Why Cannot My Form Accompany The Bold Flights Of My Mind And Satisfy The Craving I Feel To Resolve The Vexed Question That Ever Rises To My Lips - "Is He Alive?" O Soul Of Mine, Be Patient, Thou Hast A Felicitous Tranquillity, Which Other Men Might Envy Thee!

Sufficient for the hour is the consciousness thou hast that thy mission is a holy one!

Onward, and be hopeful!

Monday, the 2nd of October, found us traversing the forest and plain that extends from the Ziwani to Manyara, which occupied us six and a half hours. The sun was intensely hot; but the mtundu and miombo trees grew at intervals, just enough to admit free growth to each tree, while the blended foliage formed a grateful shade. The path was clear and easy, the tamped and firm red soil offered no obstructions. The only provocation we suffered was from the attacks of the tsetse, or panga (sword) fly, which swarmed here. We knew we were approaching an extensive habitat of game, and we were constantly on the alert for any specimens that might be inhabiting these forests.

While we were striding onward, at the rate of nearly three miles an hour, the caravan I perceived sheered off from the road, resuming it about fifty yards ahead of something on the road, to which the attention of the men was directed. On coming up, I found the object to be the dead body of a man, who had fallen a victim to that fearful scourge of Africa, the small-pox. He was one of Oseto's gang of marauders, or guerillas, in the service of Mkasiwa of Unyanyembe, who were hunting these forests for the guerillas of Mirambo.

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