We
trekked gallantly for hours and hours, we pulled out of a swamp
at the first attempt; we even essayed a dreaded ford before we
outspanned. But we did not win our stake. Not till we had knocked
under, and outspanned once more did we struggle through. The lady
of the wagon waded barefoot to lighten it, she even helped to
coax a wheel up the further bank. At last we were saved from
relapse. But that night our travelers' joy flickered and faded.
We stuck grimly at a crossing; stuck at a mean little stream;
there we found odds against us, both rocks and also deep mire. So
we camped, leaving our wagon jammed in the stream's bed.

Now I would tell you about that night and the next morning. We
got the lady's mattress out of the wagon. She could not well
sleep on it, where it was. There were many midges and mosquitoes
about then, for March was the time of the year; so we made her
bed on some high ground, close but not too close to our camp-fire.
After supper we sat about the fire long, the branch-heaped
blaze was comfortable after our chilly paddling. The wisdom or
folly that we puffed and inhaled and toasted and sucked and
munched over the fire is the making of my story. It is its best
excuse for a yawning lack of plot.

Delia Moore, lady mission-worker, roasted monkey-nuts for us.
When they were at last ready, we all three munched at them. But
meanwhile Richard Anson and I smoked Shangaan tobacco, and Miss
Moore ate sweets out of a screw-topped bottle.

Anson spoke about the charms of Mashonaland. He had been
quartered in many parts of her those last ten years; his
admiration had been consistent, it had also stood the test of her
feverish dealings with him. He said that she was the only country
worth inhabiting in a cursed world, that she was God's own
country. Then I fanned his flame with my own home-sick talk. The
wind was blowing chillily north-westward that night on the other
side of our ant-hill shelter. A kindred wind was blowing just as
steadfastly in my own soul. I had had my contrarieties lately,
both of hard times and pastoral reverses; but, and that seemed to
matter more, I was beginning to feel my age, its untimely growth
as my work grew. Had I not done my share by now? I painted scenes
in south-eastern England for my private view frequently now,
scenes in cool greens and sober blues and restful grey scenes of
weald and down-land, of hop-garden and country rectory. Over this
last my fancy played and kindle