mainyard to the helm and streamers flutter
from the mastheads. A monster bouquet of marigolds is mounted on the
bowsprit, branches of trees are stuck about in all possible situations,
and three or four large fishes hang from the bow, trailing their tails
in the water. With the exception of the man at the helm, who sits
stolid, minding his business, and one youth who plays the tom-tom, the
crew are standing in a ring, gesticulating with their arms and legs, or
waving wands and branches of trees. Some have half of their faces
smeared with red paint. If a boat passes they greet it with a shout and
a sally of wit or ribaldry. The other _muchwas_ follow close behind,
with every inch of white sail spread and all a-flutter with flags and
streamers: it would be difficult to imagine a prettier spectacle, and
the tom-toming and the happiness beaming on the faces of the crews are
almost infectious. One feels almost compelled to wave one's hat and cry,
"Hip, hip, hooray!"

The boats come to shore, and then there ought to be a tumbling out of
the silvery harvest and a gathering of women and a strife indescribable
of shrill tongues, and then a long procession of wives and daughters
trotting to market, each balancing a great, dripping basket on her
comely head, while the husbands and fathers go home to eat and sleep.
But there is none of that to-day. The silvery harvest may go to
destruction and the husbands and fathers can do without sleep for once.
The children are taken on board in all their finery, and friends join
and musicians with their instruments. Then all sails are spread again
and the boats start for a circuit round the harbour. The wind blows
fiercely from the north, and each buoyant _muchwa_ scuds along at a
fearful pace, heeling over until the rippling water fingers the edge of
the gunwale as if it were just getting ready to leap over and take
possession. But the hilarious Koli balances himself on the sloping
thwarts and jumps and sings and claps his hands, while the pipes screech
and the drums rattle. Twice, or three times, does the whole fleet go out
over the bar and wheel and return, each boat racing to be first, with no
more sense of danger than a porpoise at play.

At last they have had enough. The sails are furled and the boats
beached, the big fishes are taken down from the bows, and the whole
crowd, with their trophies and garlands, dance their way to the village.
There it is better that we leave them. To-night