[to be continued.]
[A NEW WATER ROUTE TO CENTRAL AFRICA.]
BY CYRUS C. ADAMS.
ny man who reveals to the world a great river on which steamboats can ply for hundreds of miles is a benefactor, and his name will be recorded among important explorers. Dr. Ludwig Wolf, in 1886, found a new water route to central Africa, and in all the good work he did until his death he never won a greater prize. Dr. Wolf loved the big continent, and he said that in all his life in Africa he never experienced such almost insupportable heat as he endured in Philadelphia during the Centennial Exposition. But he was convinced that women from the temperate zones should not try to live in tropical Africa, and believed that white men who spend their lives there should humanely renounce the idea of taking wives from their own race, and should marry women who were born in tropical countries.
Dr. Wolf's little steamer puffed up the big Sankuru River, threading its way among many islands, and revealing a great new highway and many unaccustomed sights. One day Dr. Wolf was astounded to see, some ways up the river, what appeared to be a raging snow-storm. Of course snow never falls there, but the illusion was perfect. It was caused by myriads of white butterflies zigzagging through the air. Two or three years later a black boy named Pitti, who had been taken from his home on this river to Germany, came rushing to his friends, exclaiming; "Oh, look out of the window! The air is full of butterflies." It was snowing hard. You see, the first impressions both of the learned doctor and of the ignorant little black boy were erroneous, because neither of them was in a country that he knew very well. You will see on your map that the great northern bend of the Congo is like a bent bow, and far below it is the string of the bow—the Sankuru—pieced out at one end by the Kassai River, which unites it with the Congo, while the other end stretches far across, almost to the other end of the bow. Dr. Wolf's discovery added almost 800 miles of navigable waters to the Congo basin, stretching almost due east to central Africa. Many a boy who loves adventure would think it a proud honor to add so important a fact to geographic knowledge, but I wonder how many boys would be willing to pay the great price that Dr. Wolf and all the pioneer explorers have had to pay for the discoveries that made them famous.
How would you like to be among hostile natives, many hundreds of miles from the nearest white settlement, with no means of transportation except a wheezy little steamboat that was likely to blow up or break down beyond repair at any moment? The worn-out En Avant, which carried Dr. Wolf's little party, was tired all the time, and incessantly on the verge of giving up entirely. There was no machinist on board to coax the complaining engine into good humor. The boiler-plates were sprung, and every morning the cracks were plastered over with a fresh layer of clay. Some of the tubing and the furnace grates gave out, and the doctor mournfully sacrificed gun-barrels from his slender stock of fire-arms to replace the worn-out parts. Of course, he would have repaired his rickety little steamer before he started if he had had anything with which to patch it up. With everything right at our hand at home, we have little idea of the countless perplexities that beset the explorer. Some years ago the French carried a steamboat in sections, at great cost, to the bank of a river in the French Congo, where they wished to launch it, and there the vessel lay uselessly on the shore for more than a year, because they had lost one little package that had to be replaced from Europe before a fire could be kindled under the boiler. Dr. Wolf was not able to move up stream as fast as a land party would have travelled; and around sharp bends in the river, under full pressure of steam, he was often two hours in making 700 feet against the rapid current.
Until he had ascended far towards the sources of the river, he found the Sankuru a noble stream, one to two miles in width; and, curiously enough, the natives on the north bank were very hostile, while those living south of the river were perfectly friendly and hospitable. The wide river was a boundary between peoples who differed from each other in many respects. This has often been observed in savage lands. On the middle Congo, where the river for long stretches is from fifteen to twenty miles wide and crowded with islands, there are thousands of natives who, until recently, had never seen the opposite shore nor the people who live there.
"STOP! DON'T SHOOT!"
Soon after the explorer entered the Sankuru he had an adventure with the hostile natives of the north shore that a little resembled the fabled story of Pocahontas and Captain John Smith. The doctor was steaming along about twenty feet from the bank, when he saw a girl, wearing ornaments that showed she was the daughter of a chief, leaping through the grass towards the water and shouting:
"Stop, you fools! Don't shoot! Let them go! They will not harm you!"
Dr. Wolf took in the situation in an instant. He saw a party of Bassongo-Mino crouching in the herbage at the water's edge, their bowstrings drawn, all ready to launch the arrows. The girl sprang in among them and knocked the bow and arrow from the hands of the man nearest to her. She cowed the men with her loud upbraidings, and they lowered their weapons as the steamer swept past. There is little doubt that her word of command, spoken in behalf of white strangers, the like of whom she had never seen before, saved the lives of some of Dr. Wolf's party. Perhaps she knew how grateful they were for her humane and friendly act, though they had no opportunity to express their gratitude.
Sometimes the more important women among these barbarous tribes exert great influence. At another place on the Sankuru Dr. Wolf thanked his lucky stars that a woman took his part. He had stopped in front of a large settlement and tried to make friends with the people. They made no answer, but sprang to their weapons and advanced to attack him. Among the foremost suddenly appeared a girl named Pemba, the daughter of the most powerful chief in all that region. With a few words and a wave of her hand she stilled the angry tumult. She had never seen white men before, but she called to them to wait. She ordered some ivory and native grass cloth to be put into a boat, and, perfectly fearless, she went out to the strangers, had a good talk with them through the interpreter, received beads, brass wire, and cotton cloth for her commodities, and when the paddle-wheels began to revolve the boat was loaded with food bought of the natives, who at first had only arrows for the visitors. Through the influence of this girl, the explorer escaped an attack from the most powerful tribe along the river.
HE LOOKED AT A GUN WITH GREAT CURIOSITY.
For a long distance the hostile tribes were found to speak practically the same language, and Dr. Wolf's interpreter was the most important person on the boat. The natives thought the strangers could not understand them, and so they freely talked of their plans for attacking them. One day, when Dr. Wolf stopped to repair the En Avant, natives armed with bows and arrows speedily surrounded the steamer. They were not a bit afraid, and drew right up alongside. Their chief, Tongolata, told his warriors that these strangers were entirely at his mercy. Why, he couldn't see a single weapon among them! He looked at a gun with great curiosity. "Whatever the thing is," he finally declared, "it is not a weapon." He told his people it would be easy enough to kill these folks and seize all the strange and beautiful things they were showing. Things were beginning to look squally. More canoes were coming every minute. Dr. Wolf was a man of peace, and would not take a human life unless it was necessary to save his own men. But he must do something to over-awe these savages. He showed the chief a revolver, and told him it carried lightning that killed men. Then he held the weapon so that its discharge would hurt no one, but the barrel was close to the King's ear. He pulled the trigger, and the chief fell to the bottom of his boat, stunned by the terrible noise. All the natives were stupefied with astonishment and fear. The chief held on to both his ears until he decided that he was not hurt, and then he declared that he was the white man's good brother, and honored his new friend with a present of two chickens. Some explorers—very few, it is hoped—would have fired into the crowd under such circumstances. But men who are fit to be trusted among barbarous peoples have very often been able to insure safety when danger threatened by some such expedient as that which Dr. Wolf adopted.
The actions of some of these tribes when they first caught sight of the wonderful "fire-canoe" were very curious. The Bena-Jehka, for instance, threw themselves on the ground—not in fear, however, for they greeted the coming vessel with a hearty clapping of hands. The friendly natives were greatly tickled to find that this puffing boat was no match in a race with their canoes. They could travel all around her; and no wonder, for some of their dugouts were nearly ninety feet long—twice the length of the En Avant—and eighty paddlers standing erect in the larger boats made them fairly skim through the water. Sometimes fifty of these canoes were darting here and there, playing tag with the slow steamer, and dodging her every time. It was great sport for the friendly natives of the south bank, and the hostiles across the river did not know how much fun they were missing. None of these people had ever heard of a gun.
The African telephone was busy, as the steamer advanced, carrying the news up the river. The deep notes of the big drum, or tomtom, are the signal of great events in those parts, and crowds flocked to the banks long before the vessel puffed into view, straining their eyes for the first glimpse of anything wonderful or menacing. These signals, however, do not compare with the ingenious system perfected by a few small tribes in the Cameroons, West Africa, where the sounds on the drum represent syllables and words, and so grow into sentences, like the ticks of a telegraph instrument. Only about two hundred natives have been instructed in the art, and the secret is so carefully guarded that no white man is yet able to interpret these drum-beats, which carry verbal messages from one drummer to another as fast as sound travels.
Far up the river Dr. Wolf discovered some remarkable houses built in the branches of trees. Many African tribes, like the people of New Guinea and the Solomon Islands, in the Pacific, build platforms high up in the trees, so that their lookouts may quickly discover the approach of an enemy, or their women and children take refuge among the branches in time of danger. An invention of the white men is destroying this custom of building tree refuges, and you can easily guess what it is. Traders have introduced many guns among the natives, and the women find that their rude perches in the air are no protection against bullets. But the tree houses Dr. Wolf saw serve a different purpose. The natives live in them to keep out of the wet when the land is flooded. A platform is firmly lodged in the widest fork of a tree, and a roof is built on the top of uprights that rest on the platform. The boys and girls are a happy lot when the floods subside and they can press the ground again with their bare feet.
It was a joyous lot of black men whom Dr. Wolf restored to their homes in Angola, after they had served him well for many months while he was adding this river to the maps. But on the way home they had one serious disappointment. One day they saw a group of baobab-trees, the largest plant that grows in Africa. It was many a day since they had seen the familiar sight. "Hurrah!" they cried; "we are near the sea. We are in Angola again." But they were still far from Angola.
These humble negroes helped to prepare the way for the busy white stations that are now planted on the Sankuru's banks. They should have their share of credit for the good work that was done.
[GAMES IN THE REAL COUNTRY.]
BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.
The boys in the cities, and especially in the suburban towns, have a very much gayer time than their fathers did twenty years ago. When a man of middle age now visits his old college, or, indeed, any athletic field, the fact is impressed upon him with great and ever-increasing force that he was born two score years too soon. In my boyhood, which was not so very long ago, town ball on the commons and baseball on a rough and unprepared field were about the only games of a general nature that we had. Of course there was a brief season for shinney, a little while for marbles, and in the hottest weather of midsummer we languidly indulged in mumble-the-peg. But we had no athletic fields in the sense that they exist to-day for general sports, while the fascinating tennis had not been introduced, and football as it is played to-day was unknown. We were therefore, judging by present-day standards, pretty badly off.
By the real country I mean those sections where the boys live on farms or in villages not influenced by close contact with the people from large cities. In such places, and I am writing in such a place, the boys do not seem to have a very gay time; but as they do not know that their sports so impress an on-looker, they are not unhappy about the matter. Just across the village street from the house in which I write is the village school (Academy it is called in high-sounding phrase), and the play-ground about it is bare in some spots, high grown with weeds in others, while great stones and small lie around in an abundance that menaces the security of every step a fast-running urchin takes. The boys on one side of the yard are playing baseball at this moment, and on the other side the girls, with shrill cries that express all at once delight, apprehension, and downright fear, are playing prisoner's-base. The boys do not have a "diamond" for their game, but the field is laid out in an irregular way that must have been determined partly by chance and somewhat by necessity. The pitcher stands a few feet in front of a maple-tree, and the catcher is so close to a rail fence that every passed ball goes into the ploughed field beyond. The ball is so frequently lost in this field and in the weeds in the school-yard that quite half the time of the game is spent in searching for it. The bats are clumsy things, that seem too heavy for the youngsters to wield with ease and accuracy; but as the pitching is not fast the batters succeed in hitting the ball as often as they miss it. And every time there is a hit there is a mighty scrambling in every part of the field, as the right-fielder appears to think it his duty to cover third base, and the first-base man displays an ambition to capture flies in the left field. The smaller the score, I believe, in both the professional and amateur worlds, the better the game. But in the baseball games in the real country the opposite is held to be true, and if less than twenty runs on a side are made the game is counted to have been a failure.
These games at the Academy are not played continuously, but begin before school in the morning, then at morning recess, then during the dinner hour, and are finished in the afternoon recess. After school, with whoops and cries of divers sorts the youngsters disperse to their homes, some of which are miles away. Several years ago they all walked home, but now the majority of them go to and fro on bicycles. In watching my neighbors of the school and their goings and comings I have discovered where the discarded bicycles that have gone out of fashion in town disappear to. They are taken to the country, and there the lads in the cowhide boots in winter and bare feet in summer pedal them up hill and down, alike ignorant of and indifferent to the fact that their much-cherished wheels are out of style.
The games the real country boys play are few, and would not be exciting to the lads who exercise on the Berkeley Oval; but they are entirely wholesome and harmless, and serve just as good a purpose as they would if they were in what more sophisticated people call good form. Fun is, to a great extent, a matter of education, and the same standard will not serve to measure the amusements of all classes alike. This is a most fortunate fact; and when I consider it I doubt whether in my own youth I may not, after all, have had in my limited range as much genuine sport as the lads I see in my neighbors' lawns, throwing off their gayly striped blazers preparatory to trying their skill in the tennis-court that has just been marked out.
[THE DAISIES.]
BY JOHN VANCE CHENEY.
Daisies, once, in noonday dream,
Heard I gossip by a stream,
Secrecies too sweet to name;
'Mong them, daisies, how you came
By your shining skyey faces,
Where you learned these magic paces.
On a night, far, far away,
Certain stars that loved to play
In the pond across the way,
At a signal—so they say—
Put their beams out; what is more,
One by one they slipped ashore.
When their mates look from the sky.
Now we know why every eye,
Up and down this fairy ground,
Plays go-sleepin' oh, so sound!
Eyes and hearts of summer day,
Daisies, you have run away.
[THE SLAMBANGAREE.]
(In Two Parts.)
BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK.
Part I.
The other night Reginald was tossing about in his little bed, unable to go to sleep. The dull monotonous ticking of the clock fell upon his ear in a way that drove him almost mad, and the rain pattering upon the window-pane added to his misery, and made him wish for the light of morning as he had never wished for it before. And when the trees moaned in the wind, it filled poor Reginald's mind with dire forebodings, and caused him to bury his curly head deeper in the pillow to deaden the weird refrain that rippled in the blinds with a sort of fiendish playfulness.
And then he heard a soft footfall on the carpet, and, looking up, saw the strangest creature he had ever set eye upon standing grinning by the bedpost. At first Reginald was so frightened that he could say nothing; but when he noticed that the creature didn't move, and that his grin could not hurt him, he found his voice, and said, "Please, Mr. Robber—"
"Did you say robber?" asked the Presence, with angry emphasis.
"I did," replied Reginald, trembling violently; "but it was all your fault, I meant to say Mr. Robertson, but you cut me short before I could pronounce the last syllable."
"I will then pardon you," replied the Presence, which continued quickly, as if to catch Reginald in a lie: "What did you intend to say after robber?"
"I intended to say," replied Reginald, still trembling, "Mr. Robertson, can you tell me what time it is. That clock doesn't strike, and I cannot sleep. If I thought you to be a thief, I would ask you not to take my new locomotive or boxwood tops."
"Very good," replied the Presence, as it took the grin off its face, and holding an end in each hand, proceeded to stretch it this way and that, until it was a yard long.
"Why, what a singularly large smile you have!" said Reginald, who by this time had partially recovered his composure. "I never saw anything like it before."
The Presence evidently felt complimented, and proceeded to entertain Reginald further. It fastened one end of the grin to the bureau, and walked to the opposite side of the room, with the other end in its hand.
"Oh, don't," cried Reginald; "it might break!"
But just then the Presence let go of the end it held in its hand, and the grin flew across the room, and settled down to its size when in repose, on the bureau.
"Oh, please put it on again," pleaded Reginald; "because it is so becoming, and when it is off, you look so sad and homely."
So the Presence readjusted its grin, and looked just as it did when Reginald had first beheld it.
"Will you kindly tell me what you are?" asked Reginald, who was really at a loss for a question.
"With pleasure," replied the Presence; "because I am always ready to show myself in my true colors, which are warranted never to fade or wash out, and I am always ready to submit myself to the strictest critical scrutiny." Then the Presence drew itself up proudly, and sang, to a lively measure:
"In reply to your question, so natural, I
Shall be happy to make you a truthful reply,
And inform you that I am a-roaming, care free,
The sprite of the pudding, the Slambangaree.
"Of the pudding of plum, when you've eaten too much,
And you drop into sleep as the pillow you touch.
Oh, you tumble about, and you snore, and you see
Awful things, all produced by the Slambangaree.
"But as now you can't sleep, this occasion I take
All my antics to play on you while you're awake;
And until your plum-pudding's digested, ah, me!
You can bill no farewell to the Slambangaree.
"But now, if it is just the same to you, I will drop into plain every-day prose. You see, it is just this way, to put it in a condensed form: Myself and my fellow-Slambangarees are the sprites—or the fiends, if you will—of the canned plum-pudding. From being slammed and banged around so much in our cans we gain our name of Slambangaree. Now, you see, to put it more clearly than I could do in song, after you have eaten too much plum-pudding, against which I exhort you to refrain (for it is better to be temperate in all things), you fall asleep, and have awful nightmares—dream you are falling off houses, and all that sort of thing. It is the mission of the Slambangaree to bring about this condition of things. But as you cannot sleep to-night, I, the Slambangaree representing the plum-pudding you have eaten, have come to give you your nightmare while awake. My brother Slambangarees are taking care of the others who devoured the rest of the plum-pudding, and not until all that pudding is digested shall we be free disembodied spirits."
Here the Slambangaree took off its grin and wiped its mouth, after which the grin was readjusted with great care. Then it said, "I will now see what you have in your pockets, for I am a little curious."
Then, while Reginald felt very anxious about the precious things in his pockets, the Slambangaree's eyes became larger, and shot out of his head and across the room, seeming to be attached to long wands.
"Those are the roots of my eyes," it remarked, playfully, as it shot its eyeballs into the pockets of Reginald's trousers, and sang:
"Two boxwood tops herein I see,
A sling-shot and a knife,
And a tin horn that unto me,
With its uncanny witchery,
A burden makes of life.
"Here are two soldiers made of lead,
And here a little boat,
And seven agates, blue and red,
Likewise the hind leg and the head
Of a green candy goat."
Then the Slambangaree withdrew its eyes, as if satisfied with the result of its investigations, and, as it did so, noticed Reginald's drum lying on the floor. No sooner had it seen it than the roots of its eyes suddenly lengthened, and it began to play a solo on it with its eyeballs. As the rumpy-tum-tum filled the room, Reginald thought the noise would alarm the house and bring some one to his rescue. But in this he was mistaken. The Slambangaree played on until weary of the sport.
"How long is this going to last?" asked Reginald.
"Until the pudding within you is digested; you must have patience—"
"I would rather have some pepsin tablets," said Reginald.
"I suppose so," replied the Slambangaree; "but you must never be upset by yearning for the thing you haven't got, or you never will be happy. I can only leave you, as I said before, when the pudding is digested. I will therefore leave you by degrees. The better your digestion, the sooner you will be rid of me. Now for the fun!"
Here the Slambangaree turned itself upside down and danced gracefully all over the ceiling. While Reginald was looking on in open-mouthed wonder, the Slambangaree reached down from the ceiling and lifted him out of bed in its arms and capered all over the room with him, but never bumped his head, although it floated under the bed with him, and jumped from the mantel-piece to the clock and from the clock to the bureau with great rapidity. When it dropped Reginald back into bed, it said,
"That was only to hurry your digestion."
"I would greatly prefer to let it take its time," replied Reginald.
Here the Slambangaree, not noticing what Reginald had said, took the top-cord from the surprised boy's pocket, and seating itself on the clock, threw one end of it into the water-pitcher. In another instant it pulled out a great fish, which, when released, flew about the room like a bird, for its fins were like wings.