ve the Falala River, dreaming upon
an old, old tale. That tale was once full of mingled memories--
bitter-sweet. You may tell now, from the clear, tender look on the good
woman's face, that her thoughts are mainly pleasant ones. Time and she
have healed, or nearly healed, her once bruised heart. Jacoba's tale is
a simple one. Yet it has its romantic side. It is not widely known
even in Waterberg, and it may perhaps be worth the telling.

Jacoba Steyn's father was one of those sturdy emigrant Boers who crossed
the Vaal River towards 1837, defeated that terror of the north,
Moselikatse, and his fierce Matabele warriors, drove them beyond the
Limpopo, and took possession of the vast countries now known as the
Orange Free State and Transvaal. Jan Steyn was, until the verge of old
age, one of those restless frontier-men who are never content to settle
down entirely to the pastoral life of the average Dutch farmer. He was
a great hunter, and during the first ten years of his career beyond the
Vaal he found almost as much occupation as he needed within the
boundaries of the newly formed republic. But after that time elephants
began to grow scarce within the Transvaal, and the ivory-hunters had to
push their way farther afield. Moselikatse's country--which we now call
Matabeleland--was a sealed book for the Boers; the old Zulu lion seldom
allowed them to enter it, and then only on payment of an extortionate
tribute. Some of the hunters gradually thrust their way through
Zoutpansberg eastward into the low countries (rich in game, but terribly
feverish and unhealthy), towards Delagoa Bay; others gained permission
from the Bamangwato chief, Sekhomi, and followed the ivory into the wild
deserts towards Lake N'gami and the Zambesi. Among these last was to be
found Jan Steyn. Jan had settled, after the final defeat of Moselikatse
and his hordes, in that magnificent district of the western Transvaal
now known as Marico. He had had hard times during the war with the
Matabele, and had lost more than half his cattle. However, he consoled
himself by selecting a 6,000 acre farm of rich and well-watered land,
which he appropriately christened "_Beter laat dan Nooit_," ("Better
late than never"). His friend Jan Viljoen, the famous elephant-hunter,
was his nearest neighbour. Viljoen had named his farm "_Var Genoog_,"
("Far Enough"), not by any means a bad name for a trekking farmer who
had wandered in search of a home from the