On December, 15 we actually left Kano. Trials and tribulations had already been our share in more than generous measure, over the collection of animals for transport, to replace the carriers who had brought our belongings so far. The donkeys were difficult to obtain and wretchedly small, and the problem of tying up miscellaneous luggage into ‘loads’ was the hardest we had yet encountered.

It sounds so simple, but I have never met any single traveller in this country who, having once endured the ordeal—I can call it nothing else—of ‘animal transport,’ ever willingly repeated the experience! And indeed it is, or should be, apparent to the least observant that the caravan transport is one thing, and an Englishman’s luggage is another. I have watched hundreds of times the arrival of caravans at their camp for the night: the weight of the loads (salt, potash, kolas, cloth, etc.) is regulated to an ounce, each one is packed in exact similarity to its fellow in size and shape, so that the two form a perfectly equally balanced burden, which never slips, falls, nor worries the donkey; moreover, once packed, so they remain, the tremendous web of string, knotted and turned, twisted and knotted again, holds good for the entire journey. On arrival, the two loads are simply lifted off the donkey’s back, deposited on the ground and the leferu on which they rest, laid beside them. In the morning, the pillow is replaced, and the same loads laid on it—the whole process taking less than five minutes.

Now observe the unfortunate European traveller! He will naturally look round, as far as he can, for loads of an equal size, and, with luck, will discover a couple of similar uniform cases. But who can guarantee that the contents of each weigh exactly the same amount? Indeed, are there any two boxes among his ‘kit’ that do? With muscular carriers, six or even ten pounds more or less make little difference; here, it means that the heavier box over-balances the other, drags the pillow, and incites the donkey to quietly scrape against the nearest tree, relieving himself of the whole thing—small blame to him!—and the crash of falling loads is a sound only too familiar to any one who has travelled in this way.

The wayfarer next hunts round among his possessions, and wonders how he is to unite any two of a folding bath, a camp chair, a Lord’s lantern, a tent and an open box of cooking pots, into equal-sized and shaped loads. The answer may, and should be, arrived at without any of the mental strain usually devoted to it, for it is quite simple—it cannot be done!

The wretched little animals are small and weakly at the best, and, since even in the caravans, with short marches and the ‘perfect’ load, they acquire terrible sore backs, the employment of them with ill-balanced odd-shaped burdens is simply gross cruelty. I shudder now when I remember our donkeys’ backs, washed, dressed and cared for as they were, with the utmost tenderness. Another serious drawback is that they travel far more slowly than carriers; indeed, the caravans hardly ever do more than eight or ten miles a day, and the ‘trek ox’ proceeds even more leisurely! Unless each animal has its own driver, the accidents are incessant, and the delay maddening, for what can be done by the driver of five, when one donkey casts its loads and skips off into the bush? Is he to leave the remainder of his charge, knowing as he does, for a certainty, that those he leaves will immediately do likewise? Having captured the runaway, how is he, unaided, to get two awkward sixty-pound loads into their former position? It means that the traveller, his servants, escort and staff are all compelled to crawl at the rate of two-and-a-half miles an hour, with probably twenty miles to cover before water can be reached. Many and many a grilling half-hour have we both spent in this agreeable occupation; personally I preferred catching the donkeys, in spite of the heat, to adjusting my battered belongings on their shrinking backs! I can safely say we had more of our possessions lost and destroyed during our journey to Katāgum and back, than we have lost in the whole of our five years out in Africa!

On the return journey the pack oxen were our greatest trial; they had an inveterate habit of lying down, loads and all, in any shallow river they crossed, and once a pack ox lies down ‘all the king’s horses and all the king’s men’ will not move him an inch until he has recovered from his fatigue. One of our largest and best defeated us in this fashion in a village, and no method we could devise, including the whole strength of the village, and even, in despair, a flicker of fire just under his nose, had the slightest effect, the latter device merely producing a faint smell of scorch, so horrible in its suggestion that we flew to stamp it out, and hurriedly sold the delinquent to the villagers, who, seeing us at a distinct disadvantage in the matter, made an uncommonly good bargain for themselves!

By ten o’clock on December 15 we had begun to get an inkling of what lay before us; the whole of the donkeys had straggled out of the compound, we said our last good-byes and followed them—only to find most of the loads scattered on the road, not fifty yards away, and the donkeys careering gladly back to their happy homes! Patience, patience, and yet more patience! There is really nothing else for it—fury only exhausts one, and does not catch the donkeys!

Eventually we got off, and were fairly started on the long white road, trending south-east, winding in and out on a dead level, among miles of farms and hamlets. Barth has remarked that ‘the Province of Kano may truly be called the garden of Central Africa,’ and to us it appeared marvellously fertile, especially at that season of the year, when every river-bed was dry, and the whole land waterless, save for an occasional well.

One evening we had rather an interesting experience: among our party we numbered a ‘political agent,’ Ganna by name, and a strict Mahomedan, an interpreter called Daniel, a Christian convert with more zeal than tact or knowledge, and a Senegalese soldier, Braima, who had become a fast friend of mine, marching always beside my pony, and giving me his opinions on things in general, in his queerly pronounced French, while he contentedly munched away at my kola-nuts which I scrupulously shared with him. He had served with the French troops in Dahomey, and his stories of their proceedings were most amusing, if slightly startling! His affection for us became so strong that, before we severed our connexion, he cheerfully offered to desert from the N.N.R. for my benefit, on condition that I would install him as ‘head boy,’ and was quite mournful when shown the impracticability of his suggestion!

In an idle moment, these three men had embarked on a theological discussion, and, like their enlightened and highly civilized white brethren in England, got so heated and furious in their argument that Ganna only averted bloodshed by a happy suggestion that they should all come to us and let us arbitrate.

Daniel had first say. He commenced by a sweeping denunciation of all Mahomedans, and, incidentally, such dogs of heathen as Senegalese and such like. Their hearts and consciences were of the blackest, he informed us; and drew vivid pictures of their final fate and destination. On being sharply pulled up, and told to confine himself to his own creed, he unctuously explained as follows: ‘Well, God is a kind of a scorpion. When man do bad, he turn up him tail—so—and bite him proper! If man do good, then God just lef (leave) him!’ Ganna’s creed was too well known to us to require explaining at length, and the soldier added little to the discussion except furious indignation against Daniel for having stigmatized him as a dog and a heathen. His own ‘views’ were ill-defined, I fancy, except for a strong sense of personal loyalty and affection, and a fatal passion for a row of any kind!

We then set to work to place before them all Christianity pure and simple, untainted by creed or dogma, the plain doctrine of one God and Father of all, Christian and Mahomedan, black and white, and every living creature, whether known as ‘Allah’, ‘God,’ or ‘Le Bon Dieu.’ They seemed curiously astonished at such a pronouncement, Ganna receiving it with deep-voiced ‘Gaskia ne! Gaskia ne! Mahad Allah!’ (True, true, thank God!) Braima, staring into the fire and grunting, ‘C’est ça!’ at intervals; while Daniel sniffed suspiciously and with some contempt. He retired finally with his smug complacency quite unshaken, evidently considering our doctrines milk-and-water affairs compared with his own fiery ultimatums!

This little episode reminded my husband of another, which took place some years ago in Accra, when his ‘boy’, a Christian, having learned to read at school, delighted to read Bible stories aloud to the orderly, and on this occasion selected ‘Jonah and the Whale’ for his instruction. The orderly listened with round eyes and growing incredulity, and at the conclusion remarked emphatically: ‘That be dam lie!’ ‘Dam lie? You say that? Dis be Bible—if you say Bible be lie, you go hell one time!’ ‘Don’t care!’ said the orderly doggedly, ‘P’raps I go hell, I don’t know, but I no fit to believe that story—dam lie!’

The outraged little reader trotted off with his Bible under his arm, and wrath in his heart!

After a few days’ marching through rather uninteresting country, level, sandy and treeless, we climbed on to a sandy ridge which looked exactly as if it must have the sea behind it, and continued our way along the top for nine or ten miles, in deep sand, most fatiguing to men and ponies alike:

There was a wonderful view on either side, miles and miles of plain, all sand, low bushes and scanty grass—a veritable sea of grey-green fading into pale blue in the far distance. When the eye became accustomed to the vast sweep of green, one discovered innumerable tiny hamlets and farms, all neatly fenced, and growing healthy crops of cotton and cassava, apparently in pure sand. It was a remarkable sight, and seemed to be the very edge of the Desert. I could image it being brilliantly beautiful in the rainy season, but in December, with everything enveloped in a dismal hot grey-drab mist, the scene was depressing and gloomy to a degree. Far apart were isolated wells, some presenting quite a Biblical appearance, with the waiting herds and flocks, and white-robed figures.

As we entered the Katāgum Province, the country changed to light woodland, a great relief, and pleasant to march through, had it not been for the truly terrible thorns. The trees were mostly mimosa and camel-thorn in full blossom, the sickly-sweet scent of which is most unpleasant and powerful. The last march into Katāgum was like entering a new country, as rich and fertile as the last had been barren and dreary.

We arrived on Christmas Eve, and felt great satisfaction at not being obliged to spend Christmas Day on the road. The Acting Resident was waiting to welcome us, and we took possession of a ‘house’ of grass matting, built round an immense Kuka tree, the trunk of which formed one entire side. It was very spacious and really exceedingly comfortable but for the presence of some highly objectionable large black ants, the smell of which, should they be disturbed or crushed accidentally, was so truly awful as to drive us all—dogs included—out into the open air to recover! We had some really cold nights, when the temperature dropped to 54°, and regularly, each morning, a strong chilly wind would spring up about seven, and last till ten o’clock, when it sank away quite suddenly, and usually some extremely hot hours followed.

From our doorway we could look for miles around, over a plain of waving grass, dotted with palm trees, mainly the Egyptian Doum palm with its curious bifurcations. The town was about a mile from our settlement, and the river wound away to the south-west, bordered with brilliant green patches of wheat and onions. Game of all kinds was very plentiful at that time; we could always see the deer roaming fearlessly about, and, evening after evening, we used to ride out in different directions, and had capital sport.

My own small occupations were of quite a different nature from my usual hobbies; gardening at this season of the year was, of course, out of the question, but we had succeeded in conveying a few Black Minorca fowls from England, and they behaved splendidly, laying well all the time—even on the march, every day, we found one or two eggs in the basket! The care of a farm-yard was quite a novelty to me. I found it a fascinating occupation—one that grows upon one, too. We also revelled in rich milk, and every morning I amused myself by making butter in a small plunge churn, which I had brought with me. It was very excellent butter, and I was equally proud of my cream cheeses! But my efforts to manage cows, calves, and herdsmen after the manner of an English dairy, were a dismal failure, and I gave them up, submitting meekly, but much against my will, to the ‘custom of the country!’

The Katāgum people were specially pleasant to deal with: half Fulani, half Beri-beri,—a combination which seems to make for unusual intelligence, coupled with admirable spirit and innate courtesy. They made friends at once, and the Sariki and his immediate followers were my almost daily visitors. On one of these visits, with a sort of shy reproach he touched the skirt of my coloured linen frock, and asked gently why, when I came to his house to see him, I did not wear pretty clothes like that—his people only saw me in a black gown (my habit!) After that I had to sacrifice comfort to friendship, and be careful to ride into the town in my lightest muslin!

On another occasion, the Sariki explained to me that, as I had evidently been ‘sent’ to them as a special mark of favour, it was quite necessary for them to know my name;—what should they call me? ‘A man’s name,’ I remarked, ‘is given to him by his friends. Give me a name yourselves,’ After cogitating in whispers, the old man said, smiling, that they would in future know me as ‘Uwāmu’ (Our Mother), and so I received my ‘country’ name, one that has stuck to me ever since, and by which I am known to all my dark-skinned friends throughout Nigeria. I am always proud of it, for though, at the time, I felt inclined to smile at being so addressed by men old enough to be my father, the title is recognized to be the highest expression of respect and affection that the African man can offer to a woman.

We were presented with a pair of tame marabouts, but their tameness was a doubtful quantity; and though it was amusing enough to see them dancing and playing about in the sunshine, their temper was not of the best, and they attacked every one who approached the house, snapping their formidable beaks angrily. The poor dogs were in absolute terror of them, and would warily wait their opportunity outside, till the marabouts’ attention was distracted, when a white streak of fox-terrier would fly in, only just escaping the furious beating of wings and clapping of beaks! They were so tiresome that we parted with them, and replaced them by a baby ostrich, which we bought for a sovereign: a most attractive little person, about the size of a duck, a mere ball of soft, mouse-coloured fluff, with beautiful velvety black eyes, and long eyelashes! It had never occurred to me before, that ostriches had eyelashes! His diet consisted mainly of chopped-up onions and bran, though he fulfilled the traditions of his race—and alarmed me horribly—by swallowing all kinds of weird things. I have seen him devour with relish all the pieces of a broken glass bangle; and any odd bits of china, stone, or metal appeared to be equally tasty morsels. He became very tame at once, and would wander about freely, and sometimes stand beside me for an hour at a time, gently nipping at my sleeve or slippers.

Life in this rural retreat, however, did not last long, and the end of January found us under orders to return to Zungeru, and, very sadly, packing once more. We started, after infinite difficulty, as usual over transport, which delayed us so long eventually that the sun was uncomfortably high before we said our farewells and rode away from Katāgum. We had a guide to set us on the road to Murmur, a different route from that by which we had reached Katāgum, and he either misled us, or was ignorant himself, for, after his last asseveration of ‘Oh! it is quite near now!’ and subsequent departure, we marched for hours, losing the almost imperceptible path, finding it again, after collecting our straggling party—a matter of some difficulty—all thirsty, tired and grumbling, calling down Heaven’s vengeance on the perfidious guide, and eventually reached Murmur after sunset.

It was a curious coincidence that we found ourselves on the spot where Richard Oudney died, exactly eighty years before (January, 1824), striving, in spite of desperate illness, to reach Kano, in company with Clapperton. The latter describes the sad events—Oudney’s determination to make a further effort, insisting on resuming the journey, for which he was quite unfit, ministering to the needs of the natives with what was absolutely his last flicker of strength, then reluctantly giving up the impossible, ‘retiring into his tent’ and lying down to die. There, Clapperton buried his beloved friend, and we were deeply interested in the site of his resting-place. The village people were quite touchingly surprised and delighted when we repeated the story to them; it was obviously a familiar one. The Sariki’s father had been a boy at the time, but such a remarkable event was not likely to be forgotten, and they started, as one man, to conduct us to the grave. It may be remembered that Clapperton gives minute details of its position, which accorded exactly with the spot to which we were led, leaving no possible doubt of its accuracy. The ‘great tree’ had fallen, and the tomb, originally a massive erection of clay, had been worn down by rain to an insignificant mound, round which we planted a circle of seeds of the fragrant white acacia, or marengo, in the earnest hope that they might grow and stand, for many years, a memorial to the honour of that brave unselfish soul.

At Murmur, a grave difficulty presented itself. The people told us we were off the main road altogether, the wells were almost dry, and we could not hope to find enough water for our party and animals between there and Kano, save on the regular caravan road, joining which necessitated our turning north and marching to Hadeija, a large town twenty miles north of Katāgum. It was not a matter to be lightly decided, adding even twenty-five miles to a march as long as ours; yet, the responsibility of taking a large party of men and animals through a waterless district was one from which most people would shrink, so we assembled the whole party, explained the situation, and frankly consulted them. They unanimously voted for the extra march to Hadeija, knowing, I suppose, better than we did, the utter impossibility of obtaining sufficient food and water anywhere ‘off the line;’ and probably influenced by the fact that the carriers from Katāgum bolted in the night, giving as their reason for so doing their determination not to ‘die of thirst.’

The decision relieved us of an immense anxiety, and we started cheerfully for Hadeija, sleeping that night at a tiny hamlet, where we were met and welcomed by the Emir’s messengers.

The following morning we reached Hadeija, and the scene, on our approach to the town, was one that I shall never forget. There was the vast extent of rose-red wall, swarming with dark figures, the river flowing between us and the town, and, on the far bank,—a space of nearly half a mile—a dense mass of people watching with intense interest and expectancy. They stood, an absolutely silent, swaying crowd, as we picked our way down the steep bank, crossed the shallow river, and scrambled our ponies up the other side. There we saw a pathway in the crowd kept by troops—positively cavalry, four or five hundred of them,—drawn up in two double lines, rigid and motionless in their saddles, the horses loaded with jingling brass armour, heavy breast-plates and head-pieces, neighing, squealing and kicking, but forced to stand comparatively still, merely pawing the ground and tossing foam from their tortured mouths; stirrup touching stirrup with a military precision that would not have disgraced any regiment of British cavalry. The soldiers were fine big men, splendidly turned out, and sat like living statues, but for the bright, restless black eyes, between the folds of white cloth litham, following our every movement. I doubt, though, whether any one there could have been half as much interested in us, as I was myself at seeing this spectacle of truly barbaric African splendour, riding behind my husband, feeling very small, travel-stained and dusty, amid so much brilliance and colour! It seemed to take one back centuries in the world’s civilization, and, with a gasp, came the realization that we had stepped into a world where time had stood still, and the ages passed over without leaving a mark!

At the end of the long line of horsemen was a little group of the chief office-holders, surrounding their Emir, who, as we dismounted, approached to greet us. He was a large, powerfully-built man, with the kindliest of faces, and the gentlest voice I have ever heard; his quiet tones, almost a whisper, veiling an authority, the response to which, in its instant obedience and child-like submission, was quite startling.

His voluminous garments of brilliant green and white, and towering white rawani, or turban, were surmounted by a burnous of white cloth, the hood of which, edged with silk fringe, drawn over the tall head-dress and falling round his face, gave him a positively patriarchal expression of benevolence and kindliness. The courteous, dignified cordiality of our welcome was perfect, and, the ceremonial greetings over, we were escorted to the rest-camp prepared for us outside the city. Here, a regular little colony of grass houses had been built, large enough to accommodate a party twice the size of ours: water, wood and provisions were ready; not a comfort was lacking, not a detail had been overlooked. My friend, the Senegalese soldier, having, as he frankly said, no experience of such friendly visits while he served in the French army, harboured suspicions of an ambush and treachery, and displayed, at first, a fierce determination not to let us out of his sight;—suspicions which, however, were completely dissipated when he discovered the unbounded, lavish hospitality offered to him and his companions!

In the cool of the evening, we walked into the city, and were amazed at the solidity and immense size of the wall, the area inferior to Kano, but, in point of height and condition, greatly superior. The gateways were huge, and so cunningly arranged with rectangular approaches that no armed force could possibly rush them,—indeed, no more than three or four men at a time could cross the narrow bridges, and, were any attempt at defence being made inside these would probably not cross them alive. The gates themselves had been removed, in obedience to an order issued by my husband, while we were at Katāgum, and Hadeija, the impregnable, the unconquered, stood friendly, smiling, open to all approach,—surely a happy omen for the future for increased prosperity and uninterrupted progress, we thought,—a hope, alas! not destined to be fulfilled.

Inside the gate by which we entered was an extensive space of open ground and level turf, where the cattle were quietly grazing, and the people passing up and down; far away in the distance were the buildings, flushed in the sunset, overtopped by towering trees and clusters of feathery palms. It was a sore disappointment to have to turn away without exploring that unknown city, to turn my back on Hadeija, a mere passing traveller, knowing that the chances of my seeing it again were infinitesimal,—to me, it has always been the most poignant regret of these five years spent in Nigeria. I am thankful not to have known then, that so soon those peaceful streets would echo with war-cries, and bloodshed and death be dealt out with a just, though unsparing hand, for the sake of civilization and progress. I had just time to try to make a hurried pencil-sketch of the scene before me, and the gate. This, however, was rendered almost impossible by the friendly surging crowd, by that time assembled,—all longing to know what in the world I was doing, chattering, peeping, pressing forward—not mobbing, though—that delicate attention is reserved for highly civilized countries; in Africa it is ‘not done!’ So I gave up the attempt in amused despair, showed my pictures to as many of my new friends as I could reach, and shut up my sketch-book to take a last look at one of the most fascinating places of its kind that I have ever seen.

The next morning we were up early, teeth chattering, and shivering in the bitter chill of the winter dawn, in spite of a huge wood fire. The Emir had announced his intention of escorting us on our way, to a point seven miles from Hadeija, adding with emphasis, that, when the Sariki-n-Mussulmi passed through, he only accompanied him five miles! He clattered off, surrounded by his army of horsemen and an apparently unlimited crowd on foot, leaving us to digest the compliment, and drink our morning coffee over the fire.

We found them all assembled under a group of trees. As we dismounted, the horsemen formed up into a gigantic double circle, ourselves, the Emir, his head men, and a few of our own people in the centre. When the last farewells had been said, my husband asked that the Limam might offer prayers for our safe journey, and—perhaps—another meeting some day, a suggestion which evoked a deep murmur of satisfaction. The ‘cavalry’ dismounted and stood beside their horses, the Limam stood up, his towering white head-dress and earnest dark face turned to the morning sun, his solemn clear voice pouring out the prayer in sonorous Arabic, every word distinct in the great silence; thousands of heads and hands around followed every gesture, our own included, for, at that strange moment creeds seemed very far away, and the one Father of us all, to whom such earnest words were being addressed on our behalf, the sole reality. It was a sight, I suppose, such as few people have ever witnessed, and it made a very deep and lasting impression on us. I had a lump in my throat when, as I turned to mount my pony, the stately old Emir laid his slender brown hand, with a beautiful amber rosary twined among the fingers, on my arm, and said gently: ‘You will come back to us; surely God will send you back,’ And perhaps not the least remarkable incident was, when, as we turned our horses’ heads, our escort, those who had been most suspicious, most incredulous of our host’s good intentions, asked leave, to a man, to fall out and obtain the Limam’s blessing, kneeling humbly at his stirrup!

The whole circumstances of our visit to Hadeija, compared with the stormy events which took place there two years later, are illustrative of a point, we have frequently noticed, on hearing accounts of the peaceful journeys of missionaries and sportsmen, and of the perfect hospitality and friendliness they have found everywhere: that it is one thing to travel independently through the unknown parts of Africa, and quite another to administrate them successfully, introducing, of necessity, unpopular measures, and restraining undesirable existing customs. One acquaintance of ours, travelling about in search of sport, has wandered all through the Munshi country, where the natives have proved themselves aggressive and inimical to a degree towards any effort to establish law and order. This is a fact, I think, commonly overlooked by those who, with insufficient knowledge of the immense difficulties confronting a Government in territories such as these, are inclined to condemn wholesale and belittle the necessity of punitive expeditions and display of force.

From Hadeija our march was perfectly ‘plain sailing,’ The Emir’s messenger went before us and smoothed away every possible difficulty, only leaving us on the border of the Kano Province.

One incident of the road which stands out in my memory was the ludicrous struggles of our old cook, Jim Dow, to become an expert horseman, and to fully enjoy the privilege of having a horse to ride. He had bought an extremely tall horse, attracted more by its utter mildness of disposition than by any other remarkable point of suitability. Having saddled up his depressed-looking steed, he, being a dumpy little individual, under five feet in height, could not possibly mount without assistance. This he indignantly spurned, and would solemnly lead the horse, till he discovered a likely-looking tree. The horse was placed conveniently under it, and the little man clumsily and slowly climbed into the lower branches, from which he hoped to drop gracefully into the saddle. But the sad steed invariably strolled off in an absent-minded fashion at the critical moment, leaving poor Jim Dow hanging painfully from a branch, and using blistering language in ‘Kru’! I have seen this manœuvre repeated four or five times on a march, and he was a never-failing source of amusement to the whole party!

We reached Kano on Sunday, the 7th of February, having decided to sleep the night before at a tiny village a few miles out, as one of our ponies had broken loose and could not be re-captured until late in the afternoon. This small mishap was extremely fortunate for us, as a matter of fact, as we afterwards heard that at the very hour when, had we not been delayed, we should have ridden up to the Residency gate at Kano, a curious and unpleasant scene was taking place there.

A native soldier had been confined in the guard-room on account of insolence and insubordination. While there, he coolly possessed himself of a rifle and a pouch full of ammunition, and darted out of the guard-room, the bewildering suddenness of his action apparently paralysing the guard for the moment. He rushed out on to the parade ground, shrieking vengeance on all ‘Batures’ (Englishmen), calling to them to come and be shot, brandishing his rifle,—evidently quite insane and ‘running amok.’ Taking careful aim, he shot dead five horses tethered in the shade, belonging to his officers, and his shooting was so straight that most natural reluctance was displayed by his comrades in the matter of his re-capture. He actually sent a bullet through the doorway of the hospital hut, possibly seeing some one moving there. Finally the unfortunate lunatic was shot down, having been successfully ‘stalked’ from behind trees and other cover. It was a nasty occurrence, and much relief was expressed at our non-appearance at such an awkward moment.

On arrival we found every one very sad and anxious about Captain Abadie, who was lying very ill. He did not improve during the two days we spent there, and, shortly after leaving, we heard, to our sorrow, of his death,—a loss to Nigeria and his friends which could never be over-estimated.

At Zaria we met many old friends, but stayed one night only, as we were anxious to lose no time in getting down country. It was wretched there then, in a tent, with a strong Harmattan blowing clouds of sand into our eyes, filling every crevice, and covering our food before we had time to eat it, even with the greatest expediency!

At Karshi we had the good fortune to meet Captain Robinson and Major Porter, going North. We had tea with them at their camp, outside the town, and in the evening they came and dined with us, only stipulating that they should be allowed to contribute to the feast; and I shall always remember the procession that preceded the arrival of our guests,—‘boys’ carrying chairs, lanterns, Lager beer in buckets of cold water, roast guinea-fowls, and a box of chocolates! We had a most cheery dinner, and sat talking into the small hours, and even managed to breakfast all together the next morning before going our several ways. It is one of the pleasantest of my many pleasant memories in this country,—the spontaneous friendly kindness of two complete strangers, as they were then, coming at a time when most needed, for our spirits were almost as low as our provisions, and the bull-terrier pup had distemper! I do not suppose the two people concerned realized then, or do now, what a difference they made in our outlook on life at that time,—if not, I make them a present of the information now!

On the 28th of February, we found ourselves once more in Zungeru. A vacant bungalow was lent to us, and we spent a few days there very comfortably, in spite of the excessive heat. We heard with dismay of the terrible disaster in the Bassa country, where Captain O’Riordan and Mr. Burney lost their lives. My husband received orders to take over the Kabba Province once again, and we started on the last stage of our long journey. The noisy little train rattled us back to Barijuko; we embarked in a steel canoe, and commenced to paddle and drift down the Kaduna. The river was very low, and we stuck continually on the sandbanks, when the polers all turned out into the water, not more than seven or eight inches deep, and literally dug out the canoe till she was once more afloat. We were overtaken the next day by a second canoe, containing Captain Wright (who had won a V.C. in the Kano Expedition) invalided, home, and three others. Each evening we ‘tied up’ in company, and had cheerful ‘sand-bank’ dinner-parties. It was very placid and delightful travelling; I suppose we were both rather tired, and, for the first time in my life, I found huge enjoyment in doing absolutely nothing, beyond watching the river banks and sunlit water.

At Mureji there was quite a gathering, and—a thing unknown—a collection of five ladies! Dr. and Mrs. Thompstone were there, on their way to Zungeru, and three Nursing Sisters, travelling up and down. We met some old friends, and were quite a gay party, but it was a sad day for me,—my beloved baby ostrich was suddenly taken ill, wandering about as usual, on the bank, and, in spite of the greatest kindness shown me by Dr. Miller of the C.M.S., who was on board, the poor little bird died in a few hours. It seemed piteous indeed, when he had travelled so far without a single mishap, and I was bitterly grieved at the loss.

It was, however, a great delight, under any circumstances, to see the Niger again; as the Corona sped down stream, every bush and rock seemed familiar, and to be welcoming us ‘home’ to Lokoja. We settled down in our former bungalow, and, in a few weeks, I could hardly believe that we had travelled all those hundreds of miles in the past six months. The much-talked-of North country had considerably disappointed us in its appearance; and, with the exception of Kano and Hadeija, I think I can safely say that neither of us has the least desire to see any part of it again.