hopped in, and then
cried like trapped birds when they found themselves in a corner. As
for the winged creatures, it was something wonderful the numbers in
which they flew in at the windows wherever a light attracted them.
I was busy writing English letters that evening: I declare the
cockroaches fairly drove me away from the table by the mad way in
which they flung themselves into my ink-bottle, whilst the smell of
singed moths at the other lamp was quite overpowering. Well, after
this came rain indeed--not rain according to English ideas, but a
tropical deluge, as many inches falling in a few hours as would fill
your rain-gauges for months. I believe my conduct was very absurd that
first rainy night. The little house had just been newly papered, and
as the ceiling was not one to inspire confidence, consisting as it did
merely of boards roughly joined together and painted white, through
which and through the tiles beyond the sky could be seen quite
plainly, I suffered the gravest doubts about the water getting in and
spoiling my pretty new paper. Accordingly, whenever any burst of rain
came heavier than its immediate predecessor, I jumped out of bed in a
perfect agony of mind, and roamed, candle in hand, all over the
house to see if I could not detect a leak anywhere. But the
unpromising-looking roof and ceiling stood the test bravely, and not a
drop of all that descending downpour found its way to my new walls.

By the way, I must describe the house to you, remarking, first of all,
that architecture, so far as my observation extends, is at its lowest
ebb in South Africa. I have not seen a single pretty building of any
sort or kind since I arrived, although in these small houses it would
be so easy to break by gable and porch the severe simplicity of the
unvarying straight line in which they are built. Whitewashed outer
walls with a zinc roof are not uncommon, and they make a bald and
hideous combination until kindly, luxuriant Nature has had time to
step in and cover up man's ugly handiwork with her festoons of roses
and passion-flowers. Most of the houses have, fortunately, red-tiled
roofs, which are not so ugly, and mine is among the number. It is so
squat and square, however, that, as our landlord happens to be
the chief baker of Maritzburg, it has been proposed to christen it
"Cottage Loaf," but this idea requires consideration on account of the
baker's feelings. In the mean time, it is known briefly as "Smith's,