Genre - Adventure. You are on the page - 27

ople were blessed and shriven by the tremblingpriests. Outside no bird flew, and there came no rustling fromthe woods, nor any of the homely sounds of Nature. All was still,and nothing moved, save only the great cloud which rolled up andonward, with fold on fold from the black horizon. To the west wasthe light summer sky, to the east this brooding cloud-bank,creeping ever slowly across, until the last thin blue gleam fadedaway and the whole vast sweep of the heavens was one great

s because of the flashing fence of bayonets.Lastly, in a mealie patch, he found the spot on which the corn grows thin, where King Cetewayo breathed his last, poisoned without a doubt, as he has known for many years. It is to be seen at the Kraal, ominously named Jazi or, translated into English, "Finished." The tragedy happened long ago, but even now the quiet-faced Zulu who told the tale, looking about him as he spoke, would not tell it all. "Yes, as a young man, I was there at

ishment to the luxuriant and deadly deserts of Western Africa, and to the dull and dreary half clearings of South America, it proved itself a charm, a talisman against ennui and despondency. Impossible even to open the pages without a vision starting into view; with out drawing a picture from the pinacothek of the brain; without reviving a host of memories and reminiscences which are not the common property of travellers, however widely they may have travelled. From my dull and commonplace and

And God ... divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament.... And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered into one place, and let the dry land appear.... And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas."Thus beautifully did the children of men express their earliest idea of the world's distribution of land and water. And where, on our modern maps, was this little earth, and what was

ll the world on his mountain-pile of history and romance. Longfellow, I believe, is not yet at the Oxbow, else the winged horse would neigh at him. But here in Lenox I should find our most truthful novelist [Miss Sedgwick], who has made the scenery and life of Berkshire all her own. On the hither side of Pittsfield sits Herman Melville, shaping out the gigantic conception of his 'White Whale,' while the gigantic shadow of Greylock looms upon him from his study window. Another bound of my flying