ould at once sink
deeply into them.

A walk through the plantation, which extends over some square miles, is
very pleasant, as the palms spread their leaves across the avenues until
they nearly touch each other thus forming beautiful shady groves. Ferns
grow round the stems and the whole is extremely pretty and
cool-looking. Beyond the plantation is the cemetery for the whites. Each
grave is covered with bricks and has a wooden cross at the head on which
is inscribed the name and date of death. The age however, is omitted and
this is perhaps as well, for the Congo exacts a heavy toll of young
lives and new comers are often depressed already by the accounts of the
climate which have reached Europe.

Further on is a forest through which runs a narrow native tract. This
demonstrates well the extreme indolence of the native. If a small branch
of a tree falls across the path, he steps over it, if a large one, he
walks round it. Time is no object, so the length of the road is
immaterial. No attempt is made to form bridges, for the streams are not
deep and are easily fordable, nor even to break off the branches of
trees which obstruct the way. It is easier to stoop and pass beneath.
The forest paths have indeed been made simply by the pressure of bare
feet on the soil and undergrowth. A few monkeys and parrots chatter
overhead and an occasional pigeon coos, but the chief forms of animal
life here, are thousands of the most lovely butterflies. These are
coloured to suit the surroundings and are therefore usually of subdued
tints. Occasionally however, a great insect nearly as large as one's
hand, flies by exhibiting the most vivid greens, reds, and blues.
Bananas, rubber plants, palms and acacias crowd each other in the forest
through which we walk for three or four miles, until we reach a native
village consisting of a few square huts in a clearing. A handsome
looking fellow comes up to us, salutes and desires to know if we wish to
buy anything. Having neither mitakos, salt, nor cloth except the
pyjamas we are wearing, we cannot deal and leave the man wondering
probably--if the native ever does wonder--why we walked all that
distance if we did not require anything.

On August 8th we visit the Botanical Gardens at Eala, which is about
three miles from Coquilhatville. Mr. Pinard, the Director of the
Gardens, shows us the various plants indigenous and imported which he
has collected, and although the place has only been formed