Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.

Towering Palms of Rio.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

See page [22]

SEVEN LEGS
ACROSS THE SEAS
A PRINTER'S IMPRESSIONS
OF MANY LANDS

BY
SAMUEL MURRAY
Author of "From Clime to Clime"

NEW YORK
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
1918

Copyright, 1918, by
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY

Published, February, 1918

INTRODUCTORY

I was early aboard the fastest ship that ever foamed the seas. Later, a long, strong whistle blast blew—the signal for starting—and soon she headed southward, the great vessel traveling through New York harbor to Sandy Hook as noiselessly as a bobsleigh drawn through two feet of unpacked snow.

I had secured a second class ticket to Buenos Aires, Argentina, by way of England, this marking the first of several legs of the world over which I had planned to travel. Thirteen hundred and fifty dollars, representing years of economical living, was the sum deemed as necessary to accomplish what I had purposed doing. By trade I am a printer and linotype operator.

In earlier years money for traveling expenses was of little concern, for the fascination that accompanies prowling about freight trains seeking an empty box car, or the open end door of a loaded one in which to steal a ride, or of turning one's back to the tender of a locomotive to protect the eyes from hot cinders coming from a snorting passenger engine while standing on the draughty platform of a "blind" baggage car—one without end doors—the train at the same time traveling at a speed of from 45 to 50 miles an hour—the "cinder days" during the catch-as-catch-can periods of traveling through coastwise tracts of country, across unbroken prairie stretches and over mountain fastnesses, are pleasant ones to recall, not forgetting the hungry, cold and wet spells that all men meet with who are enticed by the gritty allurements to beat their way about the country on railroad trains.

Since Benjamin Franklin's day it has been a custom with printers to travel from place to place, and, as some of the devotees of the "art preservative of all arts" had covered large territories of the world from time to time, I wished to be numbered among those at the top of the list. A union printer has little trouble in getting work in the United States, by reason of the large Sunday newspaper editions requiring extra men during the latter part of the week, and by vacancies taking place through the "moving spirit" of the workers, which has always characterized the printing trade.

This fascination, however, like other diversions of a rough nature, lost its charm in time, as it proved more comfortable traveling by passenger trains—inside the coach and sitting on a cushioned seat—than riding on the platform of a car that was being constantly pelted with red-hot cinders. I had graduated from the "free-ride" school.

On a trip through North America I had visited Yosemite Valley and Mariposa Big Tree Grove, Yellowstone Park, the Grand Canyon of Arizona, Mexico, Mammoth Cave, Niagara Falls, and the Thousand Islands after I had enrolled in the "Cushion College."

Later on, having saved $400, a trip to Europe was made, visiting in that part of the world most of the chief points of interest. I had gone as far East as Vienna, Austria, when my funds became so low that two meals a day was all they would allow of, and I resorted to traveling at night on railroad trains with one compulsory aim in view—to save lodging money. After I had bought my steamship ticket in Rome, Italy, for New York, two weeks before the ship was to sail from Naples, the best I could figure out of the surplus money I would have at the time of sailing—on a two meals a day basis—was four francs—eighty cents. My savings for years, in short, had passed over the office counters of railroad and steamship companies.

As the major portion of my travel was by water, the nautical word Leg has been chosen as a designating term for the different sections of the world visited, embracing South American cities, South Africa, Zululand, and Victoria Falls, in Rhodesia; Australia, New Zealand and principal South Sea Island groups; then back to Africa and up the East Coast to Zanzibar and Mombasa; next through British East Africa to and across Victoria Nyanza into Uganda. Leaving Africa, we sailed over the Indian Ocean to India, visiting, among other features in that country, the Himalaya Mountains, and afterwards Ceylon. From Colombo we traveled eastward to the Straits Settlements, Philippines, China and Japan, concluding observations at the Hawaiian Islands. The journey was from New York to New York over the territory briefly outlined in the foregoing itinerary.

From Sandy Hook we sail for England.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

LEG ONE

SEVEN LEGS
ACROSS THE SEAS

CHAPTER I

A puzzling phase of ocean travel soon becomes apparent during a passenger ship's journey to one making his first voyage—sometimes when a vessel has been at sea not more than a few hours. He is apt to find himself at a loss to account for the absence of the many persons who crowded the deck rails of the steamship—chatting, saying good-by to friends and some bidding a final farewell to their country—before and immediately after the vessel pulled away from her dock into the harbor. After a few days, however, the mystery gradually unfolds. Vacant chairs in the dining saloon become occupied from time to time as the journey advances; more passengers are taking part in deck amusements; new faces are seen in the social hall and smoking saloon—the ship's "family" surely grows. On voyages of from two to four weeks' duration this feature becomes even more interesting. Frequently, when the ship has reached the end of the journey, before which every one would seem to have become used to the sea, "strangers" will be observed leaving the vessel. One cannot help thinking the ship has stopped during the night hours and taken on passengers from the main. This is explained by some voyagers keeping to their cabins from the time of sailing.

Seasickness is largely responsible for this perplexing phase of water travel. Women are more affected than men, and the man who will discover a remedy for seasickness will find his name immortalized. Many women will travel for weeks on the water so sick they cannot raise their heads, yet not a complaining word will be uttered by most of them. This form of bravery seems to be the only comforting thing that accompanies the sea wreaking out its vengeance on womankind.

Six days after leaving Sandy Hook found us in Liverpool, England. Passengers disembarked early in the forenoon, who, having heard so much of England's dull atmosphere, were all surprised to find the sun shining. The orb was of a vapory appearance, though, which suggested that perhaps it had been on a sea voyage also, as there was a marked resemblance between the appearance of the sun and some of the passengers who had undergone a sick trip across. Most of us boarded a train for London.

Railway train service in England is fast, the speed on main lines being from 45 to 50 miles an hour. The passenger coaches are of compartment design, which are comfortable to ride in when only half filled, or four persons to a compartment; but when from six to eight passengers—the latter number being the full seating capacity—occupy one compartment, travel proves very uncomfortable, as there is no room to stretch one's legs in any direction, since the passengers sitting on one side face those seated on the other side. It is a case of knees to knees. Railroad fare is two and three cents a mile; a higher rate is charged for hauling freight in England than that prevailing in America. Food, however, is cheaper than on American trains.

The locomotives are small—some of them not half the tonnage of the American engine—but the driving wheels reach to the top of the boiler, which accounts for the high speed schedules of the English railroads. One misses the ringing of the locomotive bell, as there are no bells on English engines. Another feature of the English railroads that seems odd to an American is the small freight cars, which in some instances are not one-third as large as some of the American cars and trucks. Trains in England have not the solid appearance of the American train, for the reason that their wheels are not like the American wheel, but have spokes, like those of a wheelbarrow. The convenience a union railway station affords the traveling public, found in many cities of America, is much missed when visiting the metropolis of England. Naturally, numerous railways center in London, and the terminus of each seems to have been located as widely apart from each other as the boundaries of the city will allow. None of the stations seen here can favorably compare with those found in the larger cities of the United States.

The cleanliness of London's streets is the first impression one has of the premier city of Europe. And how obliging the public conveyance employees are; and the policemen, also. It is a pleasure to go about in London, as every one seems willing to answer questions, to point out to a stranger places of interest, and to make one comfortable in every sense of the word.

"London traffic," a feature of this city one often hears mentioned, is accounted for, to a large degree, by the absence of surface car lines or elevated railroads coursing the streets of London City proper, and also to the narrowness of many of the main thoroughfares. With such an immense population, one can infer the great demand placed upon 'buses, public hacks, taxicabs and private vehicles, which at once suggests light-tire traffic. Heavy trucks, loaded with all sorts of merchandise, are not seen in corresponding sections of London as one finds them in populous American centers. In the subways, or tubes, are but two tracks, which prohibit, of course, fast travel. On the other hand, sixteen underground railways intersect the city and suburbs. The atmosphere of a subway is perhaps a more cosmopolitan phase than any other of our industrial factors. Were a blind person—one familiar with our underground railway odors—to sail from New York for Europe, being ignorant of the presence of subways there, and later, in London or Paris, find himself at the entrance of a "tube," he would at once know he was at the approach of a subway by the presence of the smell, as a similar atmosphere emanates from all of them.

Street car fare is higher for long distances than in most American cities. Though short distance rides are cheaper, some of the five cent rides in America would cost fifteen cents in London. Motor 'buses, which are numerous, go a certain distance for two cents, but the next "stage" is another two-cent charge, and by the time eight or ten miles are traveled one will have paid from 10 to 15 cents. Most public conveyances are double decked. Electric trolley cars are operated outside of London City proper, and the fare on these is similar to that charged by the 'buses. One can ride a long distance in a cab for 25 cents, however.

Newspapers here generally have not the attractive nor the prosperous appearance of those in the United States. Until recently most of the London dailies sold for two cents, and even more. Periodicals and books also are more expensive in Great Britain, although the average wages paid artisans in this industry is about half those paid in America. Mechanics engaged in other trades received from $11 to $15 weekly, and consequently the British mechanic in America doubles the salary of his own country, plus other advantages. House rent, generally paid weekly, runs from $3.50 to $5. Most of the working people of London live in the suburbs, and are charged but half price—about 8 cents—for return railway tickets if bought for trains reaching the city before 8 o'clock in the morning. The government collects an income tax on all yearly salaries of $600 and over.

It looks strange to American visitors in London to see only boys engaged in keeping the streets clean. One may not quite agree with the practice of boys doing that sort of work—for the reason it looks as if men should be engaged at such employment—but the fact remains the streets are very clean. The sweepings are not put in cans, as is customary in some American cities, where they might be tipped over by mischievous boys, but iron bins are placed in the sidewalk close to the curb, into which the refuse is emptied. This custom seems much better than the American system.

Seen drawn about the streets here, close to the curb, is what one would call a street sprinkler. It is a sprinkler, but the liquid running from the pipes is a disinfectant, a carbolic acid odor being noticeable.

The sale of matches by persons who seem to be in needy circumstances, seen at almost every corner of the business sections of the city, leads one to think that they must be used even for stove fuel. The proportion of poorly dressed people is much larger than in American cities. Any of the homeless who apply for shelter are provided with sleeping accommodation by the authorities.

The price of food in a similar class of restaurants seemed more expensive in London than in New York. At a second class hotel where I stopped the rate was $1.25 for room and breakfast, but heat was not included. A fireplace in the room contained smoky, bituminous coal, and to have this lighted cost 25 cents. So with the room, fire and breakfast, the charge came to $1.50 a day.

Chairs are scattered about the London parks, and an American naturally thinks seats in public places are free, as in the United States; but one is not sitting long before a man appears and asks for a "check." The person resting then learns that it costs two cents to occupy a chair in these places. The benches, however, are free, but these are few compared to the number found in American parks. Similar conditions will be met with in some of the parks of Berlin, and also in Paris, but the resting places in the French capital are more liberally supplied with free seats.

Many men may be seen in London wearing a "plug" hat, a sack coat and trousers turned up to the ankles. Those engaged at clerical employment usually wear this sort of headgear to the office. Mechanics, also, boast of a "stove-pipe" in their wardrobes. While the high hat may be retained by some artisans as a memento of their wedding day, still many may be seen worn by this class of breadwinner when attending church services.

No people spend less time in public eating and drinking places than Americans. In Continental Europe they have their cafés, chairs and tables inside the buildings and out on the sidewalks and streets, and these are used to a large extent as offices by patrons, as proprietors furnish writing paper and ink to customers. In England they have their tea rooms, where men sit and sip tea and smoke their pipes for hours. Cake or scones are usually served with tea, an additional charge being made.

To no people more than Americans have so many heirlooms of memory been handed down by England. How the serious thought of one is aroused by a visit to Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's Cathedral; how youthful days stand before one, so to speak, when a visit is made to London Bridge, Hyde Park, the Tower, the great British Museum, or to historic places in and about the city where great Englishmen lived and died.

Hearing so much of the English Parliament building, one is led to believe that he will see the best legislative structure in the world when his eyes rest on this historical edifice. He may see in his mind's eye an imposing structure of white marble or granite built on an elevated plot of land, as most capitols are, rich with ornamentation and strikingly imposing. But, on the contrary, the building, located on the River Thames, is rather mediæval in appearance. America is far behind some of the European countries in art galleries, good roads, docks, and splendid cathedrals, but there are features of the United States which neither Europe nor other divisions of the world can equal. For instance, no capitol can compare with the admirable appearance of the United States' legislative building; in no country will one find such splendid municipal parks as are found in some American cities. We have not seen Hagenbeck's Zoo in Hamburg, Germany, but, apart from that city, Bronx Zoo in New York is foremost of those seen in other cities; the Museum of Natural History in Gotham is unexcelled; our great bridges are unequaled; the interior of the Congressional Library in Washington, D. C., will stand comparison with any, and the inspiring Washington Monument, also located in the national capital, stands alone when dealing with campaniles, towers, and pagodas. To the foregoing "prides" of the new world may be added towering Mariposa Big Tree Grove, peerless Yosemite Valley, wonderful Yellowstone Park and the marvelous Grand Canyon of Arizona.

After a short stay in London we boarded a "boat train"—an English travel convenience—for Southampton, from which port the steamship on which we had booked passage sailed for South America.

CHAPTER II

On reaching the Bay of Biscay a storm was encountered, the decks being vacated by passengers and the cabin berths made use of for some time. During the night sounds were heard at intervals that reminded one of a large tree falling. The piano in the social hall had been forced loose from its fastening by the rolling and pitching of the ship, and while in what might be termed its periods of tantrum the big musical instrument seemed bent on smashing all the furniture "in the house." Most of the passengers were awake, and a great many were inquiring if the ship was breaking to pieces.

Those starting on long journeys should provide themselves with a passport. One may travel for years through certain sections of the world and not be called upon to show his national voucher to verify his identity; yet it is a good thing to have one in one's possession. One may be taken into custody in some foreign city through mistaken identity, or be detained in other ways, when a passport would clear matters at once with small inconvenience and little delay, compared to much uneasiness and considerable time lost, if one has neglected to include in his traveling outfit this means of identification. Again, when visiting a consulate, one will not have conversed with the officials long before he will be asked, directly or indirectly, if he has his passport with him. If the visitor should not have one, the conversation is usually of a casual nature. On the other hand, if the visitor has his government's credentials, an interesting chat will often result, during which information may be gathered of the character of the country he is traveling in that would not be volunteered to an American who had failed to identify himself with the standard voucher. When leaving the consulate, the person with a passport is generally invited to "call any time while in the city." Furthermore, if the assistance of a consul were needed in any contingency, that government officer, if he should not care to offer a helping hand, may evade a reasonable duty, and defend his actions behind the fact that the "alleged" American did not have a passport. If the person in need of official assistance had this means of identification, that same officer, fearing he would be later called upon by his government to explain why he neglected to do his duty, would exert himself and lend aid to his countryman. An American with a passport in foreign lands has a better standing with his government's representatives than a citizen who has not provided himself with one.

Being good for only two years, and not generally recognized after that time, in order to keep in good standing with his country, one must, if living in foreign parts, have his passport renewed or extended. Only in exceptional circumstances is a consul allowed to issue passports; these must come from Washington. A consul may extend one, however, for an additional two years; but the passport cannot be extended more than once. Application should be made to the Secretary of State, Washington, D. C., when two blanks—native and naturalized—will be sent to the applicant. If a native, he fills out the native blank and will have the contents sworn to before a notary public. The verified blank will then be sent to the Secretary of State, when a passport will soon reach the applicant. The charge is one dollar, plus the notary's fee.

"I wish I had one of those fat, juicy beefsteaks that I was served with while traveling across America," said a Portuguese woman globe-trotter, as some of us, like chickens after rain, began to appear on deck when the storm had subsided. "I never ate beefsteak in any country that tasted as good as those I got in America," she added, with a perceptible smacking of her lips. She wasn't the only one who wished they had a succulent piece of American beefsteak. But the commissary of the ship had little to do while traveling from Cape Ushant to Cape Finistierre—the former marking the north and the latter the south boundaries of the Bay of Biscay, 365 miles across.

At Lisbon, Portugal, the chilling winds of the north and the raw weather were succeeded by soft, south breezes and warm sunshine. Entering the Tagus River on our way to the Portuguese capital, we passed a commanding fort, the banks green with grass and vegetables. Reaching the city, women in their bare feet and none too tidy, bearing heavy burdens on their heads, mostly in baskets—fish, vegetables, coal, flowers, and other marketable commodities—revealed a condition in Southern Europe not pleasant to contemplate, and which is seen in few countries of Continental Europe. The first suggestion of the tropics was had at Lisbon, by reason of a great many of the people, dark skinned, appearing in thin clothing and bare feet. Verdure was growing on every side—it was the month of February.

Travelers cannot fail to show a slight weakness for the small Latin country, for Portugal was the home of Vasco da Gama, the explorer—a really great traveler—whose daring achievements late in the fifteenth century laid the foundation of an empire, and who discovered places and countries we are to visit later.

"Look!" said a man wearing the cloth of a church official, who was showing a number of visitors around a Lisbon cathedral. We were in the crypt, where, in expensive coffins, rested the remains of some of the distinguished dead of Portugal. He had opened the lid of a casket and invited his visitors to look inside. To our astonishment, in the gruesome light, our eyes rested on the crumbling remains of a personage who, the official said, had passed away a long time before. More coffin lids were turned back, and in the boxes were seen, in the murky light, the grim, long outline of a human being. We had never known any one to go so far to obtain a fee.

American-made street cars are in use in the Portuguese capital, and were easily recognized from those manufactured in other countries, as the American car is single, while those of other countries are mostly of a double-decked pattern.

Pavement of dark gray and white colored stone in that city looks odd, laid at twisting angles. A plaza is paved entirely with this deceptive stone, which sailors call "Rolling Motion Square." This square is located close to the wharf, and sailors, having finished their shore leave and returning to their ship, usually find trouble in getting off "Rolling Motion Square."

Egg soup is a delicacy made in Lisbon. When served, it resembles consommé, with halves of a hard-boiled egg swimming in the dish.

The business section of Lisbon is built between two high hills, which necessitates using an elevator, in some instances, if one is going from the center to the higher part of the city. The buildings are of stone and brick, faced with cement. One of the most attractive avenues in the world runs through the commercial district of the city. This boulevard is unusually wide, the center comprising a broad park place, with roadways of a good width on each side. Nearly half a million people compose the population of this Latin capital. Portugal was a Roman province as early as 200 B. C.

Funchal, Madeira Island, located about 450 miles west of the Moroccan coast, was next reached, being favored with a good sea from Lisbon, the first since leaving Southampton. This place, with a population of 20,000, is the chief port of Madeira, and its attractiveness—flowers, vines, spreading trees, climate and tidy appearance—proves a magnet to many Europeans who seek rest and recreation.

A strange and unusual public "hack" here arrests one's attention. This vehicle, covered with canvas and drawn by oxen, is really a sleigh, although it is doubtful if a flake of snow has ever fallen in this section. The runners, as those of a snow sled, are shod with strips of steel, which are pulled over streets paved with cobblestone. When ready to start, the driver says a word to the oxen, and off they go, the sleigh gliding over the paving nearly as smoothly as if drawn over snow. The steel runners, passing over them for years, have worn the stones quite smooth, even slippery in some instances, hence the practicability of the sleigh-hack.

Madeira Island, termed the Pearl of the Atlantic, a Portuguese possession, has an area of 315 square miles, and is 35 miles long and 12 wide. It is very productive of fruit—oranges, lemons, figs, pomegranates, pears, peaches and grapes. The island is more noted for its good climate and wines, however, most of the inhabitants being engaged in the grape growing industry. The United States came to the fore in 1871 by saving the grapevines here, which were being destroyed by a pest. The American grapevine stock was introduced and grafted to the native stump, which withstood the attacks of phyloxera.

Funchal is a sea junction, as most of the passenger steamships plying between Europe and South American ports stop at this place. Passengers coming north from South America and going to South Africa come to Madeira, and those coming from South Africa and going to South America also transship at this island.

Getting a glimpse of the places mentioned in the foregoing will account for one traveling from the United States to South America by way of England. The fare was also cheaper for the same accommodation than by going direct from New York.

We regretfully return to our ship, there being no more stops for eight days, as we are to recross the Atlantic Ocean diagonally. The big vessel, with a crowded passenger list and loaded to the water line with cargo, was headed toward the equatorial line, sailing on a velvety sea. Sailors were busy stretching canvas over the decks to make the hot weather soon to be encountered more bearable, while the electric fans in the cabins were being put in order. Every one had settled down for the sail to Pernambuco, Brazil, the next port.

During the trip British third-class passengers enjoyed the benefits of the good maritime laws of their country, while passengers from other countries traveling in the same section of the ship did not fare so well. Britishers were allowed privileges on a portion of the upper deck, as provided by law, while third-class passengers who embarked at ports south of Southampton remained on the third-class deck.

It is surprising how time slips by during long voyages, and it is interesting to note the national grouping of travelers. The French passengers will be found assembled on a certain portion of the deck, the Spaniards likewise, also Germans—each nationality generally keeping to itself. Our breakfast was ready at 8 o'clock, and a light lunch served two and a half hours later. Ship inspection usually takes place at from 10 to 11 o'clock in the forenoon, the captain, the purser, the doctor or the chief steward being the officers who form this committee. Each deck is visited, when the dining saloons, kitchens, berths, bedding and other furnishings of the cabins generally receive the critical attention of the inspectors. Passengers having complaints to make or suggestions to offer concerning ship conditions may do so at this time. At half-past twelve dinner was ready. In the second class section mealtimes are designated as breakfast, dinner and supper; in the first-class, breakfast, luncheon and dinner. When ready, these are generally announced by ringing a bell, beating a gong, or by bugle call. Many passengers take a nap in their cabins after dinner, and, if not in the cabin, one is pretty sure to find them in the Land of Nod in their steamer chair on deck; others read a great deal and divide the time with sleep. The sleepers are sometimes hurriedly awakened from their slumbers, however, as what is termed "fire practice" takes place several times a week on well-conducted ships. Bells clang, without warning; the ship's whistle blows shrill blasts; sailors, stewards and officers hurry to the lifeboats to which they had been assigned before sailing, which are soon raised from their davits, swung outward, and lowered at the sides of the vessel; members of the crew may be seen wearing life-saving devices, and the passengers generally give evidence of anxious concern on such occasions until they learn it is but a "fire drill" that is being enacted instead of the ship being really afire. Beef tea was served in the cool climate and ices when the hot zones were reached between noontime and supper. Light lunch—generally cheese and crackers and tea—was served between the evening meal and bedtime. Music was furnished twice a day by an orchestra. Religious services—those of the Church of England—on British passenger steamships are made obligatory by maritime law. On Sunday mornings many of the passengers attended, which took place in the social hall of the first-class section, the ritual being read by the captain or purser. Most of the ship's crew must be present, some of whom generally lead the singing and furnish the music. It often happens, however, preachers are among the travelers, when one of them will be invited to preach. First class passengers are expected to appear in evening dress for dinner on vessels of some of the popular British lines running to far Southern ports.

So far as bird life is concerned, the sea is a graveyard when sailing through the equatorial zone. All fowl leave the ship when the sun gets hot and the breezes become warm. The only winged life appearing in this hot section of the sea was flying fish, sometimes hundreds of them rising from the water at the same time. These fish are from four to ten inches in length, slender, and resemble young mackerel. They spring from the sea by a quick stroke of the tail, and, with fins outspread, are able to sustain and prolong their leap for a minute or more. The fins measure several inches across and become transparent in the sun, but do not flap like the wings of a bird. As the fish rise only from six inches to a few feet from the water, their flight, in a choppy or rough ocean, is generally not more than from two to twenty feet, as they disappear on coming in contact with a wave. On a calm sea, however, their isinglass-like "wings" will often remain outstretched for a distance of a hundred yards or so, when the fish will dart into the water as suddenly as they emerged from it.

Southern Cross.

"Neptune" is a "game" played only at sea, and the "sport" is generally indulged in when a passenger steamship is sailing under the equator. A canvas tank is fixed on deck and nearly filled with water. It is an unvarying rule with some travelers that one who has not crossed the equator must be "Neptuned." A "coaster," as one is termed who has never crossed the equatorial line, is reminded by the Simon-pures that, in order to be a full-fledged traveler, he must take a plunge in the canvas tank. Most passengers who are not sick comply with the request, but there are some who do not take kindly to the idea. In such instances a half dozen, or a dozen passengers if necessary, bend the will of the unwilling one to their idea of maintaining this tradition of the sea by literally picking up the unbeliever and pitching him into the canvas tank of water. He then has been "Neptuned." Danger of taking cold from this outdoor plunge is slight, as often the tar in the cracks between boards on deck of the ship is bubbling from the intense rays of the sun.

Having reached the southern division of the world, the heavenly bodies forming the Southern Cross appear. The cross is not composed of a thickly starred upright beam, neither is there a compact panel of stars forming the crosspiece. Four stars located at certain sections of the heavens form a distinct outline of a cross. The great crucifix at times appears to be standing straight, but more often it will be seen in the heavens in a reclining position, so to speak; again it will be observed resting on its side, but never pointing downward. The section of the sky in which the cross is to be found is the southeast. At one season of the year it will rest near the center of the firmament and in the "Milky Way "; at another period it will be seen closer to the horizon. Lesser bodies appear in the zone embraced by the four stars that compose the profile of the ensign of Christianity, but these neither add to nor detract from the formation of the solemn emblem of suffering that stands out so clearly among the millions of orbs in the starry firmament. Two bright stars below, in direct line with the bottom star of the cross, are called "the pointers."

What a difference is at once apparent in the period of daylight north of the equator and that south of the equatorial line. From a slow setting sun and a lingering twilight north of the great line to a rapidly setting sun and a comparatively short twilight south of the equator is observed. Fifteen to twenty minutes after the sun sets darkness will have settled.

"Holy stoning a ship" is a nautical term that, when first heard by a landsman, arouses his curiosity concerning the particular duty the phrase suggests in a sailor's routine. A holy stone—somewhat larger than two bricks placed together, of cream color and of a soft or sandy material—is used to whiten the deck of a ship. Most persons would conclude that a thorough washing of a deck with clear water should satisfy one possessed of even super-neat exactions. But a sailor's conception of the term "spick and span" does not end in this matter with the merit of water alone. The holy stone is secured in an iron frame similar to that of a house mop, with handle attached. It is also pushed forward and pulled backward when used to clean a deck in the same way that a mop is used to clean a floor. The deck is made wet before "stoning," then sprinkled with fine white sand, and is next thoroughly gone over with the "cleaner." When the sailor has finished his hard "scrubbing" task the deck appears many shades brighter than it would if only water had been used. The term "holy stone" is said to have originated through the first stones used in bleaching ship decks having been taken from the ruined walls of a church in Cornwall, England.

CHAPTER III

Security of life in an Indian's bark canoe, even when going over river rapids, would seem assured, compared to the chances against one being able to keep his feet on a Brazilian catamaran sailing on the broad ocean. Men stand on two logs tied together, these about a foot each in diameter and from eight to ten feet in length, the upper side flat, with a small pole fastened in one of the logs, to which is secured a piece of canvas—as flimsy a sample of sea craft as one may see in a lifetime. No provision being made for a seat on the shaky and risky "boat"—no room for one, in fact—it seemed dangerous to sail it even on a small lake; yet a number of these were seen skimming over the sea several miles outside the harbor of Pernambuco, Brazil.

We had reached South America at the beginning of March, which is Northern August south of the equator. The winter season of the year in the northern is the summer in the southern division of the world.

Passengers leaving the vessel entered a large basket by a door. When six persons had got inside, the winches on the ship began to revolve, raising the basket high enough to clear the deck rail, and the passengers were slowly lowered to a lighter below. Chug! They had reached the bottom, and if any of the travelers had their tongue between their teeth at that moment it would be safe to infer that that member had suffered from the bump. This carrier was six feet deep, made of reed or wicker, and was kept in shape and supported by circular iron bands, like the hoops round a barrel, which, in this case, were inside the basket. Passengers embark by the same means. Crude and odd devices of this sort lend spice to travel.

Bahia, the oldest city in Brazil, was the next stop. At this port no basket was used for disembarking, passengers leaving the ship by a side ladder and being taken ashore in launches. An unusual number of men seemed to board the vessel, and later, when the gong sounded for visitors to go ashore, most of them left with their pockets bulging with goods bought aboard. Pertaining to this, an amusing feature came to light—the custom officers, who had been stationed at the gangway and other parts of the ship to prevent smuggling, seemingly not noticing the difference in the girth of a man on leaving the vessel to that when he boarded her.

Sailing on the same smooth sea on which we had started from Madeira Island ten days before, Rio de Janeiro, the capital and metropolis of Brazil, was reached later.

The harbor of this city is considered the finest in the world. The noted haven is entered by a deep channel, three-quarters of a mile wide, flanked by two imposing stone mountains, rising nearly 1,300 and 1,100 feet, respectively. Tropical vegetation grows luxuriantly on the shores, and beyond a circle of high, evergreen mountains offer an unusually fascinating foreground. The harbor is sixteen miles long and from two to seven miles wide, this area being dotted with over a hundred islands, also heavily verdured with a tropical growth. One feature, however, robs Rio de Janeiro and her harbor of a scenic climax. To the left, on which side of the bay the city stands, rise low hills, which shut from view, until opposite the wharves, what otherwise would reveal a panorama of the metropolis in keeping with that of the fame of the harbor. One is at a loss to account for the absence of docks here, considering this city has a population of nearly a million inhabitants and is the commercial center of Brazil.

Before, and also after, the ship anchored in the bay, where a large number of passengers left, the deafening noise made by hack barkers and hotel runners, shouting from boats below, exceeded anything of this nature heard elsewhere. Here it was a medley of whistles on yachts, launches and similar craft, together with blasts from horns, a racket from other noise-making devices, and the raucous voices of fruit vendors, crying their wares from rowboats. For a quarter of a mile about the vessel hundreds of small craft were bumping into each other, their owners cursing and shouting at those in approaching boats who sought a more advantageous place where a fare might come their way; in no place in the world, one would feel safe in saying, could there be more turmoil and confusion under similar circumstances. No one seemed to be in charge; every one was bending his every effort for a fare. Evidently a great deal of revenue would be cut off from a considerable number of the population of Rio were the government to build docks.

Having read of cholera in Rio years before would lead one to entertain a belief that he is entering an unclean city, and the great number of blacks and half-castes one sees before he gets off the ship suggests nothing to the contrary. But, when in the city proper, what a surprise one meets with. No place is better supplied with small parks than this metropolis, and public conveniences and sanitation in general, which are so essential to the physical welfare of a people, are creditable features. To be sure, the old part is of Spanish style—brick and cement houses, with narrow streets. The object in building narrow streets is to foil the sun—to keep cool—as the narrower they are the more shade is cast. One will soon notice the difference in comfort when walking between narrow or wide streets in hot climates—the narrow, shady ones will be given the preference. Only one vehicle can travel in a street, and for this reason traffic passes through one and returns by another. They are one-way streets. Two persons moving in opposite directions can just manage to pass without one of them stepping off the walk. Rio de Janeiro is the second largest city in South America, and good management of this tropical center was in evidence.

Looking down Avenue Central, one of the principal thoroughfares, composed largely of business buildings, a scene of architectural beauty is revealed rivaling any metropolis in the world. No street cars run on this avenue, but brightly painted, well designed, small motor 'buses are in use. The artistic effect reflected by the arrangement of lights and trees is in keeping in every detail with the admirable designs of the buildings on each side. A municipal theater on this street, prominent by its striking exterior ornamentation, together with handsome government buildings, add greatly to the attractiveness of Avenue Central. To an American the street view at the head not only equals the lower portion, but is enhanced, for there stands the Monroe Palace, a memorial to James Monroe, whose name is immortalized as the father of the Monroe Doctrine, serving as a fitting cap-sheaf, and at the same time infusing patriotic sentiment to the harmonious foreground and attractive environments. From Monroe Palace, which is shaded by trees growing in a beautiful park at the side, Avenue Central verges into a long boulevard, built alongside the walled harbor, fringed in places with rows of palm trees, fifty to sixty feet high; under tropical verdured hills, with parks, flowers and shade trees bordering the thoroughfare to the shore of the Atlantic Ocean.

This palm tree of Rio is the highest we have seen either of nut-bearing or non-nut-bearing species. The trunks are smooth, straight and round, free of limbs, and gradually taper to their full height, where a circle of fronds branch broadly from every side. Standing between these tropical, sentinel-like columns, high above the spectator will be seen an arch formed of long, broad leaves. As some of these double rows of palms extend for considerable distances, this light-green archway grows more enchanting as, down the pillared vista, the fringed-frond arcade gradually lowers and contracts until the trees converge into a narrow bower. The symmetrical finish to the towering palms of Rio will remain in one's mind long after other of Nature's masterpieces, of equal merit but differing in form, will have been forgotten.

American money and enterprise have added much to the modern public utilities of Rio, for the street car and lighting systems are headed by Americans. "Bond" is the name for street cars here. To raise capital to construct the system bonds were issued, and as the word bond was much used before construction began, the Brazilians, when the cars started running, called them "bonds."

The Portuguese language is used in the Brazilian republic. But what a mixed population these Brazilians are! Most of them are dark-skinned and the greater number are black. From observation, there seems to be little or no distinction between the races. Yet this race possesses a knowledge rarely displayed by others in erecting buildings suited in every respect for business purposes, and in giving them an artistic finish at the same time. Immigrants from many countries have settled in this republic during the last decade.

European customs are strongly in evidence, the most noticeable being lounging about cafés. The habit of living on the sidewalk and in the street outside of cafés is the same here as that which strikes one as being strange on his first visit to Paris and other places in Continental Europe. One often has to maneuver his way through little iron-legged tables and chairs, used for refreshments. Some of the patrons are seen sipping black coffee from cups no larger than half an eggshell; others may be found drinking vari-colored liquids, of which there is a great variety, and many will have cigarettes between their lips or between their fingers. Still one cannot fail to note the improvement these cafés are on the American saloon. There are no back door entrances to these places; no front doors closed; no curtains—everything open and above board. And, as with Europeans, seldom is a person seen intoxicated or disorderly. Prosperity is suggested by crowded cafés, for refreshments in Rio are expensive.

Women seem to have an easy time in Brazil, in the capital, at least, for men are seen looking after rooms in hotels, sweeping, dusting—doing general housework.

Two meals a day seem to be all the Brazilians desire. A cup of coffee is taken early in the morning, as the regular time for breakfast is from 11 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. Dinner is served from 5 to 7:30 o'clock in the evening.

Everything one buys in the Brazilian metropolis is expensive. Manufactures are few—almost everything is imported, and the customs duty is exorbitant. Street car fare, even, is double that charged in most large cities. Small articles costing from ten to fifteen cents in the United States cost a milrei in Rio. Very few things can be had for less than 33 cents. Soda water and other soft drinks generally cost from 9 to 12 cents.

The Portuguese money system—reis and milreis—is that of Brazil. The value of a milrei in American money is 33 cents, and a rei is equal to one-thirtieth of a cent. In financial figures the dollar mark is used to denote milreis, but is placed between the figures instead of in front—thus: 10$000. Money is on the decimal system, 1,000 reis making a milrei.

One unaccustomed to Portuguese money is apt to feel perplexed when presented with a bill for 50 cents. This is how a 50 cent dinner bill would look: 1$500. The figure 1 represents a milrei—33 cents—and the 500 is 500 reis—half a milrei—16½ cents. One hundred reis is three cents in American money. Only among the poorer class are coins of less than 100 reis in use. Paper bills are used for a milrei and larger sums. The coins are mostly of nickel.

At São Paulo, over three hundred miles from Rio, woolen and cotton mills have been established, and so far have proved a good investment. English money is represented in this industry. American money and machinery figure largely in the development of the ore mines of that large country, so with English capital erecting mills and American money opening and developing mines business development is assured. Brazil produces three-quarters of the world's annual consumption of coffee. Rubber is another staple product of this republic.

The tropical scenery about Rio adds much to the attractiveness of the capital of Brazil. High hills and mountains almost circle both the harbor and city, and from these elevated points one looks down through a dense growth of trees bearing flowers, large blooming vines, wide-leaved palms, and clumps of high, swaying bamboo—an expansive botanical garden—on to the thousands of gray houses, with their red-tiled roofs. Similar scenes and objects, attractive when viewed from less favored vistas, seen through a tropical foreground, assume an enchanted charm.

Though very little English printing is done here, a number of good Portuguese daily newspapers are published, the offices being equipped with linotype machines, web presses and stereotyping machinery. The wages paid workers in this trade range from $25 to $30 a week. As there is little manufacturing in Brazil, and the tariff is so exorbitant on imports, together with high dwelling rentals, $30 a week would not be considered good wages in America under such conditions.

One seldom sees a Brazilian carrying bundles in his hands—such as valises, etc. The people who make their living at that sort of work carry a strap with them, which is thrown over the shoulder. If two valises are to be borne, one is placed in front and the other at the back, each fastened to the end of the strap.

Church bells here, as in the City of Mexico, are ringing in most parts of the city all the time.

As a rule good photographs exaggerate and flatter objects, but when looking at a picture associated with Rio de Janeiro, no matter how pretty and artistic it may appear, one should not discount the picture as being overdrawn, for Rio would very likely carry away the honors if entered in a "beautiful city" exhibit.

At Santos, another coffee mart of Brazil, enterprise was in evidence when our ship drew up to a dock. This was the first dock the ship pulled alongside of since leaving Southampton, England. Santos is also the port for São Paulo. From this place we continue southward.

Twelve hundred miles south of Rio, Montevideo, Uruguay, is located at the delta of the River Plate. This city is the capital of Uruguay. Most of the ships head for the River Plate, and a great many sailing southward and through the Straits of Magellan stop at this port, allowing passengers time to look about the city. The River Plate (La Plata in Spanish) spreads out at this point to a width of a hundred miles. A great number of vessels sail up the Plate from time to time, and it ranks high in the list of waterways of the world.

A glimpse of Montevideo revealed but little difference in architecture to that of the Spanish style—brick and mortar. Most of the dwelling houses are but one story in height, the outside steps and stairways, however, being of white marble, which gives the building a strikingly clean appearance.

More than one night in this city is required to become used to the noise made by mouth whistles before a light sleeper can rest. These are blown by the police, who keep in touch with each other by this means.

A striking feature of Montevideo to one who has been in Brazil is the large size of the Uruguayan. Deep-chested, broad-shouldered and of good height, he appears to possess double the strength of the Brazilian. While the people are of dark complexion, no blacks are seen.

The money unit of Uruguay is higher than that of any country in the world. It is known as the dollar, and its value is $1.04.

Uruguay is a republic, its principal industry being agriculture and stock raising. Flattering inducements are offered by that government to immigrants who intend to make their home there. These are in the nature of giving land to homeseekers, the government even promising to stock the farms with cattle.

How little some of us who pay but passing attention to sea commerce know of the tremendous volume of business carried over the world in vessels, and the long runs made. At Rio de Janeiro I left the ship that I sailed on from Southampton, England, and after several weeks' stay in the Brazilian capital continued my journey southward by another line, tickets being interchangeable. The ship from Rio that landed Argentine passengers at Montevideo proceeded southward to and through the Straits of Magellan, to Valparaiso, Chile; up the Pacific coast as far as Callao, the port for Lima, Peru, stopping at several places between, distributing passengers and cargo at each. From among the passengers Brazil, Uruguay, Argentine, Chile, Paraguay, Bolivia and Peru received its quota. From England to Callao six weeks' time was required to make the voyage. The manner in which these merchantmen slip in and out of bays, deep and shallow harbors, crawl up rivers and down again—into commercial nooks of every character—reminds one of the unexpected places to which the sun so often finds its way. Passengers from Great Britain seemed to be in the majority of those traveling south of the equator. A greater number of men than women are always to be found, though almost every ship carries young women who will be on their way to meet and marry their fiancés located in the interior of the South American republics.

Buenos Aires, capital of the Argentine republic, the New York of South America, is located 124 miles up the River Plate. Many entertain the opinion, gathered from newspaper accounts, that, 6,000 miles south of New York, there is a good-sized city—Buenos Aires. But what a difference there is between reading about something and seeing it! It is said of a visitor that "a look at New York will knock his eye out," and to travel through the busy waterway of the big harbor of this South American metropolis, and look through the dense thicket of masts, spars, shrouds, ropes, pennants, flags and many-colored funnels from ships that stretch for miles about the outer and inner harbors, will surely cause one's eye to bulge with astonishment. Such an influx of merchantmen visit this city at certain periods of the year that, for as long as three and four weeks, ships loll at anchor in the outer harbor before dock room can be made for unloading their cargoes. The dock system is good; and one may gather an idea of the harbor space available when he learns the River Plate is thirty-five miles wide at Buenos Aires. Up to the interior of South America ships ply for 1,000 miles on the Plate to the Bolivian border, going up loaded and sailing away to sundry parts of the world with cargoes submerging the vessels to their water lines. It seemed that every ship sailing south of the equator on the western side of the Atlantic Ocean was headed for the River Plate or for other coast ports of the Argentine.

A more intimate acquaintance with matters will reveal a Briton at the helm of those ships of industry or the hidden power behind the scene. Every passenger ship leaving a British port for the River Plate carries brain and brawn from Great Britain. English money figures prominently in the industrial advancement of the Argentine, upward of a billion dollars having been expended in building railways and developing the lands. The flower of Great Britain will be found engaged at farming, connected with shipping, railroads, banking, or other pursuits; and English advice on governmental legislation is often sought.

In Buenos Aires one finds a busy city of nearly a million and three-quarters of people, largely of a cosmopolitan character. Sixteen big, well-printed daily newspapers of evening and morning editions are published in this commercial center. Besides the native, or Spanish language, are those printed in the French, Italian, English, Swedish and other languages. The wages paid artisans engaged in this industry do not compare with those paid in the United States. The highest paid for newspaper work is $3.50 a day, but $2.50 is the general daily wage, paid monthly. Working time is seven and eight hours a day. On the other hand, living expenses are higher than in American cities. House rent is very high, and the price of food in ordinary restaurants is as high, and generally higher, than that charged in similar grade eating places in American cities. Anent cheap living in other countries, about which one hears so much in the United States, I have come to look upon such alleged facts as mythical, for, speaking generally, I have yet to come across them, and my unsuccessful search for these "much-cheaper" places has not been from lack of effort.

The Argentine silver dollar is about the same value as the Mexican dollar—44 cents. Another dollar is in use, however, pertaining to shipping, customs charges and government tariff of a general nature, known as the gold dollar, and is worth 96 cents. But it is the 44-cent dollar that is in general use for retail purposes, wages, etc.

The great number of street cars running through and about the city is in keeping with the large number of ships seen in the harbor. There are only two streets in the business district—and for a considerable distance beyond—on which street cars do not run. Any one who has lived in busy centers will naturally glance about when crossing streets, to see if the way is clear. But in Buenos Aires one must be on the alert for street cars even when walking along walks between the crossings. The Spanish system of laying out a town—narrow streets—is the rule in Buenos Aires, in the older section of the city. To build street car lines in the center of the streets would shut off vehicular traffic to a great extent, as there is not room for a truck and car to pass between the car line and the curb at the same time. The car tracks, therefore, are laid at the side of the street, by which plan car and vehicular traffic have room to move together, but only in one direction. To make matters worse, a "trailer," or two cars, are in use on many of the lines. A sidewalk fender is secured to the rear platform of the front car and to the forward platform of the "trailer." This device is formed of strips of steel, bowed half-barrel shape, which extends over the walk, and is attached to prevent pedestrians from falling between the cars. The walks also are proportionately narrow, affording room for only two persons to pass at the same time. Were a person to become thoughtless or one's mind be occupied with something foreign to street traffic, while walking at the outer edge of the walk, or when stepping to one side to allow another to pass, the half-barrel shaped steel-strip fender is apt to scrape his leg. Being fearful of coming in contact with the fender at any moment when walking the streets prompts one to frequently look behind.

Ten cents (Argentine money) is the fare, equaling four cents in American money. That sum will carry a passenger from one end of a car line to the other. By reason of the narrow streets, the two-car system, and the great number of cars running on the different lines, tie-ups, turmoil and confusion result. On boarding a car, there is no telling when one will reach his destination. Improvements, however, were in progress.

Among the park squares of Buenos Aires (termed "plazas" in Latin-speaking countries), Plaza de Mayo is perhaps the most popular, and the first laid out in the Southern metropolis. This plaza is located at one side of the business center of the city, with government buildings, hotels, a cathedral, and business houses fronting the four sides. Attractive palms adorn this pretty resting place, together with trees, shrubbery, flowers all the year round, lawns and good walks. Historical memories, dear to the Argentinian, however, prove of greater interest to the populace than that wrought by the landscape gardener, as in this section of the city in early days a decisive battle was fought with Britishers. At one side of the square stands a memorial shaft that marks the place of surrender to native forces by the invaders early in the nineteenth century. Within the city limits are six parks, a number of promenades, thirty-eight squares, and many public gardens.

Avenida de Mayo is the promenade and show section of Buenos Aires. Starting at Plaza de Mayo, it extends for nearly a mile to Congreso, or Congress Hall. The Avenida is one of the two streets on which cars do not run, and is the only one of fair width in the busy center of the city. It is paved with asphalt, most of the others being paved with stone blocks. The best hotels line the Avenida, and the other buildings are of attractive appearance. Prizes are offered by the city for the best building designs, and the result of this municipal pride is frequently observed. Through the Continental custom of blocking the sidewalks in front of hotels and cafés with tables and chairs one often finds difficulty in walking. The park system of the city is creditable, and there are good boulevards in the suburbs.

Here, too, as in Rio de Janeiro, one wonders what women do to occupy their time, as men make the beds, do the dusting, look after rooms, sweep the carpets, and do general household duties one is so accustomed to seeing women perform in North America. Neither is there any chance for a woman to earn her living working in eating places, as men seem to have made that source of livelihood a "closed shop" to women.

Plaza de Mayo (top) and Avenida de Mayo (bottom).
Buenos Aires, Argentine.

The clumsy way the Argentinian hitches horses to a cart strikes one as odd. Carts, instead of trucks, are mostly in use. Often three or four horses will be attached to a cart—one horse between the shafts, and one hitched to the cart on each side of the shaft horse. The horse in the lead will precede the second horse by a space of from three to five feet, and the second horse will be in advance of the shaft horse the same distance. How the animals can see is a puzzle, for a heavy leather fringe reaches from the top of the horse's head to the nose.

To see men embracing each other, with radiant faces, strikes one from the North as an unusual custom. While Americans greet with a handshake, Argentinians embrace.

A novel way to keep "park residents" from occupying seats in some of the park squares is amusing. The park workers keep moving the seats from shade to sun, and in the evening and on cloudy days the "never-works" are told to "move on." But the idlers enjoy sweet revenge from the fact that no one else has a chance to sit in the shade in the daytime.

It is hard on one who has been used to three meals a day to practice the principle of the old adage, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do," for only two meals a day are served. Of course, one gets coffee and rolls for breakfast, but more than that brief menu is unknown to the Argentinian. The noontime meal is called breakfast, and dinner is served about 7 o'clock.

Olives, potato chips, peanuts and cigarettes are accessories that go with refreshments at the "sidewalk dining-rooms" in Buenos Aires. People may be seen for hours taking sips of liquid from small glasses, then a potato chip will be snapped in two parts; next a few puffs of a cigarette; another sip; a peanut shell is then cracked and a kernel eaten; another sip of liquid; next an olive; more cigarette puffs, and so on.

Churches and church holidays being numerous, banks are closed on these occasions for four or five days. What is known as "the American Church" attracts many of the English-speaking people of that city.

In addition to the Argentine being a grain and cattle country, fruit trees and grapevines bear heavy yields. Fig and peach trees, which are numerous, yield abundant good fruit, and some bunches of grapes will half fill a water bucket.

Gentility is denoted in the Argentine by a long little fingernail. A fingernail could not grow from one to two inches long on the hand of one engaged in daily toil, for it would break off. Hence a man with a long fingernail is included in the list of "retired" citizens.

The dwelling houses and buildings of all sorts are substantially built. Brick is generally used, and this is covered with several inches of cement. A courtyard is a feature of all buildings, with a veranda around, and more rooms open on the court than on the street. Strong iron bars protect the windows in a great many instances, while the street doors are very heavy and the locks big and strong. Most of the dwelling houses are one and two stories in height, but some of the hotel and business buildings are from three to seven stories high. The higher buildings are of steel frame construction, which is known as "the American system."

One will find splendid stores, with goods attractively displayed in large, wide windows. Church buildings are numerous, and some of the government buildings large and imposing. Several of the newspapers are large, newsy and well printed. Linotype machines, web presses—all the modern machinery in use in the North—will be found in the emporium of South America.

Portuguese is the language of Brazil, Spanish of the Argentine, and any one going to these countries to transact business without first acquiring an inkling of these languages will find himself at a great disadvantage. The foreigner who can speak both languages will succeed much better than the person who sticks to his native tongue.

The pickpocket of Buenos Aires is said to be as deft at his trade as are his clever colleagues in the City of Mexico. The great number of thieves here may be the reason for the presence of bars in front of windows, heavy doors and strong locks on buildings.

I had work offered to me at my trade in that city, but one who had been used to receiving $5 a day does not relish working for $3 a day for the same duties. Besides, just then the surface of my funds had been scarcely scratched.

I stopped at a boarding house, paying $2 a day for my keep, occupying a small room next to the roof, with the only window a little larger than the port hole of a ship. It behooved one to be promptly in his seat at the table at mealtime, in order to prevent remonstrance that would justifiably be made by the inner man until the next meal if the rules of strict punctuality were not conformed to.

One notices an improvement in the condition of the working people in both Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires over that seen in Lisbon. Poverty is not a feature of either city, more particularly in Buenos Aires.

My fare from New York to Buenos Aires was $150, and the distance traveled was 9,852 miles. From New York direct to Buenos Aires is some 6,000 miles, and the fare, third-class, $90, first-class, $240, there being no second-class rate. Third-class travel is generally unsatisfactory, and a first-class ticket would have cost more than I cared to spend on the first leg of my journey. It was a 26-day sail from Southampton to Buenos Aires.

From Buenos Aires direct across to Capetown, South Africa, is 3,600 miles; by way of Madeira 9,500 miles, and second-class fare $250. This large sum of money for a ticket set me inquiring if there was no other way to get to South Africa without traveling nearly half the distance around the world. A tramp ship going to Asia and stopping at Durban, South Africa, for bunker coal was one's only hope of avoiding the long and tedious journey by way of Madeira and the big expense. Four different captains who had received orders to sail to India did not want to take a passenger with them, giving as their reason that "it was against the Act" for tramp ships to carry travelers. The fifth captain seen, however, agreed to take me across to Durban for $50. Here was a saving of $200.

That being my first introduction to tramp ship travel, I faced the voyage with some mistrust, as merchantmen, as a rule, are slow, are not equipped with wireless telegraphy appliances, and one does not know what may happen when sailing on the high seas. But the captain had a good face, which inspired me with confidence.

"Meet me at the British Consul's office to-morrow morning at 10 o'clock," the captain instructed, "for you'll have to ship as an 'A. B.' (able-bodied seaman), as the 'Act' does not allow us to carry passengers." "Aye, aye, sir," in sailor style, was my answer to his instructions.

"How much are you going to pay this man?" asked the consul. "Ten shillings ($2.40) a month," answered the captain. "A pretty cheap 'A. B.'" sagely remarked the consul.

"The ship is the one with a red funnel, having a yellow circle around it close to the top. Bertha Clay is her name. Be aboard at 3 o'clock at the latest, as we shall sail between 3 and 4," was the final instruction by the captain.

"You found her all right?" the skipper remarked, when he had come aboard his ship. A cargo of coal had just been unloaded, and the dust was an inch deep on the deck.

Later a long blast from the whistle was blown, and in a short time a rope from a tug had been fastened to the Bertha Clay, when she was slowly drawn from the dock into the narrow channel, which was solidly walled by ships. We had started for "Darkest Africa."

LEG TWO

CHAPTER I

The evening sun was sinking fast as we were being towed from the inner harbor of the Argentine metropolis to the broad expanse of gray-colored water of the River Plate.

Berths were short on the Bertha Clay, as the skipper had informed me before I had boarded his ship I would have to sleep in the chart room. Charts and other navigating paraphernalia were kept in this room, and the wheel house was on top of the chart room roof. "Sleep on the couch to-night," instructed the captain, "and to-morrow I'll try to have a berth put up for you, which will be more restful."

Next morning found the tramp ship at sea, and behind, in the distance, the panorama of Montevideo, built on a hillside, was kept in view till lost to sight. "If you prefer land to sea view," the captain remarked later, "take a good look yonder, for, with the exception of a small, uninhabited island 1,200 miles to the east, it is the last land we shall see until we reach the South African coast. That is Lobos Island, off the Uruguayan coast, at which we are looking, on which large numbers of seal assemble."

For six days out from the Plate the weather was summer-like, and these were pleasantly spent sailing over a smooth sea. Talent is generally found among sailors, and during the evening some of the crew would sing, others dance, or boxing bouts would take place; wrestling matches also were listed among the means of entertainment. Then the weather changed for the worse, and evening sports were discontinued.

The captain had brought with him eight sheep and a couple of dozen live chickens, as this ship carried no ice. A sheep was killed each week, and we had chicken twice weekly, so, between the sheep and the chickens, we had fresh meat three times a week.

"Keep a look out for Gough Island," suggested the captain to his first officer, "for it should be in sight by four o'clock." At 4:15 the mate, opening the door, reported, "Land port abeam, sir!" The island proved to be a small, rocky and uninhabited sea "oasis." "No more land until we reach Africa," said the skipper.

The weather had grown stormy, the sea rough, and the Bertha Clay was rolling badly. She pitched, tossed and rolled so much, in fact, that the "A. B." had "callouses" on his hips through being slammed back and forth against the sides of his bunk in the chart room.

Masters of ships usually have an easy time at sea. After they have left a port, the next few days are occupied in straightening their accounts. From then on, if the weather be at all favorable, little work is done save at noontime, when the sun is sighted, by which means alone the course is maintained. Each officer has a sextant, and from two to four of these are pointed sunward from ten to fifteen minutes before the orb has reached the zenith.

A captain of a tramp ship is generally sent from port to port by cable from the owners to their agent. After the cargo has been unloaded, he may remain in a port for days, or even weeks, waiting for orders to sail; but sometimes he has little idea to what part of the world he may be directed to go. The cable directions may read "Capetown." He heads his ship for that port, but does not know whence he will be sent until given instructions by the company's agent on arrival.

The salary paid some sea captains is small, compared to the responsibility assumed. English and other European shippers pay masters of tramp ships from $100 to $130 a month, while captains of American ships receive double that sum. Perquisites, however, may come to a skipper in connection with his calling. Coal firms generally give the master of a ship a commission on fuel supplied, and chandlers maintain the same custom when furnishing stores.

Sea charts with which captains are furnished are marvels of exactness to a landsman, shoals, rocks, lights, jutting points of land, sea currents and courses being as clearly marked as are rivers, turnpikes and railways on land maps. With a good navigator there is little danger of getting off the course if the sky be clear at noontime. It is in cloudy periods, when officers cannot get their bearings from the sun, that danger may occur.

Rainy weather and clear days are the same to a sailor aboard merchantmen. Though sailors on a tramp ship rest on Sunday, firemen and officers have no day off. Chinese, Arabs and Indians, the latter called "lascars," form the crew of a large number of British ships. From $12 to $16 a month were the wages then paid. On American ships white sailors receive $40 a month.

Two hundred miles a day was all the Bertha Clay was traveling. Her smoke funnel was white with salt from the waves of the sea dashing against it. Some of the officers gathered in the little saloon every evening, when the hours were whiled away until bedtime by indoor amusements.

Sea birds of the Southland are different from those that accompany ships above the equator. No traveler who has the noble albatross as a companion can refrain from devoting hours and hours of time during a voyage to watching and admiring the smooth, graceful movements of this large bird. Sometimes as many as a hundred of these handsome soarers may be seen encircling the ship for as long as an hour at a time, seldom flapping their wings. In far southern waters the albatross generally joins an outgoing vessel from 200 to 400 miles from shore, and is not seen when a ship is the same distance from land at the other side of the ocean, although companions for weeks before. Its color is generally gray and white, but some are snow white, and occasionally brown-colored ones are seen with the others. These birds are as large as a swan, some measuring twelve feet from wingtip to wingtip. But many a sailor has lost his life when falling from a vessel in parts of the sea inhabited by the albatross. The great bird will pounce on anything it sees in the water, and, being so strong, the beak will penetrate the skull of a person at the first attack. Navigators say that it will not live during transit across the equator. The mollemoke is another companion sailors have with them when traveling south of the equator. This bird, while not so large, resembles the larger specie both in poise and color, and also mingles with the albatross during a voyage. Feeding on garbage thrown from the ship seemed to be the chief attraction to the fowl. A very pretty sea bird seen in far southern waters is the Cape pigeon. The pigeon is as large as a sea-gull, but in color is like the guinea fowl—spotted white and black—but of much brighter color. The snowbird is another companion that follows a ship in the southern seas, but only in sections where the weather has become chilly. The petrel is also found in these parts, and still another, a small, dark colored bird, no larger than a swallow, appears in large numbers at intervals. Sailors call these Mother Carey's chickens. All these fowl are one's unfettered companions while traveling through watery Southland, save an occasional whale. Sea-gulls do not appear.

It was eighteen days since we sailed from Buenos Aires, and twelve of these had been stormy. The "A. B." was near the captain while he studied the chart, at 9 o'clock one evening, when the mate came into the chart room. "Mr. Jones," said the captain to the first officer, "keep a sharp lookout, as we should see the Cape of Good Hope light by 10 o'clock, or thereabouts." "Aye, aye, sir," he replied, as he passed out, and then scaled the ladder to the bridge. The sea had calmed as we neared the African coast. Less than an hour later the skipper and the "A. B." were chatting, when the door opened. The mate, putting his head between the door and jamb, in sea manner, announced: "Flash light port abeam, sir!" It was the Cape of Good Hope light. We had reached another continent—the African.

For five more days we sailed in sight of the green, treeless hills of South Africa, using glasses frequently, as may be imagined, eager to see houses, cattle and grain fields. Finally we came in sight of the Bluff, the beacon of Port Natal. Soon we were opposite the entrance channel to the harbor, when anchor was cast. Shortly after a harbor boat was seen coming through the channel. Later a rowboat, manned by Zulus, headed toward the Bertha Clay, in which was a white man dressed in a white suit. The captain shouted to the man in white, asking if we could get into the harbor before night. It was then nearly sunset. The answer from the rowboat was, "I'm coming." This was the skipper's first trip to a country where white clothes were worn, and he mistook the man in the rowboat to be the port doctor. One unfamiliar with customs in that part of South Africa—or, in fact, anywhere—would never dream of seeing a grizzled sea pilot dressed in an immaculate white suit of clothes. It proved to be the man who was to steer our ship safely to harbor. "All well?" he inquired—the usual salute—when his rowboat had reached speaking distance of the tramp ship. "All well," replied the master of the Bertha Clay. When the pilot had drawn alongside our vessel, he began to wriggle up the rope ladder at the side of the ship, the usual means of boarding and disembarking under such circumstances.

We anchored in the harbor as twilight was hastily changing to darkness. "Supper is ready," announced the steward when the anchor chain was silenced. As ship food had no charm for the "A. B." when land food was available, he hurriedly made steps for the ladder at the side. This settled matters concerning eating supper aboard ship that evening, as the captain shouted, "Wait." Soon the skipper also started down the ladder, and the master of the Bertha Clay and his passenger had dinner ashore.

We had stepped foot on Leg Two.

The captain wished the "A. B." to return to the ship and sleep in his recently vacated bunk in the chart room that night—"the last night," as he put it—but my feeling of relief at the thought of not having longer to occupy that "cabin," in which the bedclothing had often been made damp through waves dashing against and over the ship, together with several inches of water at times covering the floor, might be compared to those that one would experience on leaving a "house of trouble."

"You'll have to come to the port office in the morning and get paid off and discharged," remarked the captain, after we had finished eating the best meal we had had for nearly a month. Meeting at the time designated, the formality of paying off was gone through with, in accordance with maritime law. The "A. B." was handed $2.40 for his "work" during the voyage, but the money did not reach his pockets, as it was handed back to the genial skipper. The provisions of the "Act" had been complied with—in name.

The Bertha Clay, with her bunkers full of coal, left the following day for Cochin-China—6,000 miles further east—thirty days' more sailing.

"Sixty cents a day" (the minimum legal charge for a person's food on English ships) "is all it will cost you if you will come with us," inducingly spoke the captain to his discharged "able seaman," while shaking hands warmly, a short time before the Bertha Clay sailed out of the harbor. The skipper's generous offer was declined.

The passenger left behind sought the highest point of the seashore to watch the tramp ship sail on her initial stretch to Asia. She dipped her nose in the sea and wobbled and pitched as she had done for twenty-three days during her former voyage. It was not long before only an outline of the hulk was in view. Then that disappeared altogether, when all that remained in sight was the smoke funnel. Soon that also had faded to but a speck, and a short time later the Bertha Clay became hidden in a hazy horizon.

CHAPTER II

With a population of a hundred thousand, Durban is the chief seaport of South Africa. Located on the Indian Ocean, it is known also as Port Natal. Among the inhabitants, colored people of varied races comprise two-thirds of the population. With the native black there is the Indian, or Hindu, Arabs, Malays and half-castes from islands located near the East African coast. The phrase "Darkest Africa" is even more emphasized by the presence of the dark races that are not natives of the country.

Untidiness and unsanitary conditions invariably prevail where black races are in the majority, especially so where the percentage is three to one white person; but a pleasant surprise is met with here in this respect, as few cities anywhere surpass Durban in cleanliness, whether composed entirely of white people or a predominating number of blacks. Almost the whole white population is British.

To the east and south, as one comes through a channel from the sea to the harbor, a ridge of land known as the Bluff, thickly verdured with low trees and wild flowers, offers such an inviting setting to a visitor that one forms a favorable opinion of Durban before he has stepped off a ship. That foreground is as green in the winter months as during the summer, for it is summertime in Durban the year round. After having passed through the channel into the bay, the harbor is seen landlocked on one side by the city, and on the other side and end by the evergreen Bluff and more verdure. It is Durban's splendid harbor, reasonable port dues, up-to-date facilities for coaling ships, and splendid docks that has gained for her the title of premier seaport of the South Indian Ocean. Her modern maritime facilities are the result of energy by the Durban business man more than to natural advantages, for the entrance channel had to be dug out and the harbor dredged.

The business houses are built of brick, cement and stone, some of them being seven stories high. The stores are large, of fine appearance, with attractive windows. No place of Durban's size can boast of better buildings or better stores.

One of the largest and best built structures to be found south of the equator is the Durban Town Hall. This building, of brick and cement, is a city block in size and three stories in height. The scope of this hall may be understood when it is mentioned that under its roof is contained a public museum, an art gallery, public library, theater, councilors' chambers, besides offices for the city officials. The building is not only large and imposing, but the architects have succeeded in giving the structure an artistic finish. The Town Hall of to-day should meet the requirements of the Durban Corporation centuries hence, and would be a credit to a city of a million inhabitants.

A good bathing beach and a well-laid-out and well-appointed park do not, as a rule, go together, but one finds this dual comfort at this part of the Indian Ocean. Scattered about the terraced lawn have been built substantial kiosks and pagodas, with thatched roofs, which lend to the surroundings a decidedly Oriental air. These have been provided with comfortable seats, and, with the soft breezes nearly always coming from the Indian Ocean, enviable restfulness is assured to even nervous wrecks. Then stone walls, with alcoves built in to add to the seating capacity of the park, together with flowering vines creeping up and over and then drooping, form a means of shelter and rest, adding more attractiveness to the surroundings. Above the beach and park are splendid hotels, some without doors, and all with wide, inviting verandas.

Sharks—man-eaters—are so numerous along the Natal coast that the bathing enclosure is closely studded with iron rods to prevent the voracious sea beasts from mangling and killing bathers, as would happen were there no means provided to keep the sharks away from the holiday-maker.

The Berea is a residential section of Durban, and for landscape and floral effect is a notable feature. On a range of hills rising several hundred feet, overlooking the business portion of the city and the Indian Ocean, many Durbanites live in broad-verandaed homes, shaded with semi-tropical flowering trees, perpetually blooming plants, vines growing so luxuriantly that the porches, and often the sides, of the houses are shut in by a green and floral portière, as it were. Added to this attractiveness are various species of palms and clusters of giant and Japanese bamboo. Some of the flowered hedges enclosing these building plots are so gorgeous in rich color and shape as to make a Solomon green with envy.

The flambeau tree, indigenous to the Island of Mauritius—"the flower garden tree," it may be termed—is conspicuous on the Berea, both as to numbers and floral beauty. This tree, with fern-shaped leaf, does not grow over twenty-five feet in height, but it is of a spreading nature, its shade in some instances measuring fifty feet across—twice its height. It is in flower about a month, from the middle of December to the middle of January—Junetime south of the equator. The color of the flower is a bright red, as large and the shape of a sewing thimble, and grows in clusters of eight and ten in number. When in bloom, this bright red aerial garden may be seen from a distance of a mile, so the reader can picture what a gorgeous floral effect is displayed when hundreds of these handsome trees are in flower at the same time.

The rosebush seemed to be the only plant of the nature of bush or tree that overrides lines, climates and seas. It is no doubt the most cosmopolitan plant that grows, and is to be seen in about the same beauty and diffuses its fragrance in the same degree in nearly all parts of the world. All the trees seen growing south of the equator appeared foreign to those growing in the United States.

The Christ thorn—said to be the same as the one that pierced the brow of the Savior on Mount Calvary—grows abundantly in Natal. In some instances the bush is used for hedge fences, and when allowed to grow to a height of from two to four feet it makes a spiky obstruction, as the prongs are an inch in length, grow numerous on the stock, little thicker than a knitting needle, and are almost as sharp as a sewing needle. The thorn, which is of a creeping nature, like a grapevine, is more generally used as a border for a flower pot, however. As its name naturally calls up memories of the deep-stained crime of nearly 2,000 years ago, one scrutinizes it closely. The Christ is a flowering thorn, and the flower is red, not larger than a wild strawberry's. These grow in a group from one stem, each cluster numbering from two to ten flowers—always even—two, four, six, eight and ten—never in odd numbers.

Some of the trees growing here bud and bloom twice a year. These interesting changes do not take place in the same way that nature does her work in the colder climates—by the leaves falling off in the fall of the year and the buds coming in the spring. With these trees the old leaf remains until forced off the limb by the new bud. About six weeks' time is required for nature to change from the old to the new. During this period new buds bulge from the tips of the limbs, when the old leaf will fall to the ground. This change is gradually progressing, until sections of the tree offer a clean, fresh, bright, green-leafed appearance, while on other parts the dull-green, dust-soiled leaf offers a striking contrast. Between the months of February and March and August and September the new leaf replaces the old.

There is really little timber in South Africa, as the trees grow low and are of a spreading character. Naturally, the shade cast by them is much wider than that afforded by high trees. Where brush grows, it is found to be a dense thicket or jungle, in which monkeys disport themselves at will, and is often the home of the python also, a reptile frequently seen along the Natal coast. Shooting monkeys in the brush is a common amusement.

Outside the city are banana plantations, and sometimes patches of corn and pumpkins. In order to prevent crops from being partly eaten by monkeys, laborers are out in the fields at daylight setting traps to catch the "missing links" or shooting them. The monkeys are very destructive to crops growing in fields bordered by bushy land. A monkey's gluttony often renders his cunning of no avail, and for that trait he becomes an easy prey. Calabashes grow everywhere in South Africa, and it is by this vegetable the monkey is generally trapped. The calabash is dug out, or partly so, and cornmeal, calabash seeds and other monkey edibles are put inside and then made fast. A small hole, just large enough for a monkey to wriggle his supple fingers in and contracted paw through, is made in the vegetable. When no one is about, the monkey makes a start for the calabash trap and is soon eager to find out what is inside. He then begins working his paw through the opening, and when he has reached the cornmeal, seeds and other bait he grabs a handful. It is then that his gluttony proves his downfall. The opening that admitted his empty paw is too small to allow his clenched fist to be withdrawn, so he pulls and tugs for hours to get his paw through the hole, but will not let go of the food even while being put to death by his captors.

"Are there any automobiles in South Africa?" asked a friend in a letter. Perhaps others will ask a similar question concerning the presence of other modern appliances in a far-off part of the world. One will not meet with elevated railroads, tunnels under wide rivers, underground railway systems, or buildings from twenty to fifty stories in height, for the reason that the cities of South Africa are not large enough to require these modern public utilities; but one will meet with modern electric light systems, telephone, telegraph and wireless telegraphy systems, automobiles, motorcycles, motor trucks, most up-to-date fire-fighting apparatus, modern farm machinery, typesetting machines, web presses—all the modern machinery and appliances with which cities of the same size in the North are equipped will be found in the cities of the far Southland.

White drill clothes are worn by two-thirds of the men of Durban; also white shoes and a white, light-weight helmet. A suit costs from $2.50 to $6, and a wardrobe contains from three to half a dozen. In addition to the drill, a majority of mechanics and clerks can vary their apparel by wearing woolen, flannel and even evening-dress suits. Women also generally adhere to white clothes and often a helmet similar to the style worn by men, together with white shoes, white hand-bag, and white parasol.

The standard of intelligence of the people is high. A majority in the coast cities are from the United Kingdom. Scotch and English are the more numerous, the Irish and Welsh being less in evidence. Among a group of men, the colonials (white persons born in South Africa of British parents) are nearly always in the minority.

It is only in very small towns in South Africa where a public library would not be open to all who wished to take advantage of its benefits. Durban is well supplied with public schools, a technical school open for both day and night classes; Y. M. C. A., Y. W. C. A. institutions, splendid library, art gallery, museum; is thickly spired and turreted with good church buildings; and, for recreation, there is a promenade, fringed with beautiful palms and shady trees, with seats under them, for a mile on one side, and the bay on the other; parks and sports grounds scattered throughout the city; a botanical garden and a zoological park. All these institutions of education, religion and recreation are to be found 10,000 miles from America, on the fringe of "Darkest Africa."

In order that the reader may clearly distinguish between white and black, a note of the distinctive terms in use here might not be out of place. A "native" is a kafir or negro; a "colonial" is one born in South Africa of white parents, generally applied to English-speaking people; Dutch means a Boer, and Boer means Dutch; the word "Africander" also means Dutch. But for all whites—Dutch, colonial, and foreign-born—the word "European" is used to designate the white from the black. The word "white" is seldom used. Indian coolie, or Indian, is a native of India, or of Indian parentage. "Colored" means a person of Malay and white blood. Half-castes are of negro and white blood. A "boy" means a kafir servant or a laborer. A native servant 40 years of age would be called a "boy."

House servants in South Africa are native boys, and Indian women and girls are often employed as nurses. Occasionally one sees a native woman looking after children; but the native boy—the "umfaan," as he is called in the Zulu language—from 10 to 18 years of age, is the standby as a house servant in the Province of Natal. The houseboy wears clothes that denote his occupation, and generally presents a neat appearance. His wage varies from $2 to $5 a month. Most of the umfaans make good servants, particularly the Zulu boys. Unlike his American brother, he is an early riser.

"Umfaan peril—protection for the children"—is the light in which a great many of the Europeans see their dependency on the umfaan as the servant. While Indian women and some native women look after the children, more umfaans will be seen wheeling baby carriages than black maids. Such a thing as a European servant is almost unheard of in South Africa. So, how to have the children looked after by other than black male servants is a burning question in the province. Conventions are held regularly at the instance of women's children protection societies, leagues and similar organizations, at which the ablest minds of the country deal with the "umfaan peril." But no solution has yet been found to check the degradation that follows in the wake of such a system of taking care of children. Men and women who have made a study of the "peril," and who are familiar with customs, are loth to place all the blame for undesirable conditions on the native, nevertheless. A large number of native girls are not allowed by their parents to come to the cities or towns as servants. While they live in the kraal on the veld no concern is felt for the future of the girls; but so soon as they leave the native hut to go into service in the towns their future is in doubt. So, with no native girls to be had as servants, the umfaan's services for the present are indispensable.

South Africa has proved an Arcadia for a great number of poor girls. Mill and shop girls of Great Britain who had dreamed of being the wife of a man dressed in white clothes from feet to head, of living in a wide verandaed house, trellised all around, with flowering vines climbing all about the porch, with the picture varied by the hum of bees or humming birds; with palms, exotics and flowers growing about the house and yard; with bearing banana plants, mango trees and rows of luscious pineapples growing in the yard—all encompassed by a flowering hedge of big, bright hibiscus bush; with a foreground of a steepled city and a broad blue ocean, and a background of spreading fern-leafed trees emblazoned with scarlet and lavender-colored flowers; with an ayah (Indian maid) to be at her beck and call and a black boy to do the housework and bring her breakfast to her room; to be drawn from her home to the shopping center of the city and back by a big and swift Zulu ricksha puller, with long cow horns secured to each side of his head—that dream has come true to thousands of poor girls who have married in this section of South Africa.

Most wives from Great Britain, however, prove white elephants to men living in the colonies. They are eternally going "home," as the British Isles are termed, and the husband's nose is "kept on the grindstone" to meet the expense required. The home "holiday" is seldom less than six months, and is frequently eighteen months, during which period the husband is maintaining two homes—the one in the colony and sending money to Great Britain to meet the expense of his family in that country. On the other hand, the climate of Southern Natal and Zululand is hard on the white woman. The easy life they live, and their fascinating surroundings, are not reflected in face or in physique. It is unusual to see a buxom, rosy-cheeked woman or girl in Durban. The face is white and features lifeless. The climate in that part of South Africa seems to not only make them jaded, but crow's-feet and deeper wrinkles mark the faces of most women at a period in life when the features should be free of these ageing signs. The children suffer from the climate to the same degree as the women, most of them having thin bodies, thin arms, thin blood and spindled legs. Men also are affected by the climate, but not to the same degree as women and children. Illustrative of the size of men in Southern Natal, it may be noted that ready made suits of clothes of size 40 and over are not kept in stock by merchants, as there is no call for them; few men attain that girth. It is doubtful also if one could find a collar of size 17.

The horse of Natal is a hungry-looking beast. This is owing to the grass generally being of a wiry nature, which the animal cannot digest, and a better quality, if eaten when dew is on it, proves very injurious to the system. Smoldering fires are lit in stables in the evening so that the smoke will keep mosquitoes from the premises. These insects are said to inject disease germs into any horse they bite. Large, vicious flies prove another menace to horses. The bite of these flies often draws blood, and as a result white hairs grow from the bitten parts. So many of these white hair spots appear on the bodies of black and bay horses that they often give a beast the appearance of being an iron-gray color. In certain sections of the Province of Natal horses cannot live.

Favored with a delightful climate and a good bathing beach, Durban is a noted winter resort in that part of the world. The weather during the "season"—from May to October—is like the American Indian summer save for the absence of Jack Frost. At this time of year people from Johannesburg and other sections of the high veld come in large numbers to this point of the coast to spend their vacations. Circuses also pay their annual visits; hotel-keepers raise prices; rooming house proprietors double rates; fakirs are numerous; talented tramps—street singers—are heard in front of hotels, looking for any spare change that may come from verandas and windows; Zulu ricksha pullers become ambitious for an extra "holiday" fare—every one tries to get rich off the visitor, and the air is charged with music, merriment and life at every turn.

In the way of amusement, moving pictures predominate, although theatrical people of world reputation frequently tour South Africa. Concerts in the Town Hall Sunday evenings, held under municipal auspices, are a popular form of entertainment, these being in charge of the borough organist, a city official. Military bands in the gala season entertain the populace morning, afternoon and evening at the Beach and in parks. Besides these attractions, boating, fishing, horse racing, military sports tournaments, and the general athletic sports figure largely in the life of the place.

Dwellings are nearly always at a premium, these renting for from $15 to $35 a month; but few houses are available for the lesser sum. The standard of living may be gauged by these charges, as people receiving small salaries could not pay high rentals. The wages of clerks, salesmen and mechanics range from $65 to $100 a month. In many Durban homes will be found a piano, a phonograph, good furniture, often a good collection of horns and skins, pictures—the home of no workingman of any country could be better furnished than the Durban breadwinner's.

"Did you attend the funeral yesterday?" was asked of a lady whose relative had been buried the day before. "Oh, no!" she answered, much surprised at the question; "only men attend funerals." The absence of women at subsequent burials proved this to be the custom here. A body must be put under ground within 24 hours after death. Were a person to die at 7 o'clock in the morning, the burial would take place during the day. When information has been given that a person has died, it is understood that the funeral will take place in a few hours.

One making a visit to the black belts would use good judgment were he to leave behind the word "woman" when applied to white women. "Woman" in these countries is used only when speaking of black or colored persons. "Lady" is always used when referring to a white woman. One will find a similar distinction in vogue in the negro sections of the United States.

"Toff" is an English term used to denote a good dresser—a sort of dandy. As most of the clothes worn by men are tailor-made, a great many "toffs" may be seen in Durban. The cheapest suit one can have made costs $22, but from $25 to $40 is the general price.

Natal, unlike the other provinces of South Africa, has always been English, particularly the coast section, which accounts for few manufacturers being in evidence from other countries. But among American products are shoes, sewing machines and illuminating oil. Some powerful locomotives in use are of American manufacture and are imported chiefly to pull trains up heavy grades. The cooking stove in general use here is the kerosene oil sort, most of them of American make. In recent years, exports from the United States to the sub-continent (as South Africa is often termed) have increased to the creditable figures of 35 to 40 per cent.

"Will you please look at the fireless stove?" a saleslady asked, as a group of women passed a "kitchen" stall in a fair ground on a provincial fair day. Turning about, there was a dish of baked beans, seldom seen away from America; an apple pie, an article of food as scarce in foreign parts as hens' teeth; a roast chicken, soda biscuits (called scones in British territory) and baked potatoes. The whole outfit had America stamped on it very strongly. All the women stopped to witness the fireless stove "demonstration." "Where's the fire?" asked one of the women. Then the "demonstration" began, both in action and word. Her auditors looked with staring eyes and open-mouth as the agent showed them and explained its working.

Comparatively few Americans live in the Province of Natal, as at a luncheon given by the American Consul's wife to her countrymen "a table held us all"—thirty being present. Invitations had been sent to a larger number, but as some of these were missionaries located in remote places of the country all did not attend. The luncheon was served on a Fourth of July, and what a pleasant gathering it proved to be. Some of those present had been away from their native country as long as forty years. Pleasant chats, speeches, toasts—the season of good fellowship that prevailed at that Fourth of July gathering, when we were all 10,000 miles from home, will remain among the longest cherished memories that those present will carry with them through life.

Though lighting, water, a telephone system and street railways are owned by the city, municipal ownership does not augur cheaper prices in Durban, in spite of the fact that the rates charged the consumer and patron insure the city not only a fair return on the capital invested, but generally a snug surplus is shown besides. Street cars are of double-deck style, but the fare is high. The system of paying is by "stage"—four cents from stage to stage, and the distance between "stages" is so arranged that the city receives about three cents a mile from its patrons. Conductors and motormen are Europeans.

While the street car system gives employment to white men, it is the only department of the city that does so. The park system and the street department work is done entirely by Indian coolies, who receive from $3 to $5 a month. They are the most hungry looking, bony, spindle-legged lot of creatures one might set eyes on; but it is largely due to this cheap help that the Durban treasury is in such good condition.

The Indian coolie is tricky, treacherous, lying, lazy, dirty and repulsive. He has about his loins a rag just big enough to cover his nakedness, while the wrapping around his head—his puggaree—is as large as a bed sheet. In other words, he makes a loin piece out of a handkerchief, but requires yards of cloth for a head covering.

Sugar growing being the principal industry of southern Natal, the Indian coolie was imported to work in the sugar-cane fields. Tea also is grown in the southern part of the province, and Indians are used in that industry, receiving from $3 to $5 a month and board. As his main food is rice, board does not cost much; and as he sleeps in any sort of a shed, the sugar grower is not put to great expense for beds and bedding. The coolie used to be brought to South Africa under what was termed the "indenture system," the indentureship periods being from three to five years, during which he could not leave his employer. It was a mild form of slavery. At the end of his indentureship he was generally shipped back to India, but could be re-employed there and return to Africa. The sugar company paid his transportation either way. But that expense did not greatly shrink the growers' pocketbooks, as the coolie was shipped in the hold of a ship, which, when packed with this class, resembled a great ant-hill. Serving two and three terms of successive indentureship to the same employer gained for him his freedom, when he could remain in Natal. From then on he became a curse. The Dutch came in full control of South Africa on May 30, 1910, and a month later marked the end of indentured coolies entering the sub-continent.

As is generally known, Indian girls become mothers at the age of from 12 to 14 years. Added to a resulting abnormal birth rate, compared with Europeans, polygamy is also a custom of the Indians. Thus will readily appear the great danger to the white interest where the Indian gets a foothold.

The Indian patronizes his own people, and for this reason many of the Arab and Hindu merchants soon become wealthy. They aim to oust the white man wherever and whenever they can do so. Their standard of living is so much lower, and their employees work for so much less than the white merchant must pay European help, that they can undersell the white in most lines of business. Some of the wealthiest men in the province are Indian merchants.

Most of the money in use in South Africa is gold—gold sovereigns—and silver. The gold sovereign is what the Indian is after. His savings are sent to India in gold. Through the Durban post office was sent not long since 65,000 gold sovereigns. Bankers and business men appealed to the government to put a stop to sending this metal out of the country, and when that method of depleting the gold currency had been checked, it was sent to India secretly, most of it in packing boxes, there being a large trade between the two countries.

The Indian having become a running sore on the financial and social body of Natal, the government has tried to tax the race out of the country. The legal age of a girl is placed at thirteen years and that of a boy at sixteen years. The tax on "legal" aged Indians is $15 a year. So, if an Indian father had three girls over thirteen years of age, and two sons over sixteen, making seven in the family of legal age, the head tax would be $105. To impose such an exorbitant tax on poor, low paid people seems a hardship. No "melting pot" that ever simmered will assimilate the Indian with the white race, however. They bring with them filthy habits and weird customs, and live the life of an Indian in whatever part of the world they may be located.

The destruction of the "gods"—Mohurrum festival—is one of the great holidays of the Indians in Natal. This is the closing climax of a Mohammedan ten-day festival. The festival takes place each year, which shows that Indians do not worship stale gods, as a new one comes into existence ten days after the drowning of the old gods. The gods on this occasion were drowned in the Umgeni River, about three miles from Durban.

The fantastic hearses, in design a strange mixture of mosque and pagoda, made up of bamboo framework covered with bright colored paper and lavishly decorated with tinsel and gaudy ornaments, most of them surmounted by the star and crescent on a dome, emblematic of the Moslem faith, were followed by Indian women in brightly colored garments, and grotesquely painted men scantily clad in loin cloths, weird headpieces, and other trappings, who conveyed the gods to the river. Above the noise that followed this gay holiday crowd, bent on the destruction of Indian gods, could be heard the monotonous and ear-racking din of the tomtom, together with a prehistoric bagpipe here and there, and these were the only musical instruments in use to demonstrate the feelings of this motley crowd. The pagodas are called "taboots," and when these came to a halt—they were drawn by men—the "tigers," men besmeared with lead, ochre and yellow-colored mud and grease from head to foot, would give exhibitions of contortions, which must have been pleasing to the slowly moving gods. At the river where the gods were to meet their death had gathered a great crowd of Indians, natives and Europeans to witness the last part played in the Mohurrum fast and festival. "Taboot" after "taboot" was tipped and hurled into the stream, after the priests had taken rice and other grain from it, which they tossed into a small fire burning in an urn. The shallow river was swarming with youngsters, and no sooner had a "taboot" reached the water than the boys were at it, and in a short time it was a shapeless wreck.

On the shore of the Indian Ocean a group of Hindus were observing a repulsive form of the Buddhist religion. About a dozen in number, they assembled round a brass urn, six inches across and three deep, in which burned an oil fire. Half of this number formed what we may call an orchestra. Two of the instruments were tomtoms and the others rounded pieces of wood, bored out, as large as a croquet ball, and with brass bells attached. These were put over the players' hands, rattling as they moved their wrists, the other members at the same time chanting a dump. Close to the urn stood a cone-shaped wooden frame, two feet high and eighteen inches at the base, covered with flowers. To the rear lay three live hens, with strings tied to their legs.

The Hindus then started toward the water to the accompaniment of bells and tomtoms. Leading were three men, the one between, who appeared nervous, being aided by those on each side. One of the trio had thick, black hair reaching to the waist, but none wore head covering. When the three had waded in up to the armpits, the center man was ducked a number of times. The music then ceased for a short period, after which all returned to the urn. The Indian who had been immersed turned out to be a convert to this fanatical sect.

The orchestra resumed the chant, the man with the long hair and the convert kneeling by the fire, the third one, a priest, standing. The former began bending his body backward and forward, his head touching the sand at each movement, also running his fingers through his hair. The convert followed the actions of the other. Both worked themselves into a state of weakness, verging on collapse, during which their hands, at times, came in contact with the flame in the urn, but none of the members made any effort to turn their hands from the fire, which, of course were burned. At this stage of the ceremony both men, their eyes rolling and only the whites showing, lay on the sand, exhausted. The chant ceased. The priest approached the apparently lifeless Indians with a phial in his hands. He next placed the open end of the bottle to the nose of one, then to the other, the Hindus raising themselves to their knees as the orchestra resumed.

The half-revived convert then put out his tongue, the priest advancing with what looked like an oyster fork in his hand. The orchestra stopped—all was silent. He next took hold of the dazed, hand-burnt disciple's tongue in one hand, and forced the tines of the fork through that member with the other; then, quickly stepping to the cone, took two flowers—lavender and yellow in color—and, returning, put one flower on top of the tongue, the other underneath. No blood flowed from the penetrated member. The Hindu stood up, apparently in a trance, his tongue spiked. The priest again alertly stepped back and returned with a chicken, snapping the hen's head off as if cut with a scissors. The blood from the headless fowl was sprinkled over the convert; then another hen was brought, killed likewise, its blood also being sprayed over the supplicant, when the orchestra played. The follower next bended to his knees, after which the flower cone was lifted on his head. He rose; then the group, to the accompaniment of the "music," walked over sand dunes in the direction of a mosque, where, it was said, the fork would be withdrawn from the inducted Asiatic's tongue.

The Zulu ricksha puller is the most striking feature of that interesting city to a visitor, as he proves an object of much curiosity and admiration. He is in a class by himself. In stature, he stands from 5 feet 6 inches to 6 feet 4 inches; in color, darker than a mulatto, but not black; with bare legs, strong, muscular and fleet of foot; generally ready to smile, showing his perfect teeth; standing between two shafts by which he draws the ricksha, watching eagerly for a fare—this gives but a meager illustration of the Zulu ricksha puller.

The Zulu reaches the culmination of vanity when he has fixed himself up to look like, and to imitate the actions of, an ox, horse or mule, for he has a veneration for these dumb animals. The larger the horns he can wear, which are secured to a piece of cloth that fits tight to the head, the better he is pleased. A number of long feathers often extend from between the horns, and vari-colored grass and thin reeds, also attached to the same place, fall to and below the waistline. Added to this head adornment, calabashes, sometimes as large as a cantaloupe, protrude from the side of his head. His jacket, sleeveless, which bears designs of plaids and squares, resembling a checker-board, extends midway between thigh and knee. His pants are a slit knickerbocker, also extending to halfway between thigh and knee, but from the hem fall strips of red braid six inches below. The pants are split to allow his legs freedom when drawing the vehicle.

The ricksha puller is eternally trying to think of something fantastic and grotesque to wear. One fellow may be seen with his legs and feet painted blue, representing the sky, with white spots dotted here and there to represent stars, another with both legs painted white. At times one leg is painted red and the other white. Also may be seen, fastened to the puller's horns, the skull of a calf or sheep, or perhaps of a monkey. Monkey skins, with tails attached, are worn, one in front and the other on the back. Again, a discarded plug hat may be hung on one horn and an empty vegetable can on the other while he is pulling a passenger about the city. Sometimes his head looks like a small flower garden, as he is seen trundling his ricksha about with bright red hibiscus and carnations sticking out of his black, woolly head at the top and from the sides. At night a small light—generally a candle—attached to the axle of his sulky, may be seen at the sides of streets and showing from dark alleys or from under a spreading tree. The puller will jingle the little bell on the shafts of his ricksha to attract the attention of a passerby. The weird trappings, with the dim outline of the Zulu, together with his long horns showing from the darkness, will not inspire confidence in one unfamiliar with the native puller. In short, he appears fantastically inhuman by day and grotesquely brutish by night. His physique, however, is an object of admiration; mentally, he is a child.

The ricksha is a two-wheeled, two-shaft sulky, with rubber tired wheels, upholstered, and will seat two persons. A hood is attached to the seating box like that of a carriage. A small bell hangs from one of the shafts, which the puller sounds to give warning of his coming. Under, from the center of the axle depends a bar of iron with a small wheel at the end. This bar prevents passengers from falling out if the ricksha should tip while going up hill. The service is good and the fare cheap—from 6 to 50 cents—the different fare stages being printed on a card. Like every one engaged in similar occupations, the puller knows a stranger, and succeeds often in getting more than the just fare from men, but women generally ask for the schedule card.

"Ricksha!" is the only word shouted when a puller is wanted. Regular stands for them are located in different parts of the city, and if one feels depressed in spirits and wishes to get out of the "dumps," a good way to have the "cloud" lifted is to shout "Ricksha!" when within 200 to 300 feet from where fifteen to twenty of the pullers are chatting and waiting for a fare. Every one of them will spring between the shafts, like fire horses to harness, and make a dash at full speed to the person who shouted. The noise and rattle a group of pullers make in approaching sounds almost like a collision between two railway trains.

The puller rests the shafts on the ground while his passenger is being seated. He holds his big, strong, flat foot on the thills, so the vehicle will not slip while one is getting aboard, until his patron tells him to go. If one cannot speak the native language, not a word will be spoken, for rarely does one meet a native who can speak English. The passenger points his finger in the direction he wishes to be drawn. The Zulu raises the shafts and, after a few slow, heavy pulls to get the vehicle started, one is spinning along as fast as a trolley car travels.

Jim Fish Was the Swiftest Puller that Ever Wore a Brace of Horns.

Durban, South Africa.

"Jim Fish!" "Jim Fish!" they will call to a passerby, at the same time ringing the small bell on the shafts, while advancing and acting in a manner that suggests the person being approached had forgotten to call a puller. Jim Fish was the swiftest puller that ever wore a brace of horns. In a three mile race with a trolley car Jim came out ahead, but, like Pheidippides, the Greek of the dusty past, after whose run the Marathon has been named, he fell dead when he had crossed the finish line. By calling out "Jim Fish" the Zulus imagine the name suggests a fast ride.

The puller appears at his best when traveling down grade. Just at the head of the decline he jerks the shafts upward—this movement bringing his back close to the dashboard—when his arms rest akimbo on the thills. He maintains his full height during this change of position, which is in accordance with professional ricksha pullers' custom. The sulky naturally tilting backward—also the occupants—his body is nearer the axle of his vehicle than when traveling over a level or inclined surface. Aided by the weight of his passengers, the ricksha is then almost evenly balanced. Riding on the shafts, he throws to one side, like a jumping-jack, the big leg bearing the painted design of the sky or openwork, and his unpainted leg to the other. He also moves his body from side to side and assumes a labored expression, although resting while being borne on the shafts. His body movement and stern appearance are affected, and are, as he believes, in keeping with that of a racehorse when coming down the home stretch, which he is imitating. His horns and their adornment, together with the colored grass streamers, feathers, monkey tails, checkerboard designed jacket, calabashes, braid, flowers—all his trappings are then set full to the wind, as the Zulu seems to actually fly through space.

In stormy weather, which means good business for the puller, the hood is raised, and a piece of canvas that covers the front of the ricksha is buttoned to the sides, which protects the occupant from rain both from above and in front. Off the Zulu goes, after he has tucked the rug under his passenger's feet and has seen to it that the canvas shelters his fare. The rain may be coming down in torrents, and the water half knee deep in the streets, with the handicap of the raised hood and front canvas against him; but patter, patter, patter he will continue, watching for depressions, in order to sidestep them so that his passenger will not be jolted, until he has reached the place at which his fare wishes to alight. He will take one home in any sort of weather, as his strong legs and body rarely fail him.

The puller will often have nothing on but the jacket, short, split-leg pants and trappings. He does not go to his living quarters—the ricksha stable—and get dry clothes, as one might expect him to do, but trundles his sulky about in the rain looking for another fare. He pulls a ricksha from two to three years, when consumption generally claims him as a victim.

Twelve hundred of these stalwart natives were formerly engaged in this kind of work, but now there are less than a thousand. The extension of street car lines from time to time accounts for the decrease.

The rickshas are owned by a company, and 60 cents a day is paid by the puller for its use. All he makes over 60 cents is his own. It is said he often earns from $2 to $3 a day, but there are also days when his fares do not exceed the rent charge. Most of the pullers work but four days a week.

A "curfew" bell rings at 9 o'clock each evening, and the only native seen about the streets who is immune from arrest after that hour is the ricksha puller. After "curfew" a native carries a pass or a note from his employer, either of which will save him from being taken to a police station. It is very amusing at times to watch a Zulu policeman question a native as to why he is out late. His only protection is the note or his pass, which the policeman makes pretense at reading, though he does not know A from B.

This dusky guardian of the peace is next in interest to the ricksha puller. His uniform is a jacket, dark blue in color, that reaches just below the waist band. His pants are of the same material, reaching to and covering the kneecap, where it is buttoned tight. His legs from his knees down are bare and shine like polished ebony, for they are oiled every day. He wears a stingy head piece called a forage cap, generally made of blue cloth, which covers about one-third of the head—the side—from the arch of the ear to within two inches of the crown. This is held in place by a string looping under his chin or resting between the chin and lower lip. Some caps have a red stripe across the top, and all have a dent or crease. His weapon is a knobkerry, a stick an inch round, with a knob on it as large as a croquet ball. A pair of handcuffs is also included among this Zulu officer's equipment.

The European policeman of Durban, as many European women of that city, have an easy job. The native police do any "rough" work required to subdue black offenders, as Europeans, to whom the white policeman would give his attention, are as a rule law abiding. The native carries his superior's raincoat, overcoat, or any burden that the white officer might need while on duty. A black policeman is not permitted to arrest a European, no matter how serious the offense against the law might be. The worst offenders are Indians; but big thefts, safe-blowing, house breaking, hold-ups, sand-bagging, etc., are few, which indicates the respect people have for the law in this British stronghold. White policemen receive $75 a month, and natives $15 a month and board. The working time is eight hours a day, with three shifts.

A large building without an entrance door would appear as something unusual in Northern cities; and yet one can find such an oddity in the far Southland. The one in question is built of brick, three stories in height, and contains a hundred furnished rooms. The entrance is a high archway, and just inside is an elevator and stairway. It is an English custom to leave one's shoes outside his room door on going to bed, so that "boots" can polish them in the morning. In front of each room, on each side of the aisles, in this hostelry could often be seen from one to four pairs of shoes, yet every pair would be found in the morning where they had been placed the night before, although no porter guards the entrance of the building nor a night watchman the interior.

Meat is about the same price in South Africa as in America. Beef, mutton, chicken and pork cannot be had for less than 15 to 25 cents a pound. Irish potatoes are expensive, as most of this standby is imported. Eggs sell at 35 to 60 cents a dozen. Apples are imported from Australia and Canada.

Pineapples, oranges and bananas are found on the table of nearly every household the year round. Then there are, among other varieties of seasonable fruit, the mango, guava, grenadilla and avacada pear. The pineapple, when picked ripe, is as soft as our pear. These native fruits sell at a reasonable figure. A hundred bananas can often be bought for six cents.

Hotel expenses are reasonable, $2 a day insuring good accommodation. In boarding houses, good board and lodging can be had at from $30 to $35 a month. Splendid furnished rooms can be rented at from $10 to $15 a month. Meals in popular priced restaurants cost 30 and 35 cents.

The sun rises from the Indian Ocean here and travels during the day on an almost straight course, shining on the south side of the street, the north side being partly shaded. For this reason the principal business street of Durban is roofed on the south side, as it is exposed to the sun from morning until sunset. The cold and warm winds also come from a different direction than those above the equator—the warm winds from the north and the cold winds from the south. Even the sun seems to rise in the west and set in the east.

Wages paid mechanics range from $3 to $4 a day of eight hours' work. Such employment as teamster, hod carrier, street laborer, 'longshoreman, and park worker is all done by Indians and natives. The native is paid from 25 to 50 cents a day, the latter figure being considered good wages, while the Indian works for 10 to 15 cents a day. Hotel work, waiting on tables, kitchen work, and even cooking, with a few exceptions, is done by blacks, chiefly Indians.

A white man "on his uppers" in Durban, or in any black center, for that part, is to be pitied. If he be a mechanic, his chances for work are none too good, and if he be an unskilled worker there is no chance for him at all, as blacks do all the work of that sort. The United States and Canada are the only countries—possibly Mexico, too—in which one can travel on railroad trains without paying fare or being put into a penitentiary. Walking on a railway track in Europe is a prison offense. So, taking that as one's cue, a man caught stealing a ride on a train might be tried for treason. As Durban is 7,000 miles from England, 4,500 miles from the Argentine, 6,000 miles from Australia and 5,000 from India, a fellow "broke" in the coast cities of South Africa is in a sorrowful plight. The cheapest steamship passage from South African ports to England is $80 to $100.

Labor unions exist in South Africa, and the members take an active part in politics. Not long since a spirited campaign was on for a seat in the Senate. One of the foremost business men of that country was a candidate for the office, and a union labor man, a locomotive engineer by trade, was the opposing candidate. The lines were tightly drawn between capital and labor in that senatorial contest. The "one-man-one-vote" clause has yet to be drafted into the constitution of the Union of South Africa. Only a citizen paying a certain amount of tax during the year is allowed to vote. On the other hand, a man holding much property, and this scattered about the country, can, as in England, vote in as many districts as his property is located. A wealthy man may cast half a dozen votes at an election, while the workingman taxpayer will not, as a rule, have more than one vote. The capitalist candidate for the Senate in this election had four votes to cast, while the railroad man had but one. A widely known man from the Transvaal was imported to Natal to do "heavy work" for the wealthy candidate, and prominent labor men from the Transvaal and the Cape of Good Hope Provinces were saying and doing all they could to make votes for their candidate.

"We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately," a labor campaigner was heard to say at one gathering, quoting Benjamin Franklin's cynical epigram. "Of the people, by the people, and for the people," Abraham Lincoln's immortal words, were also used during the campaign. But the speakers of both parties were tyros compared to the American brand of spellbinder. Election day came, and he who had plural votes cast them, and he who had one vote cast it. The result of an election is made known by a judge announcing the figures from the balcony of the Town Hall. "Hear, ye! Hear ye!" a voice was heard to command, the judge addressing the people assembled. The engineer had 36 more votes than his wealthy competitor, and was the third labor legislator elected to the South African Upper House.

Every mechanic has his "boy"—the bricklayer, carpenter, plumber, electrician, painter—to wait on him. One might be located in the black belt for years and not see a mechanic carry even a pair of overalls. A mechanic may be seen any time, when working, asking his "boy" to hand a tool that would not be two inches beyond his natural reach. A bricklayer becomes so painfully helpless that he will neither stoop nor reach for a brick; that is what his "boy" is for. The carpenter must saw boards, because the native cannot saw straight, but in every other respect he is just as helpless as the bricklayer. Clerks even have a "boy" to hand a pen or any other thing they might need in connection with their work. The only tradesman observed who did his work without the aid of a "boy" was the printer and linotype operator. And what applies to printers may be said of editors and others engaged in the printing trade. They really work in the old-fashioned way. Were one to take a spade in hand to prepare the garden for vegetables, merely that act of manual labor would be very apt to prove a bar to a further continuance of the respect of his European neighbors, and assuredly so by the natives and Indians.

The white man is always at his minimum energy where the black man is depended on to do the work. We need not go farther than our Southern States to learn that lesson.

Vasco da Gama, a Portuguese explorer, discovered the Province of Natal five years after Columbus set foot on the North American Continent. Da Gama's first visit to Natal was on Christmas Day in the year 1497. As Christmas Day is the natal day of the Savior, and as the word natal in the Spanish and Portuguese languages is used as is the word birth in the English language, this will explain the origin of the naming of Natal.

For more than three hundred years that section of South Africa remained as Da Gama found it before white men made a settlement among the Zulus. In 1824 a few Englishmen built temporary dwelling places on the shores of the Indian Ocean, more Englishmen joining them from time to time, until Durban has become one of the leading seaport cities of the African continent. The coast section of the Province of Natal is the only part of South Africa in which the Dutch were not the pioneers.

A great many humpback whales inhabit the Indian Ocean in the stretch of sea, nearly a thousand miles long, separating Durban from Capetown. Of late years whales have been hunted on a large scale, and each season finds a new whaling company in the field to share in the profits of this lucrative industry. Eight or ten factories, or stations, most of these located a few miles from Durban, are now engaged in utilizing the by-products of the whale.

Harpooning whales, or whaling—to use the general term—is engaged in at places separated by thousands of nautical miles, and, like other water industries, has its season. Whales, like wild fowl, migrate at certain seasons to some particular part of the great water expanse, and return again the succeeding year. By nature, this cetacean prefers a cold climate to a warm one. The season for their migration is at a different period to that of the wild fowl, for the "spouter" leaves the zone of the hot sun and swims great distances until he reaches cooler water. Sometimes it is from the North Atlantic to the South Atlantic or Indian Oceans, and at others from the Indian Ocean southeasterly to the South Pacific Ocean, the water of which is cooled by the icebergs of the South Pole section. Whales leaving the North Atlantic in early summer for the South Atlantic Ocean know it is cooler south of the equator than north of it.

Americans and Norwegians engaged early in the whaling business in the North Atlantic Ocean, and up to a few years ago American whaling ships made frequent visits to the South Atlantic and Indian Oceans in quest of the oil-producing leviathan. But it is to the Norwegian that credit must be given for building up the whaling industry in the Indian Ocean, thereby putting in circulation a large sum of money each season that, until recent years, had been overlooked.

From 600 to 800 of these monsters of the deep are harpooned and rendered into oil in the Durban factories in a season—from June to November, inclusive—the cool season in that part of the world. Thirty tons is the average weight of whales killed in the Indian Ocean. Those on exhibition in museums give one some idea of the size of a whale, yet the cured specimen is a poor substitute for one which had been "spouting" an hour before.

Whaling boats are little larger than a big tug-boat. The whaler is equipped with one mast, and twenty feet above the deck a long barrel is secured to this, in which one of the crew is stationed when hunting the great monster of the sea. The barrel is called the "crow's nest," and from here the "lookout" scans the ocean in every direction for the "spouting" mammoth. On the bow of the boat a cannon is secured, out of which a harpoon is shot into the whale. The harpoon looks like a small boat anchor. The length of the harpoon bar is four feet, and at one end are four hooks ten inches long. The hooks are attached to the bar by a spring, and, before being used, are bent down to the bar, and kept in this position by strong cord. Over the end of the bar fits a spear-pointed cap a foot long, and in this cap has been placed a dynamite bomb. Whales are shot within thirty yards of the boat—sometimes twenty feet. The cannon can be adjusted to any angle. When the spear-pointed cap enters the whale, the bomb explodes, snapping in two the cord with which the four hooks were tied to the bar, when the hooks spring outward—like an open umbrella—inside the whale.

The vital spot aimed at is the lungs. If the aim proves true, the large mammal falls a victim to the ugly weapon, and dies instantly. If the harpoon goes wide, the whale heads for the bottom. A long, strong rope is secured to one end of the harpoon bar, and the whale is given liberal latitude for his deluded effort to escape. Soon the rope slackens, when the whaler knows the "spouter" is coming to the surface to breathe. In the meantime, another harpoon has been placed in the cannon, and when the whale appears this one is shot into the crippled monster, putting an end to his fight for life. It sometimes occurs, however, that the whale breaks the rope fastened to the eye of the harpoon, when he escapes, carrying the treacherous weapon in his ponderous frame.

When dead, the great "catch" is drawn to the side of the boat by the rope secured to the harpoon. His tail flippers, which are from 10 to 12 feet long, are cut off, to allow of convenient handling of the cumbersome carcass. A chain is then put around his delimbed tail, the winches revolve, and, when his tail has been drawn up close to the bow of the boat, a start is made for the wharf, leaving behind a wake of red sea, discolored by the blood running out of his mouth and from the rent in his body where the harpoon entered.

At the wharf, the boat chain is loosened and the harpoon rope cut. A chain from the shore is next wound round his tail, a signal given the engineer to start the machinery, and the great cetacean is slowly drawn up a slipway out of the water. When drawn to the head of the slipway, the body continues moving on to a wide flat car, the railway track on which the car rests being sunk to a depth level with the top of the slipway. One flat car is not long enough to afford room for the huge wanderer of the deep, and a portion is drawn on to a second car. An engine backs down, is coupled to the "whale train," and a start made for the factory. The harpoon remains in the whale until the body is cut to pieces.

At the factory, the whale is drawn off the car on to the "dissecting" platform by another chain secured to the tail. Men, with long-handled knives, then make deep cuts—one in its back and another in the underpart—from the point of the jaw to the tail, and another deep cut the full length of the carcass. The spaces between these incisions are three feet at the underpart and from five to six feet on the back. This part of the process is called "flencing." At the point of the jaw a piece of flesh is cut until it is released from the bone, and a small hole is cut out of the released part. A kafir, bare-headed and bare-footed, brings a chain, and the hook of it is put through the hole made in the released end of flesh at the whale's jaw. A signal being given a man at the winches to start, the piece of released hide begins to peel from the jaw, then down to the shoulder, and further still. When the winches stop, a slab of hide 40 to 50 feet long, six feet wide, and six inches thick—from the point of the jaw to the whale's tail—is stretched out on the platform inside up. The skin from the back and sides of the whale peels off almost as smoothly as does the skin of a banana from that fruit. The skin at the underpart, however, does not peel so freely, requiring cutting of the flesh by the flencer in a similar way to that of severing threads when ripping a seam in a garment. The underpart of the hide is but three inches thick. These slabs or strips of flesh, of which six or seven are procured from a whale, is the blubber, and from the blubber comes the best grade of oil.

Kafirs, with long-handled knives, cut chunks—about 18 inches long and 12 inches wide—from the slabs, which are thrown into a hopper in which are revolving knives, these cutting the flesh into small pieces, which drop into elevator buckets, later emptying into boiling tanks located on a floor above. In these vats the oil is boiled out of the blubber.

The whalebone, located in the enormous mouth, is yet to be removed. The flesh to which the bone grows is cut with long, strong knives around the inside of the jaw. A point of the flesh is released, a chain hooked to it, the winches again start revolving, and the whalebone begins peeling off the inside of the mouth as freely as did the blubber off the back. Half of the whalebone still remains in the mouth, and this is removed in the same manner as the first half.

A great blood-red hulk is all that now remains of the whale. A chain is again wound about and secured to the tail of the carcass, the winches, for the last time, revolve, when the colossal frame is moved up an incline to a floor above the platform on which it was skinned. Then kafirs, with axes, begin cutting the hulk to pieces, which are thrown into rendering vats. Different parts of the body are thrown into different tanks, as certain portions of the flesh produce a better grade of oil than other parts. The only portion not boiled is the bone in the mouth. The blood is the only particle not utilized, and it would add proportionately to the whale's value were it shed on shore instead of in the sea. The flesh, after the oil has been boiled out, is sold to farmers for fertilizing purposes. Thirty to thirty-five men take part in disposing of a whale at the factory, and from four to five hours' time is required to get the carcass into the rendering vats.

From $700 to $800 is the value of a humpback to the manufacturer. The average quantity of oil rendered is 50 barrels, and a barrel of oil sells at $12 to $15. Most of the oil from the Durban factories is shipped to Glasgow, Scotland, the whalebone to Paris, France.

Some whalers say the food of a whale is small fish, while other authorities give it, owing to the gullet of some species of these cetaceans being but two and three inches wide, as very small, nutritious marine organisms, or insects, many not visible to the eye, called invertebrates. When feeding, the whale takes great mouthfuls of water, its whalebone serving as a strainer and repository in which the minute sea denizens lodge. The water is then forced out of the mouth, the food extricated from the meshes of the whalebone and advanced to the throat. The mouth is so well protected with this bone, which looks like a low, dense brush thicket, that nothing can enter the throat until it has proved palatable.

The whale breathes through two slits, 18 inches long, located on top of the head. Forty-five minutes is as long as the great mammal can remain under water without breathing; but when swimming fast it will be seen spouting at intervals of from five to seven minutes. The spouting is caused by the slits or air-holes being slightly under the surface. The tube through which air passes to the lungs is said to be three inches in diameter.

The color of the back and sides is black and the skin smooth. The underpart of the body and flippers is white, save for an occasional black speck and fine black lines—mottled. Flutes, four inches deep, corrugate the beast's underpart from tail to neck. In these grooves are to be seen a great many small barnacles, and on the neck and lower jaw barnacles grow as large as goose eggs.

From $8,000 to $10,000 is the value of a ton of whalebone from a "right" whale, 800 to 1,000 pounds of this elastic substance coming from the mouth. The bone grows in the form of strips, from 6 to 10 feet in length, and 6 to 12 inches in width. One end of a strip is fringed with fine, black hair-fiber, this part of the whale finding its way to the top of persons' heads, as out of it some "human-hair" wigs are made. A "right" whale, 10 to 15 feet longer than a humpback and in value equivalent to eight of the latter, is worth from $5,000 to $7,000, but of the hundreds killed in the Indian Ocean during a season not more than half a dozen of this specie will be among the number. The whalebone from the humpback is in little demand, growing but two feet long, and is of inferior quality. The bone in the mouth of the "right" whale calf—strips a foot long and tender—is of great value. These are shredded, the fine, soft fiber being made into artists' painting brushes.

The cow whale brings forth young each year, but triplets or even twins are unknown in the cetacean family. A calf first opens its eyes in the sea and soon finds its way to its mother's side, where, securely snuggled by a strong fin, it remains from three to six days. When able to "paddle its own canoe," the baby whale—a born swimmer—keeps close to its mother's side, either up to the surface to "blow," adding a tiny whitecap to the bounding main, or to accompany its maternal guardian to feed in salty pastures of the deep. A whale calf nurses like a colt. When a nursing cow whale is harpooned, whalers generally kill the calf also, as it would starve if left without its mother's nourishment.

At certain times of the year whales move in pairs—male and female. When a hunter meets a couple the female is first selected for slaughter; the sex is known by the cow being larger. The male whale will not desert his dead mate, and thus becomes an easy victim of the hunter's harpoon. On the other hand, if the male be shot, the female immediately takes flight.

A whale is 17 feet long when born. At three years of age it has attained a length of 30 feet, and during the succeeding eight or nine years reaches its full length—from 45 to 50 feet; so that it requires ten to twelve years to reach its maximum size. Old whalers are loth to hazard a statement concerning the natural lifetime of the cetacean.

CHAPTER III

Zululand was next visited. During the reign of their kings Zulus controlled their own internal affairs—made their own laws, apportioned the land, chastised their subjects, conferred with British officials concerning border line rules—were, in fact, in every sense, a distinct, unfettered race of people. Zululand was Zululand then. War after war, with gatling guns and modern fighting implements pitted against their mediæval arms—the assegai, or spear—naturally made the tribe submissive and wiped out their border line. So long as they had a king there was always danger of trouble from Zululand. Dinizulu, the last ruler, was taken prisoner, and was "boarded" in a Transvaal penitentiary until a few years ago, when he died. The border line between Natal and Zululand passed away, and the interests of the Zulus and the affairs of Zululand are now looked after and administered by officials of the Province of Natal.

The train, passing through cuts and grades, is half embowered with flowering trees, growing on the banks. The giant bamboo, in obedience to a summery wind, was gracefully swaying to and fro; the aloe, with its flowery top, sixteen feet above the ground, sentinel-like, contributed its share to the floral ensemble, and, together with an almost endless tract of soft, light green sugar-cane growing on each side of the railroad track, offered a mellow landscape found in but few parts of the world.

A depressing contrast to nature—the Indian coolie scourge—is witnessed at every stopping place in this part. We were in the sugar growing section of Natal, and, as mentioned previously, Indian coolies are employed entirely in this industry. There they were by hundreds, most of them of objectionable appearance, and a dirty, almost naked, baby astraddle every woman's hip, the Hindu mother's custom of carrying her child.

We reached the Tugela River, the border line between Natal and Zululand, and, thirty miles further, the train stopped at Ginginhlovu, our destination. Ginginhlovu (elephant, in Zulu) was 93 miles from where we started, and the train was seven hours running that distance, running to schedule, too. Indian shanty stores were pleasantly absent, as none but white traders are allowed to do business in Zululand.

The post cart is the stage coach of South Africa. Strongly built, it is covered with canvas, has two wide wheels and contains two seats. A seat will accommodate three persons in a pinch—the maximum capacity of the coach being five passengers and the driver—but as the latter usually takes up two-thirds of the front seat to handle the large team required to draw the coach, the ordinary capacity of the cart is four passengers, three occupying the rear and one the front seat. A frame at the back serves for luggage, and small hand baggage may be put under the seats. Four or six mules comprise a cart team, the charge being ten cents a mile.

We left the railroad, and our mode of travel into the interior of Zululand was by cart, wagon—a conveyance drawn by beasts. Five passengers, the maximum number, squeezed themselves into the cart. The next trip inland was on the following day, for which we would have to wait, the station-master had informed us, "unless there was a transport going to Eshowe." Eventually a transport—a truck 18 feet long—was found, the driver of which said he thought he had room for another passenger. The transport, ridged with bags of cornmeal five feet high, was drawn by four teams of mules.

"Climb on," said the driver to a group of six; "we'll be starting in a few minutes." Three women, two men and a boy began to scale the transport up to the top of the load. "Get up," said the driver to the mules, when a start was made for the interior of Zululand, the passengers sitting on the top tier of cornmeal bags of the loaded African transport.

We traveled slowly seventeen miles over a good macadam road. "That's the home of Dinizulu, the Zulu king," said the boy passenger, as we passed a frame building close to the road. We reached our destination just at sundown—Eshowe, the old capital of Zululand, and one of the prettiest places visited in South Africa.

Shade trees, flowers, comfortable homes built in spacious yards; small, but substantial, public buildings; a good library, a wooded glen just away from the town, in which had been built a splendid cement swimming pool, give an insight into what the old Zulu capital looks like now. The comfortable appearance of Eshowe has been made by the European. English and native weekly papers are printed here, and the quality of the work is good.

A European boy volunteered to show me about town. He had taken me to the swimming pool, and as we were passing through a timbered portion of this natural park he suddenly shouted, "Look out!" He then pointed to a big fly that had just passed between us. "If that fly had struck you the bitten part would swell up as large as a hen's egg. Often the effects of the bite will assume the nature of an ulcer," he added. A great number of flies in South Africa draw blood when they strike a victim, whether man or beast.

We had 35 miles more to travel before our last stop in Zululand would be reached. The post cart left at five o'clock in the morning, with four passengers, and was drawn by four mules. The road was level for the most part, with high grass growing on each side, broken only by an occasional giraffe thorn or mimosa tree. The mimosa was in flower, and so much fragrance was diffused from the thorn tree that one would know of its existence if it were not in sight a hundred feet away.

"Hello, Graham!" shouted one of the passengers to a white man who stood in the door of a building at which we had pulled up. We had reached N'Halini, the first relay, where we breakfasted. "Hello! everybody," returned Graham, for he proved to be the proprietor of the eating station. "I haven't any eggs to serve you this morning, but I'm strong on steak, ham and bacon. Bring out a big piece of steak to make up for the eggs," he directed one of his Zulu boys.

Graham is a sailor with a wooden leg. He entertained us by telling how many times he had been caught in the net fastened to the boom of a sailing ship—a "wind-jammer," as he termed that style of craft—and how, when encountering the fierce gales that blow in the Straits of Magellan, he had been blown entirely off his feet, his body being lifted in mid-air, his legs suggestive of ribbons, while holding to a deck rail.

"Did you get enough to eat?" he asked, when we had finished. And we admitted we had. Graham had two pigs eaten by crocodiles the day before, and he could not restrain himself from bemoaning his luck.

"So long, fellows! I'll have eggs for you when you come back. So long!" were the parting words of the onetime sailor, as, with an additional team of mules, we started on our second relay.

"Sit forward, please, while we are going up this seven-mile hill; the cart is tilting back too much," said the driver. We had five passengers now, as another one had got on at Graham's place. It's easier to say Graham's place than it is to try to pronounce the Zulu name.

On, on we traveled over those beautiful hills of Zululand, the passengers chatting as we moved along. Grassy hills, 500 feet high, bare of timber and even shrubbery, with native huts built on the sides, and small patches of corn growing here and there, proved of interest. Vultures were flying high up in the air, bevies of guinea fowl scurried to cover, and the wagtail, a black and white bird of swallow size, with a tail ten inches long, crossed the roadway from time to time. We had been told of the beauty of Zululand, and nothing had been exaggerated.

Grass—long and short—was growing everywhere, enough to feed millions of cattle, and not a "critter" grazing in sight. The Zulus, before and for some years after the white man settled in South Africa, were a wealthy tribe. Hundreds of thousands of cattle, sheep and goats roamed over and fed off these ever-grassy hills; but tick fever—East Coast fever, it is as often called—had fattened the vultures and made the Zulu poor.

We reached the second relay, then the third, but the beauty of landscape did not diminish. Our next relay will be the end of our stage journey—Melmoth—52 miles from the railroad.

"The stopping off place" is a term often heard, but when one reaches a point where there is no railroad and the terminus only of post carts, it is certainly the stopping off place. Europeans live in remote places still beyond Melmoth, and their mail is brought to them by native postmen on foot.