d of Lake Dilolo. It seemed, as
far as we could at this time discern, to be like a river a quarter of
a mile wide. It is abundantly supplied with fish and hippopotami; the
broad part, which we did not this time see, is about three miles wide,
and the lake is almost seven or eight long. If it be thought strange
that I did not go a few miles to see the broad part, which, according
to Katema, had never been visited by any of the traders, it must be
remembered that in consequence of fever I had eaten nothing for two
entire days, and, instead of sleep, the whole of the nights were
employed in incessant drinking of water, and I was now so glad to get on
in the journey and see some of my fellow fever-patients crawling along,
that I could not brook the delay, which astronomical observations
for accurately determining the geographical position of this most
interesting spot would have occasioned.

We observed among the people of Katema a love for singing-birds. One
pretty little songster, named "cabazo", a species of canary, is kept in
very neatly made cages, having traps on the top to entice its still free
companions. On asking why they kept them in confinement, "Because they
sing sweetly," was the answer. They feed them on the lotsa ('Pennisetum
typhoideum'), of which great quantities are cultivated as food for man,
and these canaries plague the gardeners here, very much in the same way
as our sparrows do at home.

I was pleased to hear the long-forgotten cry of alarm of the canaries
in the woods, and observed one warbling forth its song, and keeping in
motion from side to side, as these birds do in the cage. We saw also
tame pigeons; and the Barotse, who always take care to exalt Santuru,
reminded us that this chief had many doves, and kept canaries which had
reddish heads when the birds attained maturity. Those we now see have
the real canary color on the breast, with a tinge of green; the back,
yellowish green, with darker longitudinal bands meeting in the centre; a
narrow dark band passes from the bill over the eye and back to the bill
again.

The birds of song here set up quite a merry chorus in the mornings, and
abound most near the villages. Some sing as loudly as our thrushes, and
the king-hunter ('Halcyon Senegalensis') makes a clear whirring sound
like that of a whistle with a pea in it. During the heat of the day all
remain silent, and take their siesta in the shadiest parts of the
trees, but in the cool of the ev