
Each in his individual way,
Succumbed to the attack.
[Illustration ** Sin and Blood lounging under a tree being waited
upon by two Africans.]