Yes, 35 (21 years) passed away last night, and so did 415 (Mrs. Meintjes), whom I visited late last evening.
This morning the black list was laid on my table; twelve[17] in the night—339, 415, 125, 253, 180, 526, 419, 35, 353, 450, I didn't expect 415 to live long.
The night has been a most restless one; "Ja, minheer, ons het vannacht nie rust gehad nie" ("Yes, sir, we had no rest last night") (morgue tents men).
I woke at 2 a.m. with the tramp of these bearers removing corpses[18].
One longs for day, and the night seems never to end.
Twice funerals—morning at 11 a.m. (six), "Leer ons alzoo onze dagen tellen" ("So teach us to number our days"); afternoon, 4 p.m. (six), "En de dooden werden geoordeeld uit hetgeen in de boeken geschreven was, naar hunne werken" ("And the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works").
Our wood has given in, and we are forced to bury in blankets. But let me not think on it! It is painful to remember, and our people feel very deeply.
The Van der Walts managed to put together an apology for a coffin, and there was something pathetically comic about that production. I think it was made of candle and milk boxes.
That reminds me, what queer pastimes some folks can have. One man casually informed me that he attends all the funerals! But some folks unconsciously delight to wander in the sombre shadows of life. A funeral to me is a most fatiguing duty; more so when one has to give an address at the graves, and there is no time for preparation except on the march to the burying ground. I am getting reckless, for I am forced absolutely to rely on impromptu grace. I tremble, when I think what I risk each day.