Budapest

Tuesday, September 1^st, 1925.

My awakening this morning was not quite as pleasant as usual, for I just had time to make the bath room before “putting the biscuits,” or as John just wrote in his diary: “Fortunately he had just made it, and they were going in the right place.” Believe me! I was one sick little pup for a few hours. I had a fever that made me feel as if I was going to burn up. I can’t decide whether it was due to the Hungarian goulash or their darn drinking water. But whichever it was doesn’t matter, for I’m through with both. After this only decent looking food, no matter how hungry I am, and only bottled water if I’m dying of thirst. I was too low to get out of bed in the morning, but was able to drag myself downstairs about two o’clock to have a little soup.

In spite of my fever, I joined John and Ed and a good, English speaking guide on a sight seeing trip. The guide had been in New York for a couple of years, and, believe me, he knew “his eggs” (another of John’s ex­pressions). We saw everything to see in Budapest, and we did some traveling. 

As I wrote yesterday, Budapest is in the mountains, so we were able to get several excellent views of it from different castles and forts. One of the most interesting things we visited was the Coronation Church, which is over 1,000 years old, and was in the hands of the Turks and used as a mosque for 145 years. 90 percent of the people in Hungaria are Catholics. Here at the Cathedral we met the Bishop of Hungaria, who wished us a pleasant journey.

The next place of interest was the Royal Hungarian Castle. This was extremely beautiful, but much more modern than some of the other castles we have seen. It, too, like the others, was filled with wonderful gifts of porcelain. One room, the marble ballroom, was very unique, and magnificent beyond description.

Probably the most important thing of the day to me was the House of Parliament. It is a colossal affair, and it seemed even larger after we had climbed to the top floor. Originally, there were two houses, Commons and Lords, but under the Republic the House of Lords has been done away with. Commons now consists of about 250 mem­bers, whereas it used to be a body of about double that number. One of the things that attracted my attention were the pieces of new leather on the backs of the seats. Our guide explained that, during the soviet regime, the leather had been used to make shoes.

The wealthy people here all want a king again, and our guide seemed to think that, eventually, Hungaria will be a monarchy. At present there is a sort of regent who acts as President. The money system is a dread­ful mess. Formerly the krona was worth 20 cents; that is, five to the dollar. Now 10,000 krona are worth about 14 or 15 cents. I mailed two letters and a few post cards yesterday, and it cost me 22,000. Our guide charged 350,000, and the taxi was 400,000. For $50.00 John got 3,500,000 kronas, or what would have been more than $500,000 before the war. It is a terrible nuisance trying to pay for things. They have no coins of any sort. Eventually, the system is going to be revised. 20,000 kronas will equal one gold krona, which our guide assured us would not be gold, but just a piece of nickel and absolutely valueless.

We did a lot more sight seeing, but it was more or less mediocre. Budapest is not by any means as pretty a city as Vienna. The shops have a cheaper class of stuff. The buildings are rather decrepit looking, and the whole place has a sort of forbidding atmosphere.

I felt about snuffed by dinner time, but dragged myself over to the Hitz Hotel for dinner to hear some Hungarian gypsy music. When they started off with “Tea for Two” from “No, No, Nanette,” I was a little disappointed. But they really were good, neverthe­less. After listening to a few tunes and having a good meal, we went back to our hotel and went to bed. Have been drinking only bottled water all day, and feel better. There is no anion here, and all the water is sort of fizzy, like the Vichy Father used to have, but I’ve made myself drink it.

Americans are quite a sight over here, and we’ve been pointed out several times. The whole Hungarian race seem sort of scrubby, short and unkempt. I must say I don’t care much for them.

Tomorrow we go back to Vienna by air plane. Ed is going by hydroplane in the A.M. and John and I on French line land plane in the afternoon.

Via Airplane from Budapest

Wednesday, September 2^nd, 1925. 

Undoubtedly today holds the most exciting, dan­gerous, and perhaps thrilling experience of the trip so far, if not of my life. Someone told me once that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I am beginning to think they were right.

The morning was rather uneventful. Ed left for Vienna before John and I were up, and by the time we had packed, had breakfast, and had made a few pur­chases, it was time to get the bus to the flying field, where we were to take a French Laurens plane for Vienna. On the way out I had a sort of premonition that something was going to happen. I started to tell John, and then thought: “Oh,well, what’s the use!  Nothing will happen, and then he’ll think I’m crazy. Besides, it would only make him nervous.”

Everything about the flying field was very un­prepossessing. The planes themselves looked safe enough, for I looked them over, but the way they had been neglected was rather disconcerting. Here and there bolts were missing, and the planes were covered with oil. When I saw one man filling the gasoline tank on top of a plane while smoking a pipe, I began to wonder if everything connected with this French line wasn’t just about as haphazardly carried out. John and I compared what we saw here with the German air lines, and there certainly was a great contrast.

After an hour’s wait, during which time one me­chanic discovered there wasn’t enough petrol in our plane to make Vienna and had to siphon some from another plane, we were ready to start. The inside of the plane was rather oily, but we managed to pick out dry places for our luggage.

The first part of the flight was rather interest­ing, as we were over mountains, and obtained wonderful views of the Danube. It is about 120 miles by air from Budapest to Vienna, and after about an hour’s ride, we had covered over 90 miles. We were flying at about 800 meters (2,400 feet approximately), when we ran into a rain storm. We started to climb at once, but it didn’t do much good. The bumps or air pockets became more violent and frequent. The plane was swaying from one side to another as puffs of wind hit her. The storm got worse and worse. The thunder was deafening, loud enough to drown the roar of the motor, and the lightning was crackling all about us. Just about this time John and I were beginning to think business was picking up. I turned around to look at the pilot to gain a little confidence. What I saw made me rather more uneasy. There he sat, looking about, waving his arms like all Frenchmen do, with a perfectly blank, inane expression. He looked more frightened than we were.

By this time the plane was being tossed about like a piece of paper in a whirlpool of dust. Suddenly we hit a gust of icy air. The plane turned on its side and dropped at least twenty or thirty feet. John and I were thrown completely out of our seats, and the luggage just missed crashing through the canvas of the ceiling. John and I were hanging on for dear life. It wasn’t hard to read John’s thoughts, for they were written allover his face. What I saw was this: “By golly! If I ever get down safely, you’ll never get me back up in one of these things again.” To me the whole thing was a great thrill. My stunt fly­ing with Al Williams was so much more tipsy that I really didn’t mind that part of it.

The only thing that worried me was the hopeless expression on the pilot’s face. We were still tear­ing along at more than a hundred miles an hour in a driving rain storm. It was impossible to find Vi­enna. Obviously, the pilot was lost, so we circled about to find the Danube. By now the main part of the storm was between us and Budapest. Our only chance was to beat the storm back to Budapest, as landing in Vienna, even if we could find it, would be almost impossible. This meant that we had to go through the storm once more. We climbed to about 1,800 or 1,900 meters (about l ¼ miles), and started through it again. Man, Oh Man! What a ride! We were just like a little fluttering humming bird tossed about by each little puff of wind. It was most ex­citing. The thunder was a roaring menace, and it was very dark, almost like night.

In a few minutes we were safely through the storm, and whizzing back to Budapest, with a 40 or 50 mile an hour wind back of us. John was still clutching the seat and top when we hit old Mother Earth, and believe me, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Something in the motor had busted, and oil had been spraying back at us for half an hour or more. Suitcases, hats, suits, shoes, coats– all, were covered with oil.

The manager at the flying field offered to send us to Vienna in a special plane in the morning whenever we desired to go, but John has had his fill of French planes, and decided that he preferred the train in the morning.

Now that it is all over, it doesn’t seem so bad, for we could have made a forced landing most anywhere, as there were hundreds of open fields, but I’ll tell you right now it gave me quite a thrill. We tele­graphed Ed that we would arrive tomorrow, and got a bus back to the hotel. By this time the storm had hit Budapest, and it was raining pitchforks. When we reached the hotel, we were wet, greasy, cold, and al­most starved, as we had no lunch. A good, hot dinner and a bath suited us both. Every once in a while I’d look up at John and smile, and he’d shake his head. Believe me, we both felt pretty thankful to be safe in Budapest. I’m sure of one thing: we’ve been through some tough experiences together, but none to beat this, and none that will remain as long imprinted on our memo­ries.

I have just read this over, and my account is very inadequate. You will have to go through the same ex­perience yourself to fully appreciate how we felt.

Vienna

Thursday, September 3^rd, 1925. 

Our train for Vienna left at 8:50 A.M. and we would have had a job making it if it hadn’t been for the efficient English-speaking guide that we had hired Tuesday to take us sightseeing. When John and I came down to pay our bill about 8 o’clock we discovered that the dumbbells hadn’t made it out yet. Besides our passports weren’t back from the police and the hotel porter had forgotten to get our tickets. That’s European service for you! However our guide knew his stuff and we had five minutes to spare after getting our tickets and luggage aboard the train.

The ride to Vienna was uneventful. The country looked very unfertile and the people reflected the poverty of the land. Everything was sort of tumbled down. One of the most peculiar things about Hungary is the military attitude all the people have. From the bootblack to the President is just one uniform after another. They all salute one another and, when we passed thru little stations on the way to Vienna the ticket agent, switchman and whole outfit were out on the platform standing at attention saluting the train as it passed by.

It seemed mighty nice to get back to Vienna. In my opinion Vienna is the most home like city we’ve been to in Europe. Ed was mighty relieved and glad to see us. We had tea and then did a few errands before taking a bath, repack­ing all our stuff and going to dinner. I have to laugh at Inez. She insisted on putting a pair of dark glasses in one of my suitcases. I took them out once but she put them back in again. I decided that as long as I’ve carried them this far I might as well take them the rest of the way. I will probably land in L. F. without ever having had them on.

We leave tonight for Venice. We were only able to get two sleepers to Villa where we must get off at 5:30 and change to a day coach that arrives in Venice at two-thirty in the afternoon. Ed goes on a later train that goes straight thru and arrives about the same time.

We got down to the station safely enough but then like a dumbbell I left my Bell & Howell in the taxi. Of course the man was gone before I missed it. Ed was just planning on staying over for a day and trying to recover it when the driver appeared with camera in hand. What a relief! We gave him a 10-shilling tip ($1.50) and he was delighted be­yond words. He certainly was an honest chap.

Much to my surprise the sleepers really look comfortable. But I guess I could sleep anywhere tonight as I only slept about three hours last night.

Venice

Friday, September 4^th, 1925. 

The porter called John and myself at 4:30A.M. as we were due in Villach at 5 o’clock and had to change trains there. It was pouring rain and I felt more like going on to Triest than getting up. We had about an hours wait for our connection during which time we managed to find a nice little lunch room where we bad some ham and eggs and hot coffee. The waiter being able to speak English, aid­ed matters considerably.

Much to my surprise the train which was to take us to Venice arrived on time and we were soon poking along thru the foothills of part of the Alps. The ride was per­fectly beautiful. It cleared up by ten o’clock which made it much pleasanter. The scenery was magnificent– snow­capped mountains, old castles and grand estates – all that sort of thing. I took a few movies which I hope turn out all right for it will “probably be a long time before I’ll take another ride thru the “Semmering Pass”.

Lunch was about what we expected to get in Italy– ­spaghetti and strong sauces. By this time we had left the mountains in the distance and were riding thru low flat country. Already it was much warmer, much to my pleasure. We arrived in Venice about 2:30, after a five mile ride over piling which reminded me of the Florida East coast to Key West.

My first impression was wrong this time. I thought Venice was going to be bad news. We were shoved into a gondola with al1 our luggage after fighting our way thru a line of beggars and porters all holding out their hats for tips. I had always heard about Venice and riding around in gondolas but I never had any conception of what it was really like. The gondola itself is quite a sea­going affair in spite of its being long and narrow and having a raised bow and stern. The larger ones like we had are propelled by two husky Italians who are forever shouting “Brrrr” which I guess must mean in Italian “get the hell out of the way.” I never saw anything like the way they handle those gondolas. I thought at least a dozen times we were going to crash into other boats. But they slip them in and out of the smallest holes that one can imagine.

The trip to the hotel took about 40 minutes and was chiefly down the main or Grand Canal which is a hundred or more feet wide. The second part of the trip was down a sort of alley or side canal about twelve feet wide. It was most interesting. Everyone travels about in gondolas because the 105 islands of which Venice is made up are only connected with one another by single bridges so that the canals run everywhere. Of course there are no motor oars at all– nor are there horses or bicycles. It is either gondola, motor boat or swim. The buildings from the canal looked sort of decrepit and moldy and the hotel at first sight didn’t look too hot. However, after a hot bath and clean clothes and learning that the Donelli Hotel where we were was the best hotel in Venice, we felt much better.

John and I went out to give the city the once over and were delighted, with the beautiful shops and the wonderful square of St. Marks of which I will write more later. We were on the way back to the hotel delightfully impressed and satisfied when who should I see coming toward me, but Barbara Wey, Baby Wey and a boy from New Haven– Gert Tuttle, 1925. It certainly was great to see them and I was so excited to see real honest to goodness friends. A minute later Bunny came strolling along and we all got together and made some plans. They are all stopping at the Brittania Hotel so went over there and met Mr. and Mrs. Wey. From there I went to the Hotel Europe to see if there was any news from Scytha but not a word. I saw the manager to see if by any chance Scytha had wired ahead for rooms. Later I thought how ridi­culous it was to bother him as if Scytha would think that far ahead. I left a note for her and discovered the wire I had sent her from Vienna also waiting for her. I then telephoned Padua where she was to stop before Venice but they had no word of her. I wou1d have telephoned a couple of cities further back on her itinerary but cou1dn’t for the life of me figure out Scytha’s writing. John and Ed were no help at all.

John, Ed and I had dinner at the hotel and met the Weys out in St. Marks Square where everyone goes for coffee. As it was cold and damp out we all went to the Donelli where we met Mr. and Mrs. Tingue, Lillian and Grace Tingue and a couple other people. We got up a couple of tables of bridge and played until about one o’clock. At this time I retired to my mosquito net covered bed to snatch off a little sleep as I had been up almost 24 hours straight.

Venice

Saturday, September 5^th, 1925. 

The clock was well around before we got up and had breakfast. The Weys had told me to be sure to be in St. Marks square at 12 o’clock as it was quite a sight to see all the pigeons fly when the canon went off. I took my movie camera with me and took a lot of pictures of John and Ed feeding the pigeons. They certainly are tame. A couple flew right up on Ed’s fingers and ate corn out of the palm of his hand. At twelve o’ clock when the cannon was shot off all, the pigeons circled about the square. I never saw so many in my life. The sky was literally darkened with them.            

There is a lot to see in Venice so started in right away. We hired a guide and visited the Doges or Ducal Palace which was built about 1300. In it we found many interesting pictures but most of them were copies the originals being in Rome, Dresden or Florence. Two rooms one for the council of ten and another for the council of three attracted my attention. I’ve read so many novels about wars in Venice and detective stories supposed to deal with these two councils so that I was very interested. There was a little secret post box where anyone could put in a note condemning a political enemy and he would then be brought before the councils for trial. In the next building to the Doges palace is the prison. This is cut off by a canal and the famous “Bridge of Sighs” is the only means of con­nection except for the regular pedestrian bridge. The Palace contains some dreary looking dungeons that must have been filthy holes at one time. From an artistic standpoint Tintoretto’s “Paradise” and Sansovino’s statues are the most important.

We had intended to go out to the Lido for a swim but we found so much to do in Venice that we had to abandon the plan.

Venice is perfectly delightful. The weather is per­fect and the climate in general sort of like Florida. There are wonderful shops and all the people seem to be there to enjoy themselves. Everyone sits around and drinks or floats about in gondolas. The Lido is a separate island where the Excelsior Hotel — the best in Venice — is lo­cated as well as the beach where everyone goes swimming. Unlike the other islands it is rather large and is apart from the main center of Venice so that it takes a motor boat about twenty minutes to reach it.

The Weys had planned a party at the Lido for tonight and we were all invited. There were Barbie and Baby Wey, the two Tingue girls, Tuttle a boy from New Haven, Bunny, John and self. Ed didn’t care to go. We all had dinner at the Danieli and went over to the Lido about ten o’clock. It was the most attractive place and was decorated like the desert in Arabia. Between every dance there was a sort of professional programme. At twelve o’clock we all went up­stairs to a big dinner. Bunny certainly made a fizzle of managing things and John and I were embarrassed to say the least. However it all came out all right in the end. Sud­denly I heard “Hello Fritz” and turned around to see Mary Baker dancing with some distinguished looking man. I would have cut in except for the fact that it is never done over here.

We caught the 2:15 boat back to Venice and felt pretty well snuffed when we got to bed. Barbie had with her a little vanity case I gave her years ago. I had to laugh. I’ll have to admit though that it certainly was good looking and showed excellent taste. (Cy — oh Cy me bie – what time is it?)

Venice

Sunday, September 6^th, 1925. 

Got up late this morning and John and I went out to the Lido to meet the Weys who left earlier. (In writing this diary I’ve gotten all mixed up. I wrote Monday before Sun­day so that I won’t repeat my impressions of the Lido here as they are on Monday’s diary. As today is September 18th you see I’m rather far behind. However, I’ve merely omitted a couple of days in Venice. All the rest is up-to-date.)

We had lunch at the Lido– and a mighty poor one it was. The only decent food the Italians have is spaghetti and one gets tired of that after a bit. I took a lot of movies of Barbie, Bunny, John and the rest and then we all went swimming. Needless to say, the water was great. We all left the beach about five in order to get back to Venice in time for a gondola fete. I took some movies of it but the Whole thing wasn’t so awfully interesting. I just about busted half of one of my front teeth off while trying to fix Barbie’s victrola; (a slight exaggeration, I might add).  John, Ed and I had dinner by ourselves and met the Weys in St. Marks Square for some coffee afterwards. Ed went to hear some crazy modern Italian music, John went to bed, and Barbie, Bunny and self talked until all hours.

It is rather unusual to see no automobiles, horses or bicycles. It is either take a gondola or walk and the lat­ter is such a round about way that the gondola is really quite essential.

Venice

Monday, September 7^th, 1925.

In spite of our late party last night. We were through breakfast and ready to begin our sight-seeing by ten o’clock. All there is to see in Venice from an architectural or ar­tistic standpoint is 1ocated or rather centered about St. Marks Square. It is impossible to remember everything that one sees and I shall only attempt to put down those things which impressed me the most. San Marco obviously is the best thing in Venice. The present building was constructed in the 11th century on the site of the former church which burned in 976. Here the remains of St. Mark are buried under the high altar. Above the portal are the celebrated bronze horses made during the reign of Nero which Constan­tine carried from Rome to Constantinople and later they were brought to Venice in 1205. In the church we saw many wonderful Venetian mosaics. There are two chief mosaics in Italy— sectile– which are the Florentine mosaics, where the marble pieces fit perfectly and the cement cannot be seen. The Venetian mosaics are tessellated mosaics. That is the pieces are in 1ittle cubes and the cement can be seen on all sides. Venetian mosaics are also made of colored glass and in my opinion do not compare with the beautiful Florentine work.

Inside the cathedral we saw the famous jeweled door which was worth 130,000,000 lires before the war. It is made of gold and there are 5,000 precious stones of all sizes and varieties in it. During the war it was taken to Rome but has since been brought back here. The other famous thing we saw were the bronze doors of Sansvieno. He and Ghibertti did the two best doors in Italy, Ghibertti’s be­ing in Florence.

The Campanile opposite the church is 322 feet high and is a famous square brick tower. Near it is the winged lion of St. Mark and the statue of St. Theodore. It is just impossible to describe it all.

After our general sight seeing we went to the glass factory to see them make glass. It is wonderful in one way and yet I was disappointed. All the stuff has been imitated in the States so much that it all looked cheap to me. I know Venetian glass is supposed to be known the world over, yet I don’t think it is anywhere near as attractive as some of the other things we’ve seen. I took a lot of movies of pigeons and after calling at Cooks and the American Express we went back to the Danieli for lunch.

In the afternoon John and Ed decided to see a little more of Venice but I joined the Weys and went out to the Lido for a swim. It certainly is an attractive beach and the water was slick — just as warm and salty as one could desire. But, believe me, you haven’t seen any bathing costumes or suits until you’ve been to the Lido. Nearly everyone wears pyjamas about as loud as you can imagine. None of the men wear any tops and the women wear one piece/silk suits without any little flap or skirt about the waist. Several girls took off their bathing suits entirely and just sat on the beach with a big towel wrapped around their waist, leaving their, arms and shoulders bare. At first I must say I was a little surprised. I took my loud silk wrapper out never thinking I’d have nerve enough to wear it but it was so inconspicuous here that no one even noticed it. I took some more movies which I do hope will turn out well.

 The Weys were going on another dinner party so I went back to the Danieli where I met an old Yale graduate, a fel­low from Pittsburgh– A. A. Ritchie, an architect and couple of other chaps. We had a cocktail at the bar and then I joined Ed and John for dinner.

About ten o’clock we hired a gondola and went out on the water to hear the, serenade. If I could only describe it. Beyond all doubt it was the most heavenly thing I’ve ever experienced. About a quarter of a mile, or less even, out from St. Marks Square, a boat lighted with Japanese lanterns was anchored and in it were a dozen or fifteen opera singers. The gondolas all group around the boat containing the singers and the only music beside the singing is the rippling of the water about the gondola. The gondola itself is so construct­ that there are two very comfortable soft seats. We sat there in the warm night breeze with the full moon just rising and not more than a hundred yards away we could hear these beau­tiful voices singing the best music from Tosca, Carmen, Madame Butterfly, etc. Besides being heaven on earth it was the most romantic place I’ve ever been. From the shores of Venice one could at intervals see sky rockets and colored lights and what with the serenade, full moon, humming or shouting of the gondoliers it was positively and absolutely divine.

We listened until about 12 when the serenade was over and then went back to the Danieli to bed.

Venice to Florence

Tuesday, September 8^th, 1925. 

We spent most of the morning packing and paying hotel bills. When we went out about twelve o’clock to make a few purchases, of course all the stores were closed. Everything, banks, American Express, shops, all close from twelve until two or half-past two. Bunny Wey came over to the hotel and made one last, desperate effort to get me to stay over in Venice for a few days, and meet John in Genoa, but I decided to go on to Florence. I went over to the Britania Hotel and said goodbye to the whole Wey family, then went back to the Donelli and had lunch.

1:30 found us in a gondola, baggage and all, on our way to the station. In one way I hated leaving Venice. It is so peaceful and comfortable. There is no hustle and bustle of automobiles, only the gondoliers yelling “Burr – i”- and “A- ay,” to warn their fellow workers that they are approaching. We made our way to the station through a very narrow and twisted canal, which fi­nally opened into the Grand Canal. I made a few movies for the sun was just right, and it seemed like a unique sight to me.

Arriving at the Station, the gondolier asked us for fifty liras, which was ridiculous. We gave him thirty­ five, and amidst a splutter of admonitions, left him to console himself. About a dozen old Italians held out their hats as we passed them. It makes me more angry than charitable when people act like that. If they did something for you, it would be different, but they just hang around to fish Americans. Believe me, they haven’t grown rich off me. We intended to check some of our luggage, but the hotel porter at the station said it would be much cheaper to take it in the compartment with us, which we proceeded to do. Shortly after we had entirely filled the racks with baggage and sunk sheepishly into three of the eight seats, the other five occupants of the compartment made their appearance. They did not seem overjoyed at our having taken up every bit of space with our luggage. Then followed a general squabble, so typi­cal of Europe: three of us speaking English, two German, one French, and the other two Italian. After five min­utes of shouting, gesticulating, and swearing at one another, we rearranged the bags so that all eight of us were cramped into place.

By this time, it was plain to observe that we had taken the wrong compartment. As the trip continued, I grew more certain of the fact, and by the time we reached Florence, I was about ready to either murder one young brat of five or commit suicide. Right across from us was a woman of about thirty with a five year old boy, who beyond any doubt was the liveliest, strongest, most rambunctious child I’ve ever seen. Before we had been going three minutes, he was pulling our neckties, yank­ing Ed’s hair, and wiping his dirty feet all over our trousers. Ed started to play with him, and that cooked our goose. The mother was most incompetent, and was a nervous wreck herself. She spoke very poor English, but we were able to figure out that she was going to Rome, and didn’t have the slightest idea where she was to change trains or any thing. Then she hauled out one ticket and a little tin box full of ashes. She ex­plained that the maid at her hotel had burned up one of the tickets, and a match box full of ashes was all she had to show for it. I almost died laughing. Just imagine taking a few ashes on one of the trains in the States to show for your ticket. Well, miracles never cease. She got away with it.

The child had become even bolder. After climbing back and forth from the window to his mother about a hundred times, he stood up in my lap and pulled all our coats and hats down from the racks above. Seeing that the woman was so helpless, Ed volunteered to go with her to the third class compartment to find the governess.

The child now having no maternal restraint whatever, burst forth with more enthusiasm. Our hats served as footballs for the next entertainment. Well! John and I had our hands full. The little kid then proceeded to climb up into the rack himself, and played leapfrog over our heads. I’ve never seen a child like him in my life.

We didn’t get any seats in the diner until the fourth sitting, about 8:45, so we were just about fam­ished. Whether it was due to the condition of our stomachs or to good food, I don’t know, but the dinner was excellent. When we got back to the compartment, the other passengers were all stretched out and sleeping, like so many cattle. The man from California with whom John had had some harsh words earlier in the evening, became quite friendly, and told me his life history, which wasn’t half so interesting to me as it was to him. Of this fact he didn’t seem to be aware.

The journey was through the mountains, and we al­most suffocated from the smoke in the tunnels. I stood in the hall until we reached Florence (one and one-half hours late) at 12:30. Went right to the Grand Hotel, where we found fairly nice rooms, and sank into bed, ex­hausted.

Florence

Wednesday, September 9^th, 1925. 

After breakfast, our first stop was at the Ameri­can Express, where we hoped to relieve the mail conges­tion. I found a long letter from Father waiting for me, along with a couple of others. I was planning on sending my movie films ahead to Madrid, where I thought they could be developed, and waiting for me, but the manager of the American Express here said it would take two or three weeks to get them to Spain. John and I sent some cables, and made arrangements to do a little sight seeing in the afternoon.

Florence is full of shops with pictures, statues, women’s clothes, and marble inlaid table tops. The streets are very narrow and winding, and not altogether interesting. The city itself lies between two long ranges of the Apennines. The Arno River cuts Florence into two unequal parts. The river is spanned by the famous Ponte Vecchio bridge (rebuilt in 1362), with its double line of shops.

Lunch we had at the hotel, and by 2:30 we were climb­ing in a carriage, which was to take us on our sight see­ing expedition.

Florence is especially rich in every line of art, and one could spend months here without seeing every­thing. We more or less skated through places, but we saw and learned a great deal in so short a time.

Our first stop was at the Church of San Lorenzo, which contains the famous Medici chapel. I feel like Scytha when every day I write, “the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” but the Medici chapel is not only terribly impressive, but also perfectly glorious. This chapel was begun in 1604 by Fernando I, with the inten­tion that it was to enshrine the Holy Sepulcher, which the Grand Duke hoped to acquire, but the scheme failed, so it was later turned into a burial chapel for the Grand Dukes. Beneath the floor lies Giovanni delle Bande Nere, ancestor of the younger branch of the Medici, and around him lie all of his race from Cosmo I (d.1502) to Gian Gastone, the last to rule (d.1737). All are buried with their crowns, as no Medici deigned to wear that of his predecessor. The chapel is octagonal in form, surmounted by a dome, the walls being entirely incrusted with marbles, and mosaics in stone. Over four million dollars was lavished by the Medici on the construction and embellishment of the rooms. This description is a little detailed for a diary, but I know Father was interested in the Medici family.

Everything in Florence is Medici: Medici this and Medici that. I am enclosing a postcard of the chapel that absolutely fails to show the beauty of the room. Just imagine all the marble different, brilliant colors, floor as well as walls.

In this church we also saw “Day” and “Night” and “The Thinker,” by Michelangelo. He was not only a wonderful sculptor, but also a great painter and architect. His figures are more lifelike than any I’ve seen previously.

The Church of Santa Croce is the “Westminster Abbey” of Florence. It contains the tombs of Michel­angelo, Galileo, Rossini, and many others. There is an unoccupied tomb of Dante, whose body is in Ravenna, which city claims it as he went there after being out­lawed from Florence.

We next visited the factory where marble mosaics are made. I’m completely won over. Never in my life have I seen anything so beautiful or so fascinating. I know I shall never leave Florence without making a few purchases. And when I say “few” I mean it, for even over here these mosaics are very dear. One piece about two feet square was the single product of the work of a year and a half.

A drive around the Vaile dei Colle and a visit to the Church of San Miniato (11th century) finished our sight seeing for the day. The Church of San Miniato was interesting from the point of view that, with its raised choir and crypt visible from the nave, it repre­sents the rare Tuscan Romanesque.

John and I then looked through a display of leather goods. We saw marvelous desk sets, pocket books, slip­pers, etc. I’m planning on returning in the morning to pick up a few odd pieces.

We had dinner at the hotel and spent the evening writing up our diaries.

We plan to go on to Genoa Friday morning, the 11th of September, spend one day there, then three in Nice, and from there motor to Cannes and Monte Carlo. From Nice to Madrid, which trip must be made in three breaks,– ­to Marseilles, Barcelona, and then Madrid. Took a little stroll with John, and went to bed early. I haven’t re­covered from the nervous exhaustion of being ten hours in the same compartment with that kid yesterday.

Florence

Thursday, September 10^th, 1925. 

We left the American Express at 9:30 A.M. on another sight seeing excursion.

The Cathedral was the first building to be hon­ored with our presence. From the outside it was rather imposing, but the inside was rather bare and empty. At the far end mass was in full swing, so we walked down to see it.  Of all the chanting and jibbering this takes the cake. First four or five men sang, or rather mum­bled incoherent verses and then another bunch relieved them. Two choirboys had incense burning in a sort of lamp, which they swung over their heads. It really was too dumb to describe.

There were three other American tourists in our party, and of all the simple jackasses! John and I could have killed them. They asked fifty thousand ques­tions, and then told our guide all about the paintings in Rome, forgetting that he himself was an artist, and had studied paintings for ten or twelve years. Our guide, too, was pretty well fed up with them before the end of the morning. The crisis came when one of the simple women said: “Oh dear, no! We don’t want to go to Pisa; the leaning tower might fall on us.”

Outside the Cathedral we saw Giotto’s Campanile, which is supposed to be the finest building in Italy. It is a tower, very high; and narrow at the base. It was comple­ted over 600 years ago, and has never been retouched. I was greatly surprised at this for it is in excellent con­dition. Outside the baptistery, which was the original Cathedral of Florence, built about 400 A.D., we saw the famous bronze doors of Ghiberti, which Michelangelo said were fit to be the “gates to Paradise.”

We then saw the Church of Or San Michele, Dante’s House, Piazza delIa Signoria. Loggia dei Lanzi, Fountain of Neptune, and Palazzo Vecchio. The greater part of the morning we spent at the two great galleries, the Uffizi Gallery and the Pitti Palace. The pictures they contain are beyond description. One could spend a month in each gallery. It is just one room full of Raphael’s work, another full of Leonardo da Vinci’s, another of Titian’s, etc. I was so impressed that I bought a book called “The Art of Florence,” and have gone to work to really learn something about paintings.

We finished our trip about noon, and had lunch at the hotel. We spent until three o’clock repacking our suit cases. We are shipping all but one bag apiece direct to Rome, and are going to do Spain and Northern Africa on a minimum amount of clothes.

Just about this time I had a telephone message from Scytha. She says her eyes are bothering her, and wants me to come to Venice. She appears to be in trouble. I guess I’ll have to go back there, and meet John and Ed at Nice.

John and I made some purchases, and then went back to the American Express. You can say what you want, but the American Express is right there. They certainly are efficient, polite, and helpful.

Florence has the most beautiful things. I could spend a fortune here in no time. I saw a wonderful mo­saic cabinet for five hundred. I almost wired Father to ask him if I could get it. It had about fifty drawers, and four or five trick ones. The whole cabinet itself was a work of art. The Florentine mosaics are in marble and are much more beautiful than the glass mosaics of the Venetians.

The tooled leather goods here are beyond description. I saw the most beautiful leather desk sets of nine or ten pieces for about $30.00, but one can’t buy everything.

It was seven o’clock before we got back to the hotel. The American Express were able to get me a sleeper for Venice, and had my ticket and all when I called back there. I leave at ll:25 tonight, and get to Venice in the morning at 6:50. We had dinner at the hotel, and I’m determined to get today written up before I leave. (So far, so good.)

I forgot to put in an amusing incident of the other day. John said, “What day is today?” and I said, “The 8th.” “No,” said John, “it is the 9th.” On looking in his diary, he discovered that he had written up a whole day in Venice that we never spent. I’ve been kidding him ever since. There are lots of funny little things that one forgets. John and Ed have had some pretty hot words at times, but I usually act as peacemaker, and save the situation.

As yet, we have not heard finally from Lord Reading. Clydesdale is to wire us as soon as he gets the news. Traveling over here is hard work. There are practically no through trains, and sleepers only from and to impor­tant cities. I insist on day travel.

Will add the rest of tonight on tomorrow’s diary, if anything turns up. What I’ve written for today sounds poor, but I don’t feel in the mood for writing tonight.

Venice

Friday, September 11^th, 1925. 

On arriving at the station last night, I discov­ered that my sleeping car companion was a Mr.Accurli, a representative for the Italian Bank in China. He spoke English, so had quite a chat with him before go­ing to bed. He has just returned to Italy from China by way of Siberia and Russia. It took twenty days, and much to my surprise he said the trip, outside of being tedious, was not at all uncomfortable. He ad­vised my going to Peking and Canton instead of Hong Kong and Shanghai, for he said the latter cities had rather a foreign atmosphere. 

The train arrived at Venice about 6:15, and I was met by Scytha. I had wired that I would meet her at the Britania Hotel, so had not looked forward to seeing her so soon. We went to the hotel in a gondola and had breakfast; then made an appointment to see an oculist about her eye. I took a lot of movies of the pigeons in St. Mark’s Square, and of Marcia and Scytha feeding them. We had lunch at the Danieli, then went to the American Express, where we arranged financial matters. It seemed that a loan to both Marcia and Alvin was necessary in order for them to get back to the States. The oculist said the irritation of Scytha’s eye was caused by dirt and dust under the eyelid, which he thoroughly washed. I guess he was right, for her eye is ever so much better now.

We all went out to the Lido for a swim. The sun was out, and it was as warm and nice as could be. The’ water was perfect, and it was great fun in the surf.

The whole Wey family was on the beach, so spent an hour or so gossiping. They were rather surprised to see me again. We all took the 5:30 boat back to Venice, as I had to stop at the American Express to get our tickets for tomorrow. Scytha has decided to go to Nice with me and from there back to Paris.

Bunny, Al and I sampled a few drinks at the Danieli and then met Scytha and Marcia, and had a late dinner. We had intended playing bridge, but it was our last night in Venice, so in spite of the cold, we all huddled into a gondola and went to listen to the serenade. Needless to say, it was perfect. I just adored every minute of it. When we got back to the Britania, we said goodbye to the Weys, and I made arrangements for breakfast in the morning. We have to leave the hotel about 7:30 to catch our train for Florence. To go to Nice, one must go by way of Milan or Florence. There isn’t a great deal of difference. Milan is just a little quicker, but I had a ticket from Florence to Nice, so it seemed better to go that way, for I can’t turn the ticket in.

Venice to Florence

Saturday, September 12^th, 1925. 

There was rather a hustle and bustle to get to the station on time, but everything worked out all right. I have to laugh at the suitcase Scytha has. It is just a little cardboard over night bag, and the whole top is completely off. It had to be tied up like a bundle. She left her trunk, and just about all her clothes, in Paris, and I can’t say that I blame her, for carting luggage around over here is a real job.

The train ride to Florence was boring and unevent­ful, and the second-class compartments were jammed. I offered my seat to a lady after about fifteen minutes, during which time I hoped she would find a seat somewhere else.   When she refused it, I thought she was mad be­cause I hadn’t offered it to her sooner, but discovered later that very few women accept seats from men. Evi­dently they feel just as capable of standing up as the male sex. 

We reached Florence about six p.m. and went to the Italy Hotel, where we got rooms and left our luggage. Al had some presents to buy, and Scytha wanted to make a few purchases, so went out shopping before getting dressed for dinner. The shops in Florence are cer­tainly attractive, and we saw many beautiful things.

We had dinner at the hotel and then played bridge for an hour or so. Scytha was not exactly in form, and on a bid of two or three spades managed to make four tricks. But then we were all worn out and so de­cided to call it a day. Our train leaves at 7:10 in the morning, so left a call for 5:45 A.M.

Pisa—Genoa

Sunday, September 13^th, 1925. 

Really, there is a lot I’d like to write that I am leaving out, but it seems prudent as well as tactful to make the account of these few days short and to the point. I am sure it is easy for anyone to imagine what it means to get up, pack one’s bag, pay a hotel bill, and get to a station for a 7:10 train. Well! We made it.

The porter at the hotel told us that the 7:10 was a through train to Genoa. We were supposed to arrive there at 2:10 P.M., and get a 4:10 train out that would land us at Nice about 11:30 P.M. I had telegraphed to John to reserve rooms, and we were all set for a long day’s ride. On the way to Pisa, Marcia asked one of the travelers in our car if the train went right through to Genoa, or if we had to change at Pisa. As this con­versation was in Italian, I wasn’t able to understand a word, but Marcia assured us that we stayed right on the same car. When we got to Pisa, we all craned our heads out of the car window to see the leaning tower, but were quite unsuccessful.

We stayed in Pisa only a few minutes. About ten minutes out of Pisa, the conductor came along and told us we should have changed at Pisa for Genoa, and that the train we were on went in an entirely different direction. I was a little irritated because Marcia seems to give the impression that she understands Italian perfectly. As a matter of fact, her Italian is not much better than her French, and that isn’t saying a great deal. We got off at the next station, and eleven o’clock found us back in Pisa. Of course we had missed our connec­tion for Genoa, so had a three hour wait in Pisa. That meant that we would miss our connection at Genoa, so I wired John that we would spend the night in Genoa and go on to Nice the following day.

Our time in Pisa was well spent. We had lunch and then went to see the leaning tower. It is really un­believable how it stands up at all. There is a circu­lar staircase going to the top, so Scytha and I climbed up. It gives you the same sensation as being on a boat in a rough sea. Right about the leaning tower is all there is of architectural or artistic interest in Pisa. We visited the Cathedral, the Baptistery, and the Campo Santo. The last was particularly inter­esting, as it contained many frescoes by Gozzoli, a pupil of Giotto and Orcagna. All the soil in the court yard was brought in shiploads from Jerusalem.

On the way back to the station we had some good ice cream. Arriving at the station, we got our luggage, which we had checked in the morning. Then began the fight of our lives. The train when it pulled into the station was simply jammed. We were just able to get our ­bags aboard. Seats, of course, were out of the question, and it was some time before we got one in the first class compartment, for Marcia and Scytha, who were squeezed in together. Al and I went back to the second class. It was so crowded that we couldn’t even sit down on suitcases in the hallway, but had to stand up. It’ll be easy for anyone who has taken a Seventh Avenue Express in New York at Times Square about five P.M. to imagine what we went through. Even at that, people on the Ex­press trains aren’t trying to pass you every three sec­onds. I was so flattened out against the wall when we reached Genoa that I felt like a pancake. It was 2:30 P.M. when we left Pisa, and we didn’t arrive at Genoa until six P.M. What Bob Pirie says is pretty true: “When you leave the United States to travel in Europe, you might just as well say goodbye to comfort and ser­vice until you get back.”

By the time we reached Genoa, I had about as much faith in Marcia’s Italian as I had in my own, so I pro­ceeded to find an English speaking wap. I got one finally, and we doped out the train for Nice. It. seemed the best plan to spend the night in Genoa, and take a 7:30 train for Nice in the morning, where we ought to arrive at 2:30 Tuesday afternoon.

We took our luggage to the Wiramare Hotel, where we secured excellent rooms with baths, which we all needed.

Genoa seems like a beautiful little city to me– not exactly little, for it is the second largest in Italy. It is located in rather mountainous country, and all the buildings are white or yellow with red roofs. Scytha and Al condemn it as the worst place in Italy because the art galleries aren’t very good. However, in spite of what they say, what I saw of it was very attractive.

We had a splendid dinner after a famous Rolls­ Royce cocktail of Marcia’s. After dinner I met the Tingue girls. I was standing watching (Ahem!) some people play with a roulette wheel, when I heard: “Why, there is Fritz!” On turning round, I saw Grace and Lillian, two very attractive girls I had met in Venice. They said the Weys had expected to arrive today, so I telephoned their hotel only to find they had just gone out. By this time it was after ten, and as we had to get up at six o’clock in the morning, we decided to call it a day. Left word to have the bill made out in order to pay it the first thing in the morning. Left calls and orders for breakfast for 6:30.

Genoa—Nice—Monte Carlo

Monday, September 14^th, 1925.

It was 6:25 when I heard Scytha knocking at the door. The porter had forgotten to call us. Alvin was for continuing his sleep and taking the noon train, but we finally agreed to make an attempt to catch the early train. . Breakfast was late, the bill wasn’t made out, Marcia didn’t have any money, etc. It was all a terrific mess, but where there’s a will, there’s a way, and we were comfortably seated in the train at 7:30 when it left the station. 

The ride from Genoa to Nice took about seven hours, and was through very mountainous country, but it was perfectly beautiful. We reached Ventimiglia, the Italian and French border, about noon. We had an hour’s wait for the train to Nice, so had lunch at the station. Then we were all lined up like so many cattle to go through the customs. My bag was the largest and best looking, so, of course, they decided to investigate it. One look at Scytha’s excuse for a suitcase was enough to convince any customs officer there was nothing of value in it ex­cept the green evening gown that stuck out on all four sides and wiped up the platform and floor of every sta­tion. The fool inspector hauled all my things out. At first he insisted that I pay duty on the victrola records and victrola, which I absolutely refused to do as I didn’t have to pay any duty on them when I came into France before. I was yelling at him in French for all I was worth, and I really think I was getting the better of the argument when the interpreter walked up and settled the matter. I paid no duty.

The ride to Nice took about an hour and a half, and it was certainly great. There were hundreds of tunnels, but the scenery was magnificent. The coun­try, that is, the topography, was much like that be­tween Bandon and Gold Beach, except that the Mediterranean was infinitely bluer, and more fascinating than the Pa­cific~ It was a gorgeous day, too, and all things com­bined to make it simply perfect.

John and Ed were waiting for us at the station, and had rooms reserved for us at the Ruhl. The Majestic, where I had wired John, is closed. This is the dead season at Nice; why, I don’t know, for it is as pretty and warm here as any place I’ve ever been. After de­positing our luggage in luxurious rooms, we went out to see the stores. Al and I bought new hats, which we needed badly.

At the American Express I found a wire from Dad about Johnny. If I hadn’t seen Scytha at Venice, I wouldn’t have heard a word until now, for neither of the wires to Prague or Venice reached me. I had ex­pected a lot of mail, but a letter from Barbie was all I found. However, Father cables that he has written to Madrid and Florence, which letters I am looking for­ward to receiving.

We engaged a car to drive us all to Monte Carlo, where we decided to have dinner and visit the Casino. It takes about an hour to motor there from Nice, so that, when Marcia didn’t show up by seven P.M., we de­cided to go on without her. It was pouring rain, but we had a nice limousine, and the ride was not only de­lightful from a scenic standpoint, but also rather thrilling, for the roads were slippery, narrow, and winding. I don’t believe I have ever seen a more attractive district than that around Nice. It is really quite mountainous, and the road winds around each little cave about two or three hundred feet above the Mediterranean. The twinkling of the lights of each little village nestled in the valleys is per­fectly fascinating. As our guidebook says, “The Riviera is a synonym for beauty.”

Monte Carlo is not a part of France, but belongs to the Principality of Monaco and Monte Carlo. We were all having a delicious dinner, and wondering what could have happened to Marcia, when in she walked. She arrived at the hotel in Nice just after we had left, and not wishing to miss anything, hired a car and drove over after us. There was a fine orchestra, so Scytha and I decided to give everyone a treat. We danced alone on the floor for about three minutes be­fore we were joined by another couple, who looked to us to be professionals. When the music stopped, we slunk back to our table like a couple of dogs with their tails between their legs.

The Casino is just what I expected it to be, rather large, with a lot of gambling tables. We all decided to limit our losses, and started in. When the evening was over, we were all behind except Mar­cia, who, contrary to my opinion, insisted that she came out about a dollar to the good. A couple of times she grabbed John’s and Scytha’s chips, and claimed them as her own. Oh well! It was rather interesting to watch the people. A lot of them had pencils and paper, and took down the dope after each play. One man had a secretary with him, and played a regular sys­tem. John watched him for a time, and said he won about four out of every six times.

By twelve o’clock we were on our way back to Nice, all of us a, little poorer than we came but ever so much wiser. Believe me, they aren’t giving money away over here any more than they are anywhere else. I think I have had one of life’s lessons drilled into me pretty thoroughly by this time — It is very seldom that you get something for nothing.

We were all rather tired, so the ride back to Nice was quiet, but it didn’t seem long for the motor trip was most enjoyable. I don’t think I could ever tire of the scenery around here.

Marseilles

Tuesday, September 15^th, 1925. 

There seems to be considerable doubt about our being able to get a boat from Gibraltar to Oran or Algiers. This Riff warfare has played havoc with all the regular sailings. We shall probably have to come back to Marseilles to get a boat. However, the’ Ameri­can Express is looking it up for us, and we shall know what the dope is by the time we reach Madrid. 

It was magnificent when I awoke this morning, just as warm and nice as could be, and a beautiful, clear day. After breakfast, John, Scytha and I went to the beach, which is right across the street, and had a great swim. The water was perfect, and as clear and blue as a crys­tal. The beach itself, or rather the rocks on the shore, reminded me of the stones in Lake Michigan, only here they are much worse; there was no sand at all. The bathing suits were even more abbreviated than the kind one sees at the Lido. Here the women as well as the men wear no tops. There were several girls lying on the beach with their bathing suits rolled down to their waist. The bathing costumes are one piece, with no flap at all around the waist. Modesty is certainly not at home over here. However, John and I enjoyed the swim immensely! 

Our train for Marseilles left at twelve, so had just time enough to go back to the hotel, collect our baggage, say goodbye to Marcia, Scytha, and Al, and make the train. We left them without any worries. Yester­day Ed got their tickets and sleepers to Paris, so they ought not to have any trouble. Scytha and Al came down to see us off. As there was no diner, Ed secured some lunches, and I some French books to read in order to im­prove my vocabulary.

The first part of the trip from Nice to Marseilles was along the Riviera, and was perfectly beautiful. When we reached, Cannes, I got out and looked about the station. I could almost imagine Avery walking up and down the platform.

We spent the afternoon reading, writing, and sleep­ing.

Arriving at the station at Marseilles, we checked our luggage and went to the American Express office. We met the Manager, who gave us a guide, and sent us on an hour’s sight seeing trip.     

Marseilles is the largest port in France, and a number of the large lines, like the P. and O., have their chief offices here. The harbor is quite large, and the scenery all around is heavenly. It is rough, rugged, and very mountainous, and the Mediterranean is the most magnificent blue imaginable. The only blue that compares with it is the color of the water in Crater Lake, Oregon. We drove all around the edge of the harbor, and saw many attractive swimming pavilions, and residences.

One of the most imposing sights was the cathedral, which is built on top of a very high and steep hill. Its tall cross can be seen from all parts of the city, and from far out at sea.

Marseilles is supposed to have a population of 700,000, but our guide said that nearly a million peo­ple live here now. From an architectural standpoint, the most important building is the Museum, which is sup­posed to be the best Renaissance building in all of Europe.

But to me the most interesting thing about the whole city was the chateau or prison on the Isle of D’If from which the Count of Monte Cristo is supposed to have es­caped. It is no longer used as a prison but stands, like a gruesome, dead thing in the middle of the harbor. Its walls are dark gray, and there is a sort of hopeless atmosphere about it.

We arrived back at the railroad station just in time to get dinner, and catch the train for Nimes, where we were to spend the night. It takes only a little over two hours to go from Marseilles to Nimes, and we had the choice of going on tonight, or getting up two hours ear­lier in the morning –about 5:30– so chose the former. We played bridge all the way, so the time passed quickly.

When we reached Nimes, we went to the Luxemburg Ho­tel, which was none too hot in spite of its being the best hotel in the city. Some scrambled eggs and coffee tasted mighty good, and we all crawled into bed very soon after our repast. This traveling in Europe is darn hard work, especially as we do, for we have only a limited amount of time for each city, and are continu­ally on the go.

Nimes—Port Bon

Wednesday, September 16^th, 1925. 

Ed got up at the break of dawn to visit some ru­ins in Nimes before our train left, but John and I were so worn out, we decided to sleep until 7:30 instead. We bought first class tickets all through Spain, as everyone says the railroads are pretty tough outfits.

The trip from Nimes to Port Bon, the Spanish ­French border, took from 8:30 until 2:30, and the scenery was not particularly interesting. There were miles and miles of vineyards. I’ve never seen so many Concord grapes. When we stopped at one sta­tion, John and I tried to buy some, and the man said they didn’t have any for sale. Can you beat that? Here, all around us, for miles, there was nothing but grapes, and the station agent had only pears and peaches.

In some places it was hard to imagine how any­thing could grow, for a great part of the ground was nothing but sand. It was more hilly than mountain­ous, and the climate seemed quite a bit hotter as we neared Port Bon.

At Port Bon we had to go through the customs, which wasn’t very difficult this time. We had an hour and a half to wait before our train left for Barcelona, so after leaving our passports at the police department, and getting some francs changed to pesetas, we went out to see the city. It was a very dirty looking place. Banana peels, paper, boxes, and all sorts of rubbish littered the narrow streets. The people, too, looked filthy, and they all seemed to be loafing around, doing nothing. John and I tried a lemonade, but found it much too bitter to drink.  

We saw Cook’s man, who telegraphed ahead to Bar­celona to try to get sleepers for us to Madrid. A number of soldiers or policemen went through the train before we left Port Bon. I think, on account of the Riff warfare, they are doubly cautious. They seemed to be looking for guns.

As soon as the train started, John, Ed, and I went back to have tea, and on returning found that a big Spanish woman had flopped herself into one of our seats. The scenery was nothing extra, and the train too jiggly to write, so we played some more bridge.

On arriving at Barcelona at 7:30, which was really 8: 30 Paris time, we were met by Cook’s man, who handed us our sleeper tickets and gave us our tickets for first sitting on the diner to Madrid. The customs people stopped us and would have gone through our stuff again, if Cook’s man hadn’t told them where to get off. Believe me! One thing you learn traveling over here is to let Cook’s or the American Express make your arrangements. They certainly are efficient. They meet you at the train, buy your tickets, check your baggage, etc. They are a perfect godsend, especially if you can’t understand the language of the country you are traveling in.

The sleepers are excellent, and look very comfortable. We had dinner as soon as the train left Barcelona, and went to bed right afterward. We are due at Madrid at 9:30 in the morning.

Madrid

Thursday, September 17^th, 1925. 

Arrived Madrid on time this morning and went right to the Palace Hotel to get a shave, bath and breakfast. Oh, boy, this climate suits me–about 80° and as bright and nice as can be– not a cloud in the sky.

One can see at a glance that Madrid is more or less of a modern city. The streets are very wide and the buildings all white and new. It looks just like I expect South American cities look. The rooms at the hotel are very nice but not at all cheap. There was a letter from Father wait­ing for me at Cook’s and then we all went over to the Eastman place to see a bout my movie films. They had a pro­jector so saw the film I took in London. It is quite good for a first film and if the others are improvements I’ll be quite satisfied. I left three or four to be finished and will have them Saturday night.

All the stores here do not open until 10:00 A.M. Then they do business until 12 or 1 and shut up again until 4:00 o’clock. They stay open from 4 until 8 or 8:30. No one eats dinner until 10:00 o’clock.

The real experience of the day was the bull fight. We heard this morning that there was to be one so bought some good seats and by four o’clock we were driving out to the arena. We passed hundreds of people all rushing to the fight – just the sort of crowd one bumps into going to a big league baseball game in the States. I really felt quite excited for it was such a new experience. The arena from the outside was a round modern stone structure made of red granite.

Our seats were in the very first row raised about five feet above the field and protected from the bull by a con­crete wall and a wooden barrier which were low enough to easily see over. The inside of the arena was of course cir­cular and much smaller than I expected in spite of the fact that it holds 22,000 people. It was not long before the arena was quite crowded with people and a bugle sounded the opening of the performance. There was sort of a parade around the arena of all the matadors and other officials. The crowd cheered just as they would for the start of a Yankee-Sox baseball game.

Bull fighting originated as a means of training men for war. It helped them to be quick, brave and proficient in the use of martial weapons. At first, about 1500, it was an extremely dangerous business and as many as twelve men were killed in one fight. Since then it has been changed so that the present form of sport is much safer for the matadore and more cruel for the beast. There are two ways to fight bulls- from horseback and afoot. Each fight consists of three separate parts and at the beginning and ending of each phase a bugle is blown.

After the parade, the bull ring was cleared, and a moment later, amidst a general shout, the bull came rushing in, looking very excited and ferocious. He is kept in a dark cage for four or five hours before being set free in the ring, and is poked with sticks and stuck with pointed poles so that when he is set free, he is rather lively. He immediately looked all about him, and seeing two capeadors at the other side with red coats, he made a mad dash for them. One side stepped, and the other gracefully and hurriedly vaulted over the wooden barrier. Then a half dozen other men with red coats entered the ring. The object of this first part of the fight seems to be to enrage the bull by waving red coats in his face, and then sidestepping him when he charges.

About ten minutes after the bull first appeared in the ring, the bugle was blown again, and the capeadors retired. The second phase of the fight was beginning. The banderilleroes entered. The chief one carried two banderillas, or barbed darts, about thirty inches long and ornamented with streamers of colored paper. The banderilleroes met the full charge of the bull, jumped cleverly to one side as he neared, and stuck the bander­illas into the bull’s neck as he passed. After six banderillas have been put into the bull, who is now not only rather tired but enraged to such an extent that he is foaming at the mouth, the bugle is blown again, and the third (and last) part of the fight is commenced. This last phase is called the Suerte de Matar, and it is during this act that the bull is actually killed. The espada, or man who does the killing, entered the ring, and taking off his hat tossed it to some friend (usually the President or some distinguished visitor). This is a sort of dedication of the bull which is about to be killed. The espada carried a brilliant red cloth and a sword. At first he played with the bull and allowed it to charge very close to him. The more courage he showed, and the nearer the bull came to him, the more the mob of people yelled. They clapped and cheered until they were hoarse. If the matador seemed at all timid, there burst a thunder of hisses from all sides. Finally the espada maneuvered the bull into the right position; the bull charged, the man stepped to one side, and plunged his sword into the bull’s neck above his head. The sword went in up to the hilt, pierced the bull’s heart, and his four legs immediately gave way. He dropped right in his tracks like a sack of flour. Another man immediately cut his neck to pre­vent further suffering. A team of mules, decorated with ribbons, came in, and dragged the bull out of the ring at a full gallop. A shout and roar of applause rang out from all directions as the bull disappeared, and the matador stepped back into the ring to bow to the spectators and to receive his hat back.

When the fight has been particularly exciting, the espada receives one of the ears of the bull. When he shows an exceptional amount of courage, he receives both ears, and in rare cases he gets both the ears and the tail.

Today there were no picadores, men who kill bulls, while on horseback. That is really much worse, as there are three horses killed to one bull. We saw only a couple of grown men fight. The rest were just youngs­ters. One little boy, only thirteen, was perfectly won­derful. I was so nervous when he fought, for the crowd egged him on to take some awful chances. He showed more nerve than any of the others. The most difficult thing to do is not to move from the spot you are standing on when the bull charges you, but draw the bull to one side with the red cloak. The little kid was exceptionally good, and the crowd certainly showed approval. They stamped, yelled, and waved their handkerchiefs. A lot of hats were thrown into the arena after the fight. The little fellow picked them up and tossed them back into the galleries. He was awarded one ear of the bull he killed.

Altogether there were six bulls killed. I can’t say that I enjoyed it, but I think I got some excellent movies, which quite pleased me. I would never care to see another fight except that I want to get some pic­tures of a picador on Sunday.

After the six main fights, three clowns came in all very much padded and allowed the bull to push them all about the ring. I didn’t care for this part at all. The first few minutes were amusing, but it got rather poring before it was over. I took quite a number of movies of this foolishness as well as of the real bull fight, and, I hope they turn out well. Among the things that should be noted are the costumes of the matadors and other officials. They are very fancy, with gold and silver braid. Every man that acts as an espada, banderillero, or capeador lets a little patch of his hair in back grow into a cue.

The fight was over about 6:30, so we came back to the hotel and changed our clothes. Ed left part of my laundry in Nice. However, that isn’t unusual on his part. We went to the Ritz Hotel for dinner, as the lunch here was awful. I’m afraid I can’t hand the Spanish cooking much. Went to bed early. All of us are worn out. Golly, it was hot today!

Madrid

Friday, September 18^th, 1925. 

When I woke up this morning it was just as clear, warm and nice as could be. After breakfast we joined a Cook’s tour of Madrid that lasted about five hours– from nine until two. We drove out to the arena and saw all the public buildings. One of the parks is among the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. The floral designs were so delicate and colorful. We have nothing like them in the States. Madrid is full of modern stone buildings and wide streets–and it was only at the cathedrals that we saw any of old Madrid. It is rather useless to list the names of all the different churches we saw. Only one of them was worth mentioning. It is the chief cathedral in Madrid and is full of beautiful pictures, frescoes and carved Pear wood. The House of Par­liament was attractive but nothing to rave about like the one in Budapest. It was small and rather unassuming.

The best thing by far that we saw was “El Prado” the art gallery. It ranks among the best in Europe. There we saw “Las Mininas” the masterpiece of Velasquez as well as the masterpieces of Goya and Murillo– the other two Spanish painters that stand head and shoulders above the other Spanish artists. However, the pictures of Ribera, Maza, and others are not to be sniffed at. As I said be­fore I have acquired a perfect passion for paintings and spend all my spare moments– few as they are– reading about the masters of Florence, Rome and Spain. It is impossible not to like art when the things you see every day are so inspiring. El Prado contains a great many pictures of Rubens, Titian and other great men of different, or rather foreign schools. Titian especially is well repre­sented here. To list the best works here would not only take a great deal of time but it would be rather out of place. Murillo’s chief works won’t be on exhibit until Sunday so I am going back to the Prado then, besides we really didn’t have enough time today to see all I wanted to.

One of the most interesting things we saw was the “Mona Lisa” by Leonardo da Vinci. There is a great deal of discussion at present whether the “Mona Lisa” in the Louvre is the original or whether the one here in Madrid is. A committee of French experts decided recently that this is the original and that the one in the Louvre which was stolen years ago and later brought back is a copy. Personally I’m inclined to agree that this is the original for it is one of the most beautiful pictures I’ve ever seen. Having seen both, I prefer this one. But the matter is still up in the air and I suppose a1ways will be.

The dinner at the Ritz was good last night we went back there for lunch. John has been looking about for some Spanish senoritas and has been rather disappointed. But today at the Ritz we saw a real one, -one of the most attractive looking girls in the world. She was dressed com­pletely in white and wore beautiful pearls and the best looking emerald ring. Well- she was just “right in there.”

After lunch we wrote for a while and then went out to see a game of “Ji-alai” which is played a great deal over here. We drove all around Madrid in a taxi trying to find the place and then finally learned that there wasn’t any game today. I tried to buy a few new records for “Peter Pan”, the victrola, but the latest they had was “Troubles a bubble” which came out last fall so I gave it up as hope­less and went back to the hotel to write.   This con­founded diary takes up more time. I had no idea it would be such a job.

“When in Rome do as the Romans do”- so we didn’t go out to dinner until 10:00 P.M. Then we drove out to what was supposed to be a gay cafe only to find it was closed. After scouting about the city we went back to the Ritz about eleven and had a wonderful dinner. John kids me a lot about eating- but honestly he doesn’t eat enough to keep a flea alive.

Tomorrow we leave at nine o’clock on an all day Cook’s tour to Toledo. We leave Madrid on Sunday and go to Cor­dova. Seville and Granada. We can’t get a boat from Gibraltar to Oran as planned but have made arrangements to get one from Alicante to Oran a week from Monday. From there we go to Tunis and Algiers as planned.

Toledo, Spain

Saturday, September 19^th, 1925. 

Well we certainly took a beating today. I’ve never been so tired in all my life as I was when I got back this after­noon from Toledo. We left this morning in a Cook’s bus -­or rather truck — that was void of all springs of any nature. The road was terrific– sandy and full of holes. When we reached Toledo two and a half hours later we were all more dead than alive. It was just about all we could do to get out of the bus. 

However, the trip out besides being a night-mare had its good features for we saw some novel sights. Perhaps the first and most impressive was the Spanish peasants as a whole. They are beyond all doubt the filthiest, crudest, most unintelli­gent and degraded class of people I’ve ever seen. Less than 50% can read or write and after seeing how they live one can’t help but be convinced that Darwin is right and that certainly these people aren’t far removed from animals

The houses or rather rooms in which they live are unbelievable. A family of ten or a dozen all eat, sleep and live in one and the same room as well as a dog or two and a few oats. None of them ever take a bath and the stench of the rooms is unbearable. Only about half of the children wear any clothes at all and those that do only a shirt that comes down to the waist. No description could do justice to the squallor (?) or filth of these people.

They are just as primitive in their work. We saw a lot of men plowing and seeding with sticks. They thrash their wheat with big round granite rollers. The land looked as though it hadn’t received any rain for six months. They raise some cabbage and potatoes which they irrigate with water drawn from a well. They employ quite a unique method. Adonkey is blindfolded and harnessed. A long pole reaches out in front of him and a rope is tied from it to the donkey’s bridle so that when he stops it tightens and the donkey thinks a man is pulling him. So he walks all day around a circular path and thus affords energy to pump the well. It certainly looks ridiculous to see these donkeys working and no men in sight for miles.

Madrid is on sort of a plateau at an altitude of about 2,000 feet so that the surrounding country is very dry, hot and enervating. In this respect it is like Florida for unless one is used to it, it just saps up all one’s pep. We passed thru a number of white plaster villages on our way to Toledo. All of them looked alike as if they were mere remnants of the past.

Toledo is the most curious of all the cities of Spain and was the capital of the country under the Goths. It is said to be the oldest city in Europe today. Its position on rocky heights overhanging the Tagus is most imposing.

Arriving at the hotel we stretched our legs for a few minutes and then started out sight-seeing. I must say that as a general impression, if Toledo represents the Europe of the past — I certainly am delighted that I live in the 20th century. The streets are narrower and dirtier than any others we’ve seen. In a number of places pedestrians had to duck in doorways to avoid being run over by our bus.

The Cathedral is the second best and largest in Spain and ranks as the fifth largest in size in the world. When the Moors first took Toledo it was largely populated by Jews to whom it was a refuge when Nebuchadnezzar sacked Jerusalem. The synagogues were interesting but absolutely empty — no artistic decorations like the cathedral whose interior was majestic and very beautiful. The soil on which the synagogues were built was carried here from Mount Zion. At the Casa del Greco we saw Grecos master­pieces. Personally, I don’t care for Greco at all. His faces are all the same and while they show a certain degree of originality there is a lack of expression and too stiff a bearing. These of course, are my own impressions. 

We had lunch at the hotel and were just starting out for the afternoon trip when I asked Ed where my camera was. I had carried it three-quarters of the morning and had rather reluctantly given it to him when he offered to carry it for a while. However, it was very hot out so I agreed to part with it for a bit. When I asked him after lunch for it he didn’t remember where he had left it. Honestly, I was mad but didn’t lose my temper. He took a cab and went around the different places we had visited in the morning and finally found it in one of the Synagogues. John’s re­mark was rather well put. He said, “All I can say Ed is that your good luck in getting the camera back certainly outweighs your sense of responsibility.” I saw the germs of another 1ittle row between John and Ed springing up so quickly changed the subject.

It was hotter than blazes out in the afternoon. As soon as twelve o’ clock strikes, everyone quits work right where they are. We saw hundreds of people asleep on the sidewalks, in their carts, and chairs outside the restau­rants. Even the dogs and horses seem to realize that they too are due for a two hour siesta. All life seems to come to a standstill.

We left Toledo about five o’clock and had another hectic and nerve-racking ride back to Madrid. On arriving went to the Eastman place and saw my films. As the store was about to close was only able to see one of them on the projector. It wasn’t as good as I expected but taught me some points which I hope that I will profit by in the pictures I take in the future.

I don’t know what it is about Spain but the climate or something wears you out. John, Ed and I could hardly stand up when we got to the hotel. We finally got up enough energy to go down to eat about 9:30 and then came right back to our rooms and flopped into bed. What a day! I don’t think I’ll ever move again.  

Madrid

Sunday, September 20^th, 1925. 

After a good twelve hours sleep, we all felt in better shape. In the morning we went over to El Prado to see the exhibition of Murillos paintings. They were perfectly mar­velous. John too has taken a big interest in art and the two of us don’t miss a thing. I bought a fine book of the paintings here.

It was terribly hot again today and we were glad to get back to the hotel where it was cool. We had lunch there and in the afternoon wrote on our diaries until time to go to the bullfight.

What we saw Friday was good sport compared to what we saw today. I’ve seen all the bull fighting with picadores that I ever intend to see. Honestly it is the most horrible sight imaginable. I said the other day that picadores are sometimes used to kill bulls. That is wrong. The picadores are only used in the first stage of the fight. A man riding a horse has a long pole with a barb on the end which he sticks into the bull’s neck. The horse is blindfolded so that he can’t see the bull.

We entered the arena a little late just as the first picadore advanced toward the bull. The bull was ten times as ferocious as the ones we saw Friday. The whole thing was almost too pitiful to describe. Here was the poor horse blindfolded before an angry bull. The horse didn’t have a chance. The bull charged him with his head down. Catching the horse in the stomach with his horns he threw him, or rather tossed him into the air. Of course the rider was thrown off but was uninjured while the poor horse sank to the ground in agony with half his entrails hanging out. A man immediately cut the horse’s neck to keep him from suffering. The crowd roared their applause.

A second picadore on a horse came on and met an even worse fate. The bull failed to kill the horse in spite of the fact that the blood was streaming out his side like a hose of water. The horse scrambled to his feet again. He was so weak he could hardly stand up and one leg was so badly injured he limped dreadfully. The poor thing wouldn’t have lived more than half an hour or less and yet another cruel picadore climbed on him and kicked him toward the bull. Even the crowd booed at this. The horse– mans best friend — with blind folded eyes went the direction he was urged. The next instant the bull charged. A shower of blood went up and the horse breathed his last. I know my face must have turned snow white. I just couldn’t look at it any longer. It made me so mad I could have shot the whole outfit– and yet the young girls in back of us laughed, giggled and clapped. And they think they are civilized! The bull killed three horses before the second phase of the fight began and then a Mexican made short work of the bull. For the first time I was glad to see the bull killed and for all I cared at the time, they could have killed the picadores too. My only sympathy was for the horses — somehow that part of it just got me. 

The second bull killed one more horse and when that per­formance was over John and I decided to leave. It is the last bullfight that I’ll ever see. It just shows what the Spaniards are like. Of all the cruel and horrible things, this ranks first. One thing I forgot to include about the arena is the little chapel off from the operating room where the fighters pray before entering the bullring.

When we got back to the hotel we packed our things and went downstairs to write and read until our train left at 8:30 P.M. We have an all night ride to Cordova where we are due at 6:00 A.M. but with sleepers it ought not to be bad. We had dinner on the train end then turned in. Have decided to go straight on to Seville. As I told John what wears us out so is stopping at every little town we go thru for a few hours. It is changing trains, moving luggage, and bickering with porters that is tiring. In the United States if we travel from New York to Chicago, we wouldn’t think of making three hour Visits to Albany, Utica, Syracuse, Roches­ter, etc. As a result of our conversation we are going right to Seville where we are due at nine in the morning.

Seville

Monday, September 21^st, 1925. 

Out of bed this morning at 5: 30 and changed cars at Cordova. John, Ed and I played bridge all the way to Seville. The country is a little hillier here but otherwise like Madrid. There are no trees at all and all the grass is scorched to a yellow brown. It was quite hot when we ar­rived in Seville which at first sight appeared even dirtier than Madrid.

In one way it sort of reminds me of Miami. All the buildings are white or yellow and rather open. There is no end of tropical plants and shrubbery. Even the hotel D’Ingleteria where we are staying reminds me of the Florida hotels. The rooms are all whitewashed inside, stone floors and all the windows have wooden screens to keep the boiling sun out. Golly, it is hot here! We all took baths, got shaved and then went out to look the town over. The chief street is only for pedestrians, as it is too narrow for wagons or automobiles. Big canvas awnings are stretched across from the top of one building to another to keep the sun out. The shops are rather cheap looking and don’t look too promising. By one o’clock everything was closed up for the siesta so John and I dragged ourselves back to the hotel.

This climate certainly gets one. I can’t tell you how hot the sun feels here.

After lunch we retired to our rooms where we wrote on our diaries and played bridge until 4:00 P.M. before we dared go out doors again. We met a couple of old ladies that we saw in Madrid. I didn’t believe John when he said that they were Jews. . However, I had sufficient proof when one showed me some diamonds she bought for two dollars and said that her name was Sara Lowenstein, and that she lived on Broadway and 98th Street in the fashionable district of New York.

We took a walk thru old Seville where the streets are so narrow that you can touch both walls by holding out your elbows. All the houses have patios and some of them are quite open and attractive looking. We wandered about the city for a couple of hours and found one very nice store with some beautiful things. But as I told John we never will get around the world if we spend twenty dollars or so in every city we visit buying things we like.

Dinner we had at the hotel about nine o’clock and then after writing a bit went to bed. I don’t think it is wise to do too much until we get acclimated for it certainly is terribly hot here. John hasn’t been feeling very well and Ed isn’t up to par. Traveling around like we do is harder work than you imagine. At every place we get different food and water. When I think that we have really only been on the trip– that is since we left England– 40 days, it seems amazing. I’ve seen more in that 40 days than ever be­fore in my life. We have done England, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Austria, Czecho-Slovakia, Hungary, and part of Italy, as well as France and a good deal of Spain. Believe me that is moving some and I tell you we haven’t missed much at that.

Seville

Tuesday, September 22^nd, 1925.

We started out at an early hour this morning to see the sights of Seville taking with us an excellent English speak­ing American Express guide. Our first stop was at the Cathedral of Seville which is the largest cathedra1in Spain and one of the best gothic churches in the world. It contained many remarkable pieces of art, including wonderful woodcarv­ings and some pictures by Murillo. At one end of the Cathe­dral is a tower, called the Giralda, about 300 feet high erected by the Moors. It is quite unique for there are no steps. Instead the walk to the top is like climbing a hill for the path or walk climbs about the inside of the four square walls. At the top we got a beautiful view of Seville and the guide pointed out all the different places we were going to visit.    

I must say a word about our guide – Ponce de Leon. He is a remarkably fine fellow and is quite intelligent, speaking about five languages. It seems that he was Mr. Vanderbilts valet for a number of years before Mr. Vanderbilt lost his life on the Titanic disaster. I took the opportunity to ask him a few questions about Spain and Spanish life. He thinks that King Alfonzo (?) is a fine chap in spite of all that Ibana (?) says about him. Only he claims that the King is absolutely at the mercy of the Premier whom no one likes. It was interesting to hear what he had to say about bullfighting. Evidently the people of Spain don’t care for the

Picadores any more than I do but Ponce de Leon insists that they are necessary to make the bull less ferocious. He says that if you ask a matadore to kill a bull without having first come up against several Pioadores the matadore will say, “No, you kill him”.

Seville is full of interesting places and things. We spent the whole morning sight seeing. The best thing we saw was The Alcazar which I’m sure is the best thing of its kind in the world. It is the old palace of the Moorish kings and has been restored from time to time so that it would be a fitting place for the Spanish sovereigns. It is completely beyond description other than that it is entirely of Moorish architecture and is simply astounding for its beauty. The detail work must have taken ages. Marble, granite, wood, bronze, etc. are carved into designs as delicate and detailed as lace. Then the gardens of the Alcazar are quite as wonder­ful. Everything is beautifully kept up and we spent an hour walking around the paths under tropical plants and palm trees with fountains at every turn.

We walked thru the business district and got back to the hotel about twelve o’clock just as everything was closing up. It was terribly hot out so the guide advised us not to stir out doors until at least four o’clock. We had lunch at the hotel and wrote until time to meet Ponce de Leon.

After hiring a cab we went to see the outskirts of the city where the old Moorish walls are located, Ed didn’t join us as the figs that he ate this morning knocked him out cold. We walked thru the old Moorish streets which are about four feet wide. It was interesting to see the rear peasants. All the houses, no matter how small, have patios and believe me the streets are dirty.

In 1927 there is to be an International Exposition here and the buildings are already practically completed. They are perfectly tremendous in size and permanently built. As most of them are of Moorish architecture they are beyond criticism. The gardens surrounding the various exposition struc­tures are full of flowers and picturesque fountains and trees.

  Seville has many nice things for a purchaser but I have limited myself rather strictly in that respect for I would never get around the world if I didn’t.

John saw some shops he wanted to buy but I persuaded him that it was ridiculous to load oneself up with a lot of truck. We had a quiet dinner at the hotel and spent what little re­mained of the evening writing letters and working on our diaries. Poor Ed is still feeling pretty low.

Seville

Wednesday, September 23^rd, 1925. 

This morning we went to visit the art gallery which is nothing to rave about. Except for the fact that it contains Murillos’ masterpiece “St. Thomas of Villanueva Distributing Alms”, as well as many other famous pictures by him, the gallery is decidedly second rate. There are a few good pictures by Zurbaran and Ribera but absolutely nothing else worth mentioning. There is a modern art col­lection connected with the museum where I saw the work of two promising Spanish painters–Cano and Villegas–or some­thing like that. In my humble opinion, they are both very fine.

We visited several more churches where we saw some excellent carved wooden statues by Montanes who is really in a class by himself. Personally I’m rather fed up with churches and cathedrals. Every guide says that the church you are now visiting is the best Renaissance, Gothic, Romanesque church in Spain. If it isn’t t the best from an architectural standpoint then it has the best pictures, woodcarvings, statues, colored glass windows, high altar or something else. Every church has the best one thing or another. About galleries I feel different. No two are the same for each one has masterpieces of different artists.

We had lunch at the hotel and by four o’clock we were again driving about Seville. The house in which Murillo was born and died, the house built by the Span­ish government for Americans in Seville, and many other places were among the objects of interest. We drove past the Exposition buildings a second time so that I could take some movies and Ed, who was with us today, could see them. Ponce de Leon got us into one building and there I saw the most beautiful desk for sale. I would have bought it on the spot if it hadn’t cost so much. I decided to write Father in any event. I was so interested that I obtained the name of the man who made it and we drove over to his little workshop. I had a talk with him and bargained with him so that he came down 350 pesetas in his price. He was an awfully decent fellow and does his work only to order. The desk is certainly a work of art and took him five months to make.

Ponce de Leon left us at our hotel about six o’clock. John and I went over to the Hotel Madrid to see if there was any mail. There John found half a dozen or more letters from home– and I not a one. We are staying at the Ingleterra Hotel for it is far more reasonable. After dinner Ponce de Leon came back for us and we went to a cabaret to see some Sevillian dancers. It was quite a good show. The place was just the sort one sees in the movies. All the men in groups on the main floor smoking and drinking and looking up at the girls of the house in the balcony who come around to your table and order champagne. We heard some people sing Andalusian songs–­ which are absolutely unique. I was very much fascinated with them. A couple of the dancers were excellent.

As we have to leave rather early in the morning, we decided to go back to the hotel about midnight. No one else over here goes to bed until two or three. John is determined to buy out those fool shops in the morning in spite of my good advice. Got all packed up, paid the bill and ordered breakfast before going to bed.

Forgot to include that this afternoon we visited the gypsy quarter of Seville where I got some movies of a bunch of little kids playing that they were fighting a bull. I hope it comes out in good shape. The gypsy village was unbelievably dirty.

Seville—Granada

Thursday, September 24^th, 1925. 

Today has been an amusing one even if it was long and tiresome. When we arrived at the station this morn­ing, there was Ponce de Leon waiting for us with-our tickets and reserved seats. There never was a better, more efficient, reliable, interesting, and gentlemanly guide in the world. We wrote a piece in his little book rec­ommending him to anyone and everyone. He keeps a sort of diary of all people he guides, and it was quite inter­esting to read what Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Mrs. Raymond Whitcomb, and others wrote about him. Some people have taken him all over Spain with them for he is such a help.

In our compartment we met a very nice Swiss fellow, who later became quite a friend. The ride in the morning was through hot, flat, uninteresting country, full of olive trees and cactus plants. Here and there were teams of oxen, and long lines of donkeys, which are used in large numbers here in Spain.

Last night we heard from the Viceroy through Clydes­dale that he is sick and that the trip through Spain has been indefinitely postponed; consequently, new plans have to be made. Most of the morning was spent in making new arrangements, or, rather, in talking them over. It seems to me the trip up the Nile is worth more than Athens, Constantinople, and the Holy Land. Therefore, we have cut these out, and are going direct from Naples to Alexan­dria. Cook’s Continental Time Table is more complicated than it looks at first sight, but by noon we had things mapped out in pretty good shape.   

Then, as the train was shaking like Gilda Grey, we decided to play a little bridge. I didn’t see how it could jiggle so much when we weren’t going over fifteen miles an hour, but nevertheless it did. It was just one rubber of bridge after another until about two o’clock, when we stopped to eat. The Swiss didn’t have any lunch with him, and, of course, there was no diner, so we in­vited him to join us. When we opened our lunch, we were dismayed to find only some dry bread. Finally, at the bottom of the basket, there was some cold chicken, which improved the situation.

After lunch we started in at bridge again. Three ­handed bridge isn’t much fun, but it is better than doing nothing, and the train was still hopping all over the track. John and Ed were beginning to make rather sarcastic remarks. About half an hour later the storm broke, and John told him that he was the slowest and most stupid fellow he ever knew. In a way they were both to blame. Ed was rather annoying for he took hours to play a hand, and John was a little too impatient. However, the mat­ter was patched up shortly afterward.

At Bobadilla, a sort of junction point, we all got out to stretch our legs, as we had about a twenty min­ute wait. The train wasn’t due in Granada until about 8:30, so Ed went to buy a melon and some sandwiches. Just as the train was about to leave, Ed said: “Gosh! I forgot to get a sandwich for the Swiss.” I said I thought it would be nice to get one for him, but that the train was likely to leave any minute, and to be careful not to miss it. About two minutes later, the train pulled out of the station with no Ed in sight. That was the last we saw of him for some time. The situation was rather intense as he had all the tickets. Our Swiss friend was extremely amused over the whole business. He talked to the conductor, who said that Ed should go to the ticket office in Bobadilla, and even if he couldn’t speak Spanish just wave his arms, and they would understand him, and wire to the next station so we wouldn’t have to pay double. He was one of the most comical men I’ve ever seen. I almost died laughing when he gave us an imitation of what Ed ought to do. Needless to say Ed didn’t telegraph, and we had to buy two tickets from Bobadilla to Granada.

The Swiss, Mr. Roland Ziegler from Bern, was most entertaining. He is a perfect peach. I don’t know when I ever met as nice a fellow so haphazardly, as it were. He seems to know a great deal about art, and almost collapsed when we said we didn’t think Greco was too hot. Greco is his favorite Spanish painter, and he claims that Murillo and Velasque are too super­ficial. I got out all my pictures, and he proceeded to give me a two or three hour lesson in art. He said that we Americans look too much at what is on the pic­ture, and not enough on how it is done. He pointed out to us why Greco was a great artist, his technique, style, etc. I must admit that I like Greco better now than ever before, and that I enjoyed hearing Zieg­ler’s criticism of Murillo, and Velasque.

The train poked along so that we arrived at Granada about two hours late. The Washington Irving Hotel man at the station was beside himself with excitement be­cause a few more customers arrived than he expected. Finally we were put in an old buggy that took about an hour to get to the hotel, where we had a good supper.

Granada seems very attractive, more like the coun­try than a city. The hotel is on the top of a high hill, and has beautiful surroundings. As Granada is about 2,500 feet above sea level, it was quite cool when we arrived, and seemed like the North Pole compared to Seville.

John, the Swiss, and I were eating dinner when who should walk into the dining room but Ed. He had had a hectic time. On discovering that the train had gone, he hired a Ford and just missed us at the next station, where he jumped aboard a freight. After riding in six different vehicles, he finally arrived at Granada not much later than we did. After dinner, Ziegler and I talked until about three o’clock. He certainly is one of the most interesting fellows we’ve met on the trip. He is simply amazed at the way we Americans travel. I’m always saying: “Yes, but we did it,” and his reply is: “I know, but you are Ameri­cans.”

Granada

Friday, September 25^th, 1925. 

Ziegler, Ed, John, and I started out early, with a guide, to visit the Alhambra, for which Granada is famous. It was the home of the old Moorish kings, and it is similar to the one we saw in Seville except that this one is on a much bigger scale. It has fallen into bad shape because the Government has not kept it up, and has allowed gypsies or anyone to live there. A good deal of the mosaics and tile near the ground has therefore been ruined. Washington Irving lived here for a number of years, and it was in Seville that he wrote “The Tales of the Alhambra.” He is largely responsible for the Spanish Government’s making a sort of national monument out of it, and driving out the gypsies.      ­

The Alhambra stands at the top of a big hill, and the view of the surrounding country, with the Sierras, 12,000 feet high, in the background, is quite a pic­ture.

The Generalife, another sort of national monument, is a beautiful villa near the Alhambra. It was de­signed by a group of architects, and the gardens, foun­tains, and all, are beyond description. I took a lot of movies, for it seemed too wonderful to overlook.

Granada is the most beautiful place by far that we have visited in Spain. The climate is invigorating, and still it is warm and bright. The country is broken up with hills and valleys that are perfectly fascinating. Even our Swiss friend admits that it is pretty attrac­tive here from a scenic standpoint.

After dinner we all took a siesta, then hired a car and drove to the gypsy-caves to see a few dances and make some movies. It really turned out to be quite an experience. The Captain or Chief wanted 100 pesetas, about $15.00, which we said was too much. Finally we got him down to 75 pesetas, and the dance began. There were about ten or twelve gypsies, and they jumped around, yelling, and clapping their hands. It wasn’t too hot, and I must admit I was disappointed. We had to buy them about six bottles of wine before they would dance at all. I took about 150 feet of movies. The best part of the whole business was the different col­ored costumes, and, of course, those wont show up on the film.           ­

The gypsies live in regular caves in the sides of the hills, and are certainly a filthy crew. Gosh! I don’t see how they can exist at all. Leaving the gypsy quarters was a job and a half. They told our fortunes, which were a tremendous farce, as they didn’t know a thing about fortune telling, and then they tried to sell us their castanets, the things they shake in their hands while dancing.  We were lucky to get back to the hotel with all our clothes.

On the way from the gypsy quarters, we visited the home of an English painter who has a beautiful villa overlooking the Alhambra and the Sierras. He had some very attractive native pictures that he had painted, but the gypsies had already reamed us.

We had tea at the Alhambra Hotel, which is the best and most modern hotel in Granada. However, the Wash­ington Irving satisfies our modest requirements.

At the Alhambra, there is a beautiful tea garden, overhanging a very high and steep cliff. We sat out in the garden and drank tea, while nature performed for us by giving us the most glorious sunset in the world. The snowcapped Sierras reflected the purple color of the clouds to make as fascinating a scene as one could dream of.

Ziegler and the rest of us had dinner at our hotel, and talked until quite a late hour. John kids Ziegler about the Swiss people all the time. Honestly, it’s too funny for words. John says: “Come on, get on the horse. How am I ever going to train you Swiss people?” Of course Ziegler thinks this is great stuff and is amused to death at John.

We intended taking the 5:45 A.M. train to Murcia, where we would arrive at 8:30 P.M.– a distance of about 250 miles. Great Railroad service! But we have decided to spend another day in Granada, and hire a car and drive direct to Alicante. Ziegler thinks we are crazy to even think of getting up for a 5:45 train; says he would rather give up the whole trip around the world than do that.

Granada

Friday, September 26^th, 1925. 

It was perfectly glorious when we got up this morning, and I spent a good part of the day figur­ing out a new itinerary. I mapped out all the trains and steamboats, and connections, for Alexan­dria.  It was quite a job, but have all the dope now, and our plans are more or less in definite shape. I can’t bear to go along from day to day without knowing where we are going next, etc. I like definite information, and, like service, it is hard to get over here.

Today was mainly a day of rest for us; we didn’t do anything except write, sleep, and eat. Oh, we spent an hour or so seeing cathedrals, etc, but nothing of particular interest. We had tea at the Alhambra Hotel, and once more saw a marvelous sunset. Just as we started to go into the garden, or balcony, John saw a lot of photographs of sunsets. Ziegler almost died for John missed the perfectly gorgeous color of the sky to sit inside of the hotel and look at photographs, when he could see the real thing only ten or fifteen feet farther on the veranda. It certainly was amus­ing to hear Ziegler talk. We have tried to persuade him to go over to Oran with us, but he is too wise.

Nothing of interest happened in the evening, for we just had dinner at the hotel, wrote letters, and sent cables. Went to bed rather early.

To Alicante via Murcia

Sunday, September 27^th, 1925. 

We left Granada about 9:15 A.M. for what was sup­posed to be a six-hour motor drive to Alicante vie Murcia. Ziegler was down to see us off. I believe he would have gone with us had it not been for the fact that he had tickets to see Belmonte, the most famous ma­tador in Spain, fight in Seville on Monday.

We had a Moon car, and as the country was quite pic­turesque, we put the top down. At first the road wound around the foothills of the Sierras, and it was rather nice motoring, but as we continued, we left the scenery behind us. It got hotter and hotter, and the road be­came rougher and rougher. There must have been at least a foot of dust over the road, as we left a white cloud of it in back of us that didn’t settle for fifteen minutes or more. The country was about as tough as I’ve ever seen. It is similar to the Bad Lands of Mon­tana, only worse. There wasn’t a bit of green anywhere, all was sand, gravel, and dried up sagebrush and cactus plants. How anyone could possibly make a living in this sort of country is beyond me. We saw very few peo­ple, and those we did see looked like the scum of the earth. There were no houses at all, and the people we saw lived in caves in the side of clay hills. The sun was scorching.

By noon we arrived at a small village where we were able to get something to eat. What a dirty place! I’ll never forget it. We had some rice and stewed meat, with a very unappetizing brown sauce over it. We couldn’t get any water except a bottle of Vichy, but even that tasted delicious. We were on the way again a half hour later, with the top up this time. If the roads were rough this morning, I don’t know what you would have called them in the afternoon. We passed one wagon being pulled by three donkeys, the first of which had fallen down, sim­ply exhausted by the heat and tough going. There wasn’t a bit of humidity, and our faces and hands felt like sand­paper. Our lips were so cracked, they were actually bleed­ing. On we bounced and jiggled. I thought we never would get to Murcia, but we finally arrived about seven o’ clock, and learned that Alicante was still another hun­dred kilometers. The worst part of the trip was over, so we pushed on. We finally arrived at Alicante about 10:15, after thirteen hours ride over the dirtiest and roughest roads in the world. We were simply famished, starved, and so weak and cramped, we could hardly get out of the car. 

On the whole, I can’t say that, outside of Seville and Granada, I can hand Spain very much. It is simply a desert country, with filthy people and dried up land. On the other hand, some of the Moorish buildings are perfectly wonderful, and the Prado Museum in Madrid is one of the best in Europe. The people certainly impress you as being among the most uncivilized in the world. They live, eat, and sleep like swine, and are, in my opinion, the cruelest people on Earth.

We saw Alicante at first as a long row of flickering lights on the shore of the Mediterranean. It certainly looked like Paradise to us. We were simply white with dust when we got out of the car at the hotel, and it was almost impossible to distinguish one suitcase from another. We secured rooms on the fifth floor—no elevator—without running water, and with no hot water at all. However, we were thankful to find even a bed. We washed up and had some supper, which surely tasted good. We all decided that we had taken one awful beating but that we had seen real Spanish life, or, rather, real peasant life. We took an out of the way route, and saw things a tourist usually misses, but believe me, we paid for it.

Can’t find any bedbugs in my bed yet, but time will tell, they say, especially when the light is out.

Alicante

Monday, September 28^th, 1925. 

I awoke this morning scratching several bites but I think they were from mosquitoes and not Phyllis’s friends. The Regina Victoria Hotel is not much to rave about and when Ed came back with the good news that he had found a better hotel called the Palace, I must say I felt rather pleasantly surprised. About an hour later, John and Ed came up to the room with the information that the boat which we were to take to Oran was delayed a day on account of bad weather and wouldn’t sail until Tuesday afternoon. Honestly, these dumb foreigners have no system at all. Now we have to spend a whole extra day in a little dump like Alicante.

Well, after lunch we moved over to the Palace and were just deciding whether to go swimming or to box when Ed tried to test his strength by leaning on the wash basin and the whole thing gave way and busted into a thousand pieces, giving Ed quite a deep cut in the palm of his hand. As John said, “It might just as well have happened to one of us but Ed always seems to be the goat.” I expected the manager of the hotel would rave around but, quite on the contrary, he apologized profusely that the basin was so weak—offered us other rooms—and never charged us a cent for it.

Part of the governor on the victrola broke a couple of days ago so took it to a shop here and had it fixed. Then John and I took a long walk around the harbor. We saw hundreds of little fishing smacks with queer rigging. The mast leans forward at an angle of about 60° and, instead of there being a mainsail and jib, there is one square cut sail. I can’t make out how they maneuver them. We saw a couple of nice private yachts but on the whole the boats were rather dirty and small. Right back of the harbor there is a sheer cliff of 500 or more feet, at the top of which is a fort. It certainly is impressive looking even if a couple of well-aimed shots would bust it to bits.

We had dinner at the hotel, wrote letters, and went to bed. There isn’t really anything of interest in Alicante as it is just a little port of no importance.

Alicante to Oran

Tuesday, September 29^th, 1925. 

We all went to the dock this morning to get a view of the boat that was to take us to Oran. Man, Oh Man! What a boat! It is the dirtiest ship I have ever seen, and is only about 1,600 tons. It looked as though we were in for a tough trip. The rest of the morning and afternoon we spent writing, paying bills, checking over our laundry, and doing a hundred other little odd jobs. We left the hotel promptly at 3:15 P.M., and were on the boat, luggage and all, by 3:30 P.M.

There were quite a number of passengers, many more that I expected to see, the first class passengers, contrary to anything I’ve ever seen, were all put in the stern like a lot of cattle. God knows where the second and third class people were put, probably down in the bilge somewhere. 

We were supposed to sail at 4:00 P.M., but at 5:00 we were still tied at the dock. As I have said before, you never can be sure of anything over. For all I can tell we might not have left for another ten hours or so. About 5:30 I saw a pastry boy on the dock, and as I was very hungry, tried to get some. Of course, the Captain of the boat was waiting for this incident, for he immediately started the boat, and it was all Ed could do to reach over the rail to give the boy a couple of pesetas, for which he tossed us a half dozen cream tarts. In spite of the cream being a little sour, we downed the whole mess. 

The boat wasn’t more that twenty yards outside the harbor before she began to pitch and roll something terrible. Right then we realized we were in for it. The wind was blowing a regular gale, and the sea was covered with white caps. If the boat had only been loaded with freight, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but she was almost empty, carrying only passengers; consequently, the gymnastics she performed were quite remarkable. It didn’t take any of us long to realize that we had made two big and possible serious mistakes. The first, to take this boat from Alicante to Oran, and the second, and most important, to eat those cream tarts before we sailed. Sitting in the stern of the boat was just like riding on a roller coaster at Riverview. One minute we were about fifty feet above the water, and the next you could almost wash your hands by leaning over the rail. When the bow hit a big wave, the whole stern was lifted so far up that the propeller came partly out of water. I’ve never seen anything like it. We were like a cork in the middle of the ocean. Besides the pitching, we were rolling about sideways like a drunken sailor. 

Ten minutes after we left Alicante, three fourths of the passengers were flat on their backs in their bunks, and many others were heaving their cakes over the rail. Ed was pacing up and down the deck as if he were crazy, while John and I sat in our chairs on the windward side keeping up a rather forced conversation, and looking sheepishly at our companions feeding the fish. The old tub of a boat couldn’t make more that six knots. I went below to put my Bell & Howell in a safe place for we were rocking so badly, anything free would slide off the deck. My return from below was quite hasty for I knew a few minutes longer down there would finish me. 

By eight o’clock we were all in the fighting. The old barge was steaming along and all but turning up side down. We went below to have dinner, none of us a big hungry. Altogether, out of about 75 passengers, there were five men besides ourselves at the table, and two of them were captains of other boats. After about a ten minute wait, during which no food appeared, and after watching one man soak a piece of break in olive oil and eat it, we decided to take a turn on deck before eating. The saloon was terrifically hot, and smelled like the devil. One poor soul slunk by us in an attempt to reach the bathroom before the ship gave another serious roll. About five minutes later, the Steward came on deck and said that dinner was now being served. John by this time said that he would rather remain on deck, and that he didn’t feel a bit like food anyway. Ed and I went below to make another attempt. I ate an omelet, and then decided I would join John on deck for some coffee and fresh air. A few minutes afterward one of the five men at dinner appeared, and parked his biscuits all over the deck. By this time you could hear coughing and groaning from all over the boat. I felt so sorry for one of the little Stewards, a boy about sixteen, who was as sick as a pup. Ed, John and I were sitting in our deck chairs watching the others perform, but I tell you right now that, while none of us was actively ill, we all felt pretty low. I know I came nearer than ever before breaking my record of never having been seasick. To get across the deck, you had to be a broken field runner. There were so many lunches about that no one bothered to clean them up. One of the stokers just tossed a little sand on the deck every few minutes so that you wouldn’t slip and break your neck. Golly, what a night! We didn’t dare go below, and we were freezing to death on deck. Finally, through sheer exhaustion, and being so cold, we decided to risk it, and went to our cabin and crawled into our bunks. There were four bunks and only three of us. Our companion was an overbearing, sawed off, dirty, little Spaniard, who thought he was the whole show. Earlier in the day, he had tried to impress us with his importance by telling us he was Captain of the boat we were on. As we were climbing into our bunks, he sent one of the stewards in to tell us that one of the best—the upper—bunks was reserved for him, but when he came in a few minutes later, he found both of them taken. It’s lucky he didn’t make a fuss, for among the three of us we would have killed him. All of us slept with our clothes on. I, for one, was too tired to feel seasick, and before I knew it I was fast asleep. Believe me, I shall never forget that night. As John said, it was worse than being sick, this always on the verge business.

The old man in the moon must have seen a sorry looking sight if he looked down at our little tub of a boat being tossed and battered about like a feather in a hurricane.

Oran

Wednesday, September 30^th, 1925. 

I was awakened this morning by the loud noise of someone coughing and spitting, and on opening my eyes saw our congenial little Spanish companion expectorating all over the walls and floor. I was just about to ask him where he thought he was when he left us to slumber a little longer in peace. The wind had gone down considerably during the night and while there was a good sea running it wasn’t very rough and I felt fine and as hungry as a dog. All we could get for breakfast were some hard rolls and foul coffee.

Going on deck I discovered that it was a perfect day. In the distance I could easily see the outline of a range of mountains on the African coast. It was really delightful on deck with the big swells of the blue Mediterranean carrying us every minute nearer the coast of northern Africa and I felt not a little thrilled. Our friend from Tunis whom we met yesterday afternoon soon appeared on deck looking a little the worse for wear. We steamed into Oran about eleven thirty. It is quite an attractive little seaport from the distance, being composed of many white buildings set in a most picturesque little valley with the mountains rising directly in back of it. As the boat tied up at dock I noticed hundreds of queer looking Arabs all wearing red hats with black tassels like the Shriners in the states. Before I knew it a couple had made off with part our luggage which they proceeded to take to the custom house. On arriving there some darn fool woman inspector tore into my suitcase and hauled out my little Kodak and the victrola. She dashed over to the head official with them, who was even more stupid that she was. He insisted that I pay duty on the Kodak—he didn’t see the victrola for I slipped it back into my suitcase. It was obvious that he didn’t know his business. Here I was, a tourist, with a little half worn out Kodak—the kind you slip in you pocket—and he determined that I pay duty on it. I was just going to go to the American consul but decided that as he only wanted twelve francs to give it to him. If we weren’t going to be in Oran for only a few hours I never would have paid it. He didn’t get a hold of my Bell & Howell for I put it under my coat when he made such a howl about the Kodak. On the way out a soldier grabber my arm to inspect something else but I was so mad I just gave him a shove aside. There was such a mob around that he didn’t bother to come after me.

We took a taxi up to the Grand Hotel where after an hours struggle with the plumbing arrangements in the bath room we all got hot baths and shaves. By this time it was after two o’clock and we hadn’t had anything to eat worth mentioning for over twenty-four hours. I, for one, felt so weak I could hardly get down to the restaurant in the Continental Hotel. We all sat and ate until about four o’clock and then hired a horse and buggy to drive out to the native quarters. If I said the Spaniards were filthy I take it back for if I describe the Spaniards in that way there are no words in the English language to do justice to the way the Arabs eat, sleep and live. We arrived in their district right in the midst of a big holiday celebration. Hundreds of them in long white robes and sort of colored towels wrapped about their heads were rushing up and down the streets turning around in circles and firing off guns. I though war must have broken out and was just about to say, “Mr. Feet, let’s go” when our coachman assured us that we were perfectly safe. 

When I got up enough nerve I took out the Bell & Howell and put it into action. Immediately there were about fifty Arab kids about me yelling “Cinema” and pointing at me. It was rather dark to take pictures but I thought the scene unique enough to risk wasting a few feet of film. 

Practically all the women have white capes wrapped around their entire body and head so that only one eye is showing. After seeing a couple with their capes off I’ve decided that these capes not only hide the good looking ones from men’s prying eyes but also save a good many of the terrible ones from being shot on the spot. Some of the women are the most horrible looking I’ve ever seen. They have tattoo all over their faces, and their hands and feet are covered with an orange colored preparation called “Henne.” I thought of “Da-vid”, a little nigger boy at the Pirie’s place in Florida. If he had seen so many people going about the streets dressed in Ku Klux Klan costumes he would have turned snow white. It was really quite a sight to see so many Arabs. We were the only white people in the whole native quarter. 

A little further on we watched an old Arab magician whose chief stunt was to get as much money out of the people as he could. He went into all sorts of trances and contortions and each time he said, in Arabic, that he needed a little more money to make the snakes appear out of his mouth. We gave him a couple of francs for which he prayed to Allah for us but after half an hour’s waiting during which time no snakes were produced we moved along. The streets were indescribably dirty—simply cluttered up with all sorts of rubbish.

We had an early dinner and then went down to the station and climbed aboard our wagon lits. We are due in Algiers at 6:53 A.M. so wanted to get to bed as early as possible. None of us have quite recovered from the terrific beating that we took on the boat from Alicante to Oran.

Algiers

Thursday, October 1^st, 1925.

Upon arriving at Algiers, we discovered that the St. George Hotel, where we had expected to stay, was not open yet for the season, so went to the Oasis Hotel instead. We obtained very nice rooms on the fifth floor overlooking the harbor. Thomas Cook had no mail for us so we tramped about the city for a couple of hours look­ing at shop windows and the hundreds of peculiar cos­tumes of the Arabs. Everything here, as in Oran, has a decidedly French atmosphere.

In the afternoon we hired a very comfortable car from Cook from whom we also got an excellent guide who was a captain in the French army during the World War. We started our sightseeing with a visit to the Arab quarters. There we saw many old harem buildings, Moor­ish forts, palaces and houses. One section of the Arab district is known as Kasba and there we saw the founda­tions for the guns or fortifications which controlled the whole of Algiers. This fort is located at the top of quite a hill and Algiers lies almost directly below it. When the French captured Algiers about 1831, they took the city from the rear as it was impossible to enter the harbor which this fort so well guarded.

Another thing of great interest to me was the method of trial. Our guide pointed out to us a rather high building which contained one small iron grated window that looked down on a little open court of jus­tice below. The window sill was made of a piece of iron with several round holes in it. In important criminal cases, the Dey – called Bey in Tunis – sat at this window. If there were two sides to the case and the question of innocence or guilt hard to determine, the justices below sent word to the Dey to decide whether the prisoner should be killed or set free. The Dey then took out a five franc piece, in Arab money of course, and dropped it through one of the holes in the window sill and it fell to the ground some thirty or more feet below. If it were heads the man was set free; if tails, he was killed. Thus, the Dey said that the Lord really decided whether the man were guilty or not and took the responsibility off his shoulders.

We next visited a rug factory where everything is done by hand. The Arabs work at an amazing rate of speed and I was greatly surprised to see 1ittle children not more than 8 or 10 working just as quickly as the adults.

The Flea Market, so called by the Arabs, was quite a unique sight. There, we saw a number of little stores just chuck full of the worst junk you ever saw – tin cans, old boxes, rusty knives and forks, old empty bottles, gunny sacks, old nails, hinges, etc. – just anything that could be found on the streets or in the gutters was all collected in this Flea Market and put on sale.

We left the car and started on a tour of the Arab quarters on foot. The dirt and filth was indescribable. The streets were very narrow and steep and just full of old garbage, etc. The kids were playing about in this mess up to their ankles. I don’t see why the French government doesn’t make the Arabs keep the streets clean. The flies and mosquitoes were assembled by the millions. It is surprising to me how these people manage to keep skin and bones together. We saw loads of beggars and a great many of the natives are either blind or cross-eyed. 0ur guide, who led a company of them in France, says that the desert tribes are much cleaner and braver than this city lot but that all of them are very lazy and never to trust one out of your sight. He says most of them work five or six days and then do nothing at all for the next fifteen.

The most interesting thing of the afternoon was our visit to a mosque while services were going on. Like the Catholic churches, the mosque is always open so we went in­side. The interior was not unlike our churches except that there were no pews. Instead, a number of grass carpets covered the entire floor. At one end there was quite a commotion of chanting voices and our guide informed us that these were young boys learning the Koran. They sort of chant or sing it. We watched several Arabs come in. First they take off their shoes and wash their feet in a public basin. They seem to be very careful and particu­lar about this. No one is allowed on the grass rugs until their feet have been washed and no one with shoes is per­mitted to walk on them. After the foot washing episode, the Arabs walk a little ways on the mat and then assume a sort of kneeling-sitting posture. At intervals they bend forward from the waist until their heads touch, the floor in front of them. They raise their hands over their heads. They seem to go over this performance about every fifteen seconds and, while resting, look about the mosque as if very bored. A number of them lie down and sleep after an hour of praying. It was really quite an unusual and most interesting experience to see this form of worship. 

Our guide knew the attendant at the governor’s house and, as he was in England at the present, we were able to go through his Moorish palace. It was perfectly fascinat­ing as heretofore what we have seen has mostly been in museum form, void of all real decorations, while this palace contained actual living conveniences. There were comfortable chairs, pillows, rugs, etc.

Our last stop was at a little inn where we went for tea. It was about half an hour’s ride from Algiers and lo­cated in the mountains rising directly behind the city.

The view of Algiers and the harbor from here was magnifi­cent. The city was perfectly white against the background of the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

On arriving back in Algiers, we looked about some shops for some brown Arab robes that I had seen in Europe but were unable to find any. Nor did we have any better luck finding films for my Bell and Howell. We had dinner at the hotel and after taking a short walk, wrote some letters and went to bed. There is a perfectly glorious full moon and its reflection on the water in the harbor is enchanting, to say the least. I must say it is roman­tic. If only – well, never mind!

Algiers to Tunis

Friday, October 2^nd, 1925.

It is lucky that we did our sightseeing yester­day for it has simply poured all day. We spent the entire morning mapping out our trip up the Nile. It is going to be one of the greatest adventures in the world. The whole trip will take from October 26, when we leave Cairo, until December 2 or 3, when we arrive Nairobi. Part by train, part by boat and part by safari, it is going to be thrilling. Three thous­and five hundred miles on the Nile!

In the afternoon, we wrote on our diaries and played bridge. The rain just wouldn’t let up and if we had gone out, we would have been soaked in no time.

We arranged to have an early dinner as we are to leave on the eight something train for Algiers. 

We managed to get to the station without ruining all our clothes and climbed aboard a comfortable wagon lits. Although we don’t arrive in Tunis until midnight tomorrow, we must get off the sleeper at Constantine at 7:30 in the morning. None of us are looking forward to a thirty hour trip. Thirty hours to go about 400 miles is discouraging when one thinks of the Century doing a thousand miles in twenty hours.

Algiers to Tunis

Saturday, October 3^rd, 1925.

The porter woke us in time to get out at a little junction outside of Constantine where we got the train for Tunis. We obtained tickets for “le petit dejeuner” but, when the train started, discovered that the only way to get to the restaurant car was from the outside when the train stopped at a station. However, we were all too hungry to wait so eased out of the window and walked along aboard step on the edge of the cars holding on to the windows. Everyone stuck his head out of the car window and stared at us in amazement. I guess they think we Americans are crazy. When we got to the diner, we climbed in the chef’s window. He was quite peeved at first but soon got over it.

We played bridge all morning as the train, though only going about fifteen miles per hour, was shaking around too much to read or write. The country was interesting for a while but nearly the same – just one sand hill after another with only scrub trees or plants, no real trees at all. The soil in spots was fair but the greater part of the land was sand and rooks. The sight of several camels awakened new interest but even this caused little excitement after we had seen a hun­dred or more. Oh, I forgot to mention the coffee at breakfast. It broke all records! Never, in all my life, have I tasted such coffee. It was the foulest, most horrible tasting liquid that I ever drank. I have to shudder now when I think of it. One sip almost made me leave the car.

The lunch was pretty fair and, after another long afternoon of bridge and jouncing about the car, we finally arrived at the Tunisia border. It was dark out by this time and of course, the car had no lights. We dragged ourselves out of the train and went through an­other customhouse. Here we met the first real gentle­man of a custom official, for none of us had to open any of our luggage. We soon left for Tunis in another train. We had obtained seats for the first sitting at dinner and so were on hand in the restaurant at a quar­ter of seven, where we waited a whole hour before we got a thing to eat. I was so mad I could have killed the steward. You would think he would have told us that dinner was at 7:45 instead of saying, every ten minutes that dinner would be ready shortly. Needless to add, the train arrived in Tunis about 1:30 an hour and a half late.

The Tunis Palace Hotel is rank. The clerk can’t understand a word of English. The rooms have no rugs or mats on the floor and not only is there no hot water, but there is no water in the hotel at all. You can’t even get a pitcher of water.

Tunis

Sunday, October 4^th, 1925.

When we discovered this morning that there was still no water, that the electricity had been turned off and that there was no dining room, we decided to look about for a better hotel. Ed found a hotel right across the street from the Tunisia Palace called the Transatlantic, which was no more expensive and with infinitely nicer rooms so we moved at once. Here in Tunis, all the water in the city is shut off except for one hour a day, each morning, as the water re­serve is very low. We had lunch at a good restaur­ant and in the afternoon went down to the docks and took a walk about the town. We passed what looked like a fairly good movie so went in. It turned out to be terrible as we might have expected.

After a little more sightseeing, we had dinner and went to a vaudeville where we saw some real Amer­ican dancing and heard some Englishman sing “Me and The Boy Friend.” Maybe it didn’t sound good. I guess people in the theatre knew that we were Americans by the applause with which we greeted this number. The show was really very fine – much better than Polis at New Haven. The last number was Pola Negri in “For­bidden Paradise”, an old picture that I saw a year or so ago at college but it was right in there. 

I can’t say so much for Tunis. What I have seen of it so far is rather a disappointment. Algiers was much nicer and I expected just the opposite. The show didn’t end until after twelve and when we got back to the hotel we couldn’t even get a drop of water to bathe in. Needless to say, the whole hotel smells like a barn.

The American Express has a branch office here. Thomas Cooke is not open yet as it isn’t the real sea­son for another month. We hired a car for tomorrow to drive out to Carthage to see the ruins.

Tunis—Carthage 

Monday, October 5^th, 1925.

No water this morning! We raised a big kick but it didn’t seem to do much good as no water was forthcom­ing. We made another tour of the city visiting the Arab quarters which are just as dirty as those in Algiers. I went over to call on a Mr. Lillifelt, a Swede, whom I met on the boat from Alicante to Oran but he hadn’t arriv­ed in Tunis yet. At the American Express office, we made arrangements to motor over to Kairouan tomorrow, spend the night there and return to Tunis on Wednesday.

The name of Carthage has always meant great things to me and I was not a little thrilled when we started out this afternoon to visit its ruins. It is only about ten miles from Tunis so we were there in less than half an hour. What I saw was once more a disappointment. Somehow, I expected something fine and beautiful. Instead, I found only small ransacked ruins. Every bit of marble, mosaic or tile flooring had been carted off to the museum, either here or at Tunis, and only a pile of decrepit bricks and stones marked the places of ancient building. There was something morbid about it all – Carthage, once a City of almost a million inhabitants, the third largest in the whole Roman empire, and once known the world over for its artistic buildings and great enterprises; Carthage, the “Queen of the Seas”, reduced to a few hundred native Arabs and a heap of ruins.

The museum contained a number of old trinkets, a pile of old marble pieces and a lot of moldy skeletons. It was terrible – nothing catalogued, no system – just one mess of busted columns. There was really no point in even going to the museum for there was no one who could explain anything we saw there. The ruins of the Amphi­theatre and Oamous El-Karita, the old church, were more interesting. Our guide told us of some of the ancient customs of baptism, etc, and showed us places where there were piles of old coins, a number of which we took as souvenirs. On the way to the church we walked through an Arab’s vineyard and John and Ed pocketed some grapes, much to the displeasure of the Arab who was hiding be­hind some bushes watching us. However, as there were four of us including the guide, he thought it better not to make a scene.

We visited the cisterns and ruins of old houses and finally ended our sightseeing with a visit to Sidi- Bou­-Said, a town almost entirely Mohammedan, where we saw some more native life and obtained a wonderful view of Carthage and the sea from a tall lighthouse.

Our tramping over sand hills and ruins all after­noon was tiring, to say the least, and I for one was glad to get back to Tunis where we had dinner and went to see Marion Davies in a terrible movie. We left be­fore it was over as we have to start in the morning at seven or clock. No signs of water yet. As I said to John this evening, “Your nose knows.”

Tunis-Kairouan-Sousse-Zaghouan

Tuesday, October 6^th, 1925.

It was after seven thirty before we got started this morning as lack of water to wash and shave in delayed us considerably. We gave up our rooms for the night as we are planning to stay in Sousse. We intend to make Kair­ouan for lunch and spend a good part of the day there– ­going on to El-Djem in the afternoon and reaching Sousse rather late tonight.

Our motor was right comfortable and the drive in the morning very interesting. We passed hundreds of Arabs and their outfits. Nearly all of them travel almost exclu­sively by means of camels and donkeys. The native Arabs’ are as dirty as can be, are only half clothed, and look as if they were about one tenth or less civilized. Honestly, it doesn’t seem possible that one human race can be so far behind another.

The country, shortly after leaving Tunis, became a regular desert where everything was scorched and beaten down by the head of the sun. The soil was nearly all made up of sand except in spots which were fertile enough to raise half a crop of some sort of weeds.

It was just about eleven o’clock, or a little after, when the town of Kairouan came into view. It is a city of about 25,000 or more, practically all of whom are Arabs. To appreciate Kairouan, one must remember that it is the holy city of the Mohammedans and that next to Mecca, it ranks first in the Islam faith. For centuries no Christ­ians or Jews were allowed within its walls. It contains over 180 different mosques and is the place of pilgrim­age the world over for believers in the Mohammedan relig­ion.

I must admit that I was rather thrilled as we entered the white washed gates in the big wall that encloses the whole town. We drove through a very crowded street to the best hotel. The Arabs stared at us as if we were some strange creatures, and we were almost half an hour reach­ing the hotel for they practically refused to get out of the street to let the car pass. On all sides we saw the same filth that characterized the Arab quarters in Oran and Algiers. Some shops sell all sorts of rotten looking food including all the decayed insides of chickens. Dirty, lean cats walk all over the counters gnawing away at fish heads or chewing and ripping apart rats and mice they have caught. Add to all this millions of flies that settle down on the raw meat that is exposed – like an army. A few boys keep swishing away to drive them off but it is futile. The flies infest the streets and buildings in such numbers that one can’t see why they aren’t able to drive the Arabs out of the city and take possession of it themselves.

At the hotel we secured a very nice English speak­ing Arab guide and started on a foot tour of the holy city. Our first visit was at Sidi-Okba Mosque which, next to the mosques of Mecca and Medina, is the oldest and most sacred place of Islam. We entered the mosque and made quite a complete tour of it. Here, as in Al­giers, we found that grass rugs covered the entire floor and, because we didn’t take off our shoes, a boy went ahead of us removing the rugs so that we walked on the cement floor. Inside, the mosque was unimpressive and uninteresting except for a beautifully carved sort of pulpit from which the Koran is read on Fridays. There are some stone pillars here that have an ancient history or legend, which is that if a person passes between them he will be cured of all his sickness or misery. Two of the pillars are quite far apart so that fat people can get through and two others are very close. I took off my coat and after about a two minute struggle, during which time I was sure that I had wedged myself in so that I never would get out, I managed to ease through them. As I told John, I felt much better at once.

From the Minaret, a sort of tower at the other end of the mosques, we got a splendid view of the city with its hundreds of white washed houses and mosques. I took a few movies and then we went down once more to the mosque. Just at this time, a man climbed the Minaret and hung out a big flag. At the same time he shouted in Arabic “There is only one God, Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet!” This, so our guide told us, is a signal calling the people to prayer. On our way back to the hotel, we walked through the main street of the city where all the shops are located. The meat which I saw for sale captured my sight exclusively. Of all the de­cayed looking scum, this stuff takes first prize. Golly! I swear it made me sick to look at it.

Lunch at the hotel was terrible. We were all sitting there at the table, none of us liking to suggest that we go back to Tunis for the night, when John said, “Why not admit that we all are of the same mind but none of us wants to be the first to mention it.” That broke the barrier and Ed said, “The best plan I can think of is to go right back to Tunis.” A night at a hotel like the one in Kairouan would have been a regular nightmare so we left shortly after lunch for Sousse where we stopped long enough to get a bite to eat and a bottle of miner­al water.

We returned to Tunis via Zaghouan which is a little town in the mountains and the sourde of the water supply for Tunis and ancient Carthage. It was on the way back that we saw the most interesting sight of the day. We passed miles and miles of the ruins of the old Roman aqueduct that carried the water to Carthage. It was in surprisingly good shape and I was simply amazed. You see, it was necessary to keep the water always flowing just a little down hill so that in some places the aque­duct was sixty or eighty feet above the ground support­ed by massive stone pillars. In other places the aque­duct was only ten or so feet high and at times disappear­ed into the ground in a tunnel. What was so interesting as the tremendous scale of the thing that carried water for over 50 miles and that, even today, after a couple of thousand years, is in almost useable shape, for only a mall proportion of the aqueduct has fallen to the ground.

It was rather late when we got back to Tunis but all agreed that, even if we didn’t have any water to wash in, the Transatlantic Hotel far surpassed anything we saw in Kairouan or Sousse. Had a good dinner and played a few hands of bridge before turning in. It has been a long and tiresome day but one crowded with new sights and ex­periences.

Tunis

Wednesday, October 7^th, 1925. 

Today was a miserable one, to say the least. It rained like the deuce this morning, and when it let up a bit, we all went out for a walk. Our boat for Naples is due this afternoon, so were able to get our passage. Like everything else over here, there is no system about making boat reserva­tions. The people at the Italian Line won’t sell any space until the boat arrives in port, and are not even able to tell you what the name of the boat is.

We had no sooner got back to the hotel than it started to pour again. The clerk says this is the beginning of their rainy season. There is still no running water in the hotel; all that might be called “running” drips down from the ceiling. The entire day was spent playing bridge, and trying to catch up on our diaries and correspondence.

In the afternoon it cleared off enough so that we were able to walk down to the dock. There we saw the Argentina. She is a beauty — about 10,000 tons. Believe me, it is a relief to be going on such a nice boat. Personally, I’m through with these little 1,500 ton boats.

After dinner we went to the movies to see Aileen Pringle in ­some movie. They never could have gotten away with it in the States. Even the French hissed the rather questionable parts, and when the French object to something as being perhaps too suggestive, you can imagine what it is like. As soon as we were inside the movie house, the rain came down like fury.  The roof was made of sheet iron. I’ve never heard such a terrific racket. The orchestra was simply drowned out in a thundering of rain that was almost deafening. 

We are all pretty well fed up with Tunis. I think northern Africa, outside of the native life, isn’t much to rave about. Of course, we saw many interesting and unique sights, and I suppose that is what really counts.

Tunis to Naples

Thursday, October 8^th, 1925. 

At last there is real hot running water. It seemed like the greatest luxury in the world to get a nice bath. It is still raining, having poured continuously now for more than twenty-four hours.

Most of the morning was spent packing up our stuff, paying bills, writing on our diaries, and sending postal cards. We ate lunch at the hotel, and by three o’clock were ready to leave. As usual, we had to run the gaunt­let of servants of the hotel. All of them, from the chief clerk to the bootblack, lined up in front of the bus and held out their hands for a tip, but I’ve got through alive, and it was not long before we were aboard the Argentina, luggage and all. Our rooms are quite nice and com­fortable, and the boat looks like a real one. The rain was still coming down in torrents, and while we were a little irritated when the boat was two hours’ late in sail­ing, we didn’t mind it so awfully much, as we had an in­teresting time watching them load a lot of cattle. A rope is tied around the horns, and the beast is lifted by a crane into the ship.

We met a couple of very nice English fellows from Man­chester College, who are on a visit to Africa and Italy for their holiday. One played cards quite well, and it certainly was a relief to at last find a fourth for bridge. I’m so sick of this three handed business.

It was quite calm when we left Tunis, and, by golly! if some woman wasn’t sick about ten minutes after we sailed. Why, I’ll never be able to figure out, for there wasn’t the slightest roll or pitch. It grew a little rougher, however, after dinner, and an hour or so later our English friend excused himself and said he thought he had better get down to his cabin while the getting was good. There was a lovely moon out, so John and I made several rounds of the deck before turning in. The wind had pitched up considerably, but I can’t even yet call it a sea. I guess our trip from Alicante to Oran has made seamen out of all of us.

Palermo-Monreale,

Friday, October 9^th, 1925.

When we got up this morning at nine o’ clock, we found everyone through breakfast but inveigled the steward into getting us some coffee and rolls. Tra­pani, where we had called at seven o’clock, had almost disappeared below the horizon when we went up on deck. The ship was running close to shore which made it very interesting as the scenery was beauti­ful. Sicily seems to be all mountains – just one after another – and rather high at that. It looks like an ideal country to motor in if only the roads are good. John says that the steepness of the rocks and the way the mountains drop right off into the sea reminds him a great deal of the North Cape.

We had lunch about eleven thirty and by one o’clock we were docking in Palermo. It is quite a picturesque little harbor with all the mountains rising around it. We were not scheduled to leave until seven o’clock tonight so we hired a good English speaking guide and, after a little difficulty with the passport man who insisted on stamping our passports; we walked down the gang plank. Our guide said that a car for which he had telephoned would be at the dock directly. It seems that the traffic policeman has two or three cars of his own and when we started getting into the one the guide had telephoned for he made a terrific scene. He insisted on our taking one of his cars. Finally, I yelled out “No, we don’t want your car – we want this one and we are going to take it!” He raved on and stood on the running board to prevent us getting into the car but we did never­theless. I’ve never seen such nerve nor audacity. Evidently the policemen over here think that they are regular dictators.

Well, we finally started off on a tour of the city. Our first stop was at a cathedral which was rather nice in spite of a dome which had been added in the sixteenth century and which entirely spoils the architecture. There we saw the tombs of many famous people of Sicily including William II who built the famous cathedral at Monreale, outside of Palermo. The most impressive thing in the whole church was the sacrament chapel which is magnificent. The whole altar is made of lapis lazuli which is practically priceless. Little pieces, a quarter of an inch square, are worth five or six pounds and here we saw one solid altar made of this stuff.

The next place we visited was the Royal Palace which was rather unimpressive outside of the Palatina Chapel which is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. It is entirely filled with mosaic work – ceil­ing, floor, walls, doors – absolutely one solid mass of gorgeous Florentine glass mosaics.

Palermo itself is the largest and most important city of Sicily with a population of about 500,000. It is a very attractive place and I can’t help but regret that we could not have spent more time here and less in Tunis. One thing that was most impressive was the paintings on all the wagons. Every little four or two wheeled wagon or cart had beautiful scenes painted on the boards. The wheels were also painted sort of imi­tation mosaics in vivid colors. The donkeys which pulled them were all rigged out in brilliant plumes and headdresses. Even the carts loaded with coal, scrap, iron, etc., were just as gaudily arrayed.

We next drove to Monreale, about five miles outside of Palermo and situated rather back in the hills above the chief port of Sicily. We went there to see the Cathedral which, beyond all doubt, is one of the finest in all of Europe. While it is large, its size is not so impressive as are the mosaics which it contains. Around the walls are different scenes telling the dif­ferent stories of the Old Testament. It is something absolutely unique and beyond description.

From the cathedral of Monreala, we went to the cloister of the Benedictine monks in back of it. This, too, was magnificent even though the Arabs had destroy­ed practically all of the ancient tile mosaics. On the way down the mountain to Palermo, the rain descended on us in torrents and we were all more or less soaked. And it looked so nice when we started out that we left our raincoats on the boat.

The Catacombs of Palermo were the most interesting of the whole afternoon as far as I was concerned. We descended into them by means of a cold damp passage that led down into a sort of cellar. The Catacombs were used up to forty years ago and contain over 8000 bodies. When a person died, the body was first put in a sort of chemi­cal room for a year, during which time-it molded and then stiffened into a plaster form preserving the flesh and leaving not the slightest odor. Believe me it was gruesome. Some are in boxes, some are hung on the walls, and many are much more preserved than others. As long as they are not touched they remain absolutely intact, but if handled they would crumble to bits. I thought once more of “David” at the Pirie’s place in Florida. I’m sure there would have been no keeping his down there. I turned around more than once to see some queer looking skeleton peering down at me and I swear that one looked as if he were laughing as hard as he could. Others were clothed in the black hoods of monks which in itself was rather morbid. The men are in one wing, the women in a second, and the priests in a third. The unmarried wo­men have crowns on their skeletons for no reason at all that I could discover. Our guide playfully pointed out one old fellow who, he said, was his great grandfather and then showed us his calling card bearing the same name as the one on the skeleton. This would be a great way of looking up one’s family tree, I thought.

The Villa Igea Hotel where we were scheduled to stop, had no mail for us so we went to the Excelsior Hotel where we had a wonderful tea and got back to the Argentina in ample time only to have to bicker with the taxi man who wanted about twice what he had contracted to go for.

We sailed promptly at seven and after dinner John and I played bridge with two rather nice English boys from Manchester. It blew up a gale and one of our op­ponents was rather a good sport not leaving us until rather forced to in order to avoid serious consequences. John and I wrote for a bit and then took a stroll on deck. It is lightning and raining out like cats and dogs and the sea is none too smooth but our trip from Alicante to Oran has put us in shape for almost any sort of weather.

Naples-Vesuvius

Saturday, October 10^th, 1925. 

Last night was pretty rough, but nothing very seri­ous happened in spite of a good deal of coughing and spit­ting that one could hear from both sides of the boat.

It was fine and bright out when I got up, but as we drew near to Naples, the atmosphere became rather hazy. Not long after I went on deck, the island of Capri appeared off starboard. Everyone was on hand to get the first glimpse of Naples, which is supposed to be the most beautiful port in the world. Vesuvius next hove into sight behind a thick cloud of smoke. The wind was off shore, so that all the steam which the great volcano was belching forth was blowing directly toward us. This was what made the atmosphere seem so heavy.

Naples is a beautiful port, and its situation, almost directly under the great Vesuvius, is impressive, more so from the sea, I think, than from the land. As we docked, we saw the Colombo, a 20,000 ton boat flying the Italian and American flags. It was just sailing for the States. Golly! It did look nice.  On arriving, we were more than pleased to ease right thru the custom officials with­ out having to open a single suit case.

The Excelsior Hotel is great, and we have slick rooms overlooking the harbor. Vesuvius towers above us right across the bay. The sun is out, and it is just as hot and nice as it can be. We just dropped our bags in our rooms and started off at top speed for the American Express. It was a real cross country race. You can’t imagine how excited we all were. It has been almost a month since any of us, or rather, since I, received any mail. Believe me, I was one happy boy when the mail clerk handed me six or seven letters. There were two from Father (dated September 5 and September 17), three from Alicia, one from Anna, Faith, and Puss. John and Ed also received some mail, but I carried off the honors this time. After a reading session, we each sent a cable or so, and went back to get a little dope on ourselves.

Two o’clock found us and our two English friends aboard the train for Vesuvius. The line is only about six or seven miles long. There are three changes before the crater is reached. The first part of the trip is on a regular railroad car to the foot of the volcano. Here we all got out and climbed aboard an electric tram and cog wheel affair. The maximum grade is 25 percent. After a twenty minute ride, we reached Cook’s Hotel, built half way up the side of Vesuvius. We stopped for a minute, and then continued to the base of the highest and steepest part of the climb. Here we changed to a funicular to complete the third part of our trip. The funicular is on a sort of pulley arrangement whereby one car goes up while the other descends. The grade is 45 percent, which is steep to say the least. By this time we had left all vegetation behind, and saw only bare rocks and twisted lava that had grown ice cold. It wasn’t hard to imagine, though, how this stuff must have been like putty at one time.

The top of Vesuvius is over 3,000 feet above sea level, and it was considerably cooler at this altitude. I thought bringing my coat was a rather silly precaution, but I can tell you I was mighty glad to put it on. At the end of our funicular ride, we were met by a dozen or more guides furnished by the Government, which insists upon each individual visiting the crater being accompanied by a guide. Our old grandfather hurried us at a lively rate, and soon we were peering over the edge of the crater. It is really quite a sight, much more so than I had expected. There is a large rim of the old crater which erupted in 1906. It must be several hundred feet across, while from the top of the rim to the level of the crater floor it is about fifty or sixty feet. Inside of this crater rim there has grown up a new cone, much smaller but quite active. Smoke and steam are al­ways belching out. It seems to work like a sort of blow torch that isn’t quite hot enough. At times it spurts up and red hot flames appear in the midst of the white smoke, and at other times it seems to have almost died down. The next minute out spurts fire works of red hot cinders, which drop down the edge of the new cone. 

The old crater floor is a mass of twisted lava. It is distinctly yellow and brown in color, and it isn’t hard to detect sulphur fumes. It looked like coils of rope. I took a few movies, and then our guide informed us that if we wanted to pay a few lire more, we could go down inside of the crater, which we all decided to do, as it was a better point from which to photograph, and out of the cold wind. The sand and cinders inside of the crater were quite hot, and it was easier to see the steam rising from several minor vents in the crater floor.

On the way back to the funicular, about ten guys tried to sell me pieces of sulphur, but I refused to cart any of this stuff around the world with me.

Our return to Naples was uneventful, except for some nice, hot tea which we had at Cook’s hotel on the way down.

By the time we arrived at the Excelsior Hotel, it was rather late, so we had dinner at once. The evening we spent writing letters and working a bit on the diary. From our rooms we had a marvelous view of Naples and the harbor all lighted up. To make it even more wonderful, there was a perfect moon.

I certainly like it here in Naples. Needless to say the streets are dirty, and as Mr. Pirie says, “each one has an odor of its own.” I expected to find the hotels and other places rather unclean, after Scytha’s descriptions. On the contrary, everything seemed very tidy and clean. Of course, I realize this may be just normal reaction after spending a couple of weeks in northern Africa.

Naples-Sorrento-Capri, Including Blue Grotto,

Sunday, October 11^th, 1925.

Before I start in on today’s diary I want to add something I forgot, to mention yesterday. How much do you suppose it costs to go on the Esperia from Naples to Alexandria, a trip of a little over two days? Well, it is 36 pounds or approximately $180 apiece. Can you beat that? Why you can go across to the States first class for that much, on a slow boat. We looked up all other connections but they seem to have us this time. It certainly is an outrageous price.

I guess we foxed Cooks today. Instead of paying them almost 100 lire apiece to go on their tour, we went on our own hook, saw all they did, ate even better food, and, between the three of us, did it on almost 100 lire less. The boat for Sorrento and Capri left promptly at nine and we were on board considerably be­fore the time of sailing only to find, to our disappoint­ment, that just about three thousand other people had also decided to be ahead of time and that almost every seat was occupied. However, we squeezed our way into a couple of seats. In spite of the great vibrating of the boat and the rather annoying crowd of Cook’s tourists, the trip to Sorrento was very nice. The weather was warm and clear, as the wind was blowing the smoke from Vesuvius back toward the mountains behind it. 

As Sorrento hove into sight, I must say I was im­pressed for it was a beautiful sight. The little town is snuggled right in a picturesque valley with the mountains rising all around it. There is a high, steep cliff that drops perpendicularly off into the blue bay of Naples. As we drew closer to shore, a hundred row boats dashed out to meet us. In each was a man yelling “Royal Hotel”- “Grand Hotel,” etc. You never heard such a confusion of noises. We remained long enough to drop a few passengers and then steamed off to Capri which is a separate little island only a short distance from Sorrento. At the town of Capri we only stopped for another few minutes and then went on to the famous Blue Grotto which is just around a little cove from the town of Capri. The Blue Grotto must be visited in a small row boat and then only on calm days. As was to be expected, there was a rush for the fleet of small boats that came out to meet us. A little “dago” almost caused a scene when he shoved Ed aside and pushed his way in front of him. Ed would have liked to have kill­ed him but I told him not to start a row because we were not looking for trouble. I must admit, however, that I was rather peeved myself.

The Blue Grotto is entered by a small opening in an enormous cliff. The row boat had just room enough to slide through and we all had to duck our heads. When first inside it was totally dark and we couldn’t see a thing, but as time passed our eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The chamber is about 200 feet long and wide, and forty or more feet high. On looking down at the water, I was simply amazed. Never have I seen anything so beauti­ful. It looked like a sheet of blue flame and was the only source of illumination in the Grotto, the light being re­flected up from the bottom sixty feet below. Queer, fantas­tic blue shadows leaped across the ceiling of the chamber. It was perfectly fascinating. There is also a green and red grotto but we didn’t have time to visit them as the boat was waiting to return to Capri.

We took a funicular railway to the town of Capri from the boat landing and discovered that our two English friends had saved seats for us at their table at the best hotel. In the afternoon we hired a carriage and took a drive around the island. It is very mountainous and the scenery was mag­nificent. The cliffs seem to drop right off into the beau­tiful blue of the Mediterranean. We saw the ruins of Tiber­ius’ villa and the rock 700 feet high above the sea from which he used to throw his enemies. The whole island is perfectly glorious and one could easily amuse himself for several days walking around the beautiful roads of Capri.

Our boat left at four o’ clock and we had hardly gotten out of the harbor before we heard a shouting and whistling from shore. Some passengers had been left behind. We stopped long enough to pick them up and then eased along. On the way back a young fellow who looked quite familiar came up and spoke to me. I was embarrassed to death for I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember who he was. I said, “Well, how are you,” etc., as if I had known him all my life. It certainly was amusing and I was relieved to find out later that I never had seen him before but that he was just looking for some one to ta1k to.

On arriving at Naples about seven o’clock, we said goodbye to our English friends and went to the hotel where we had dinner and packed our luggage as we are going to Rome in the morning. I’ve become quite used to living in a suitcase. I’ll just be in shape to apply for a job as a traveling salesman when I get home.

Naples to Rome

Monday, October 12^th, 1925. 

Our train for Rome left at 10:30 A.M. and as usual there was a lot to be done the last minute. We got down in plenty of time, nevertheless, and were walking through the gate to the cars, when the station agent, or, rather, the ticket man, stopped us, and said there were only three of us and we had four bags. This was absurd, for we had been traveling all over the Continent with nine. The porter explained that this was merely an excuse to get a couple of lire tip, and as we didn’t want to bother to check our extra bag, we gave him his two lire. He at once took off his hat and bowed for us to pass as though we were members of a royal party. They are all just leeches over here, trying to get every last cent you’ve got.

The ride to Rome was through very hilly country, and the scenery was rather nice. Every bit of land seemed to be under cultivation.

We arrived at Rome about 3:10 in a pouring rain, and went right to the Excelsior Hotel, where we got splendid rooms. Our first thought was, as it nearly always is on arriving at a new city, “Where is the American Express?” John broke all records by getting over a dozen letters, one of them containing the interesting news about Carson, Pirie, Scott & Company buying Farwell’s. My only letter was from our Swiss friend, who told us all about the bull fight of the famous Bel­monte. Ed got a sack full of mail, and the bad news that Clydesdale’s brother is very ill, and that Douglas is not going to join us until we get to Nairobi. I was the only one out of luck so far as mail was concerned, but then I carried off the honors with six let­ters at Naples a couple of days ago.

At Cook’s office we got a lot of information about the Nile trip, and met the Manager, an awfully nice English fellow, who has been all over Egypt. He was quite enthusiastic about our trip up the Nile, and said we would have the time of our lives. Traveling between three and eight o’clock in the morning is the only possible time you can move at all after leaving Rejaf. The Manager has given us letters of introduc­tion to Sudan Government officials, who, he said, would be able to help us considerably.

We arranged for a guide to start sightseeing in the morning. As it was still raining, we went back to the hotel, where we dressed for dinner, and went down to an excellent repast. Golly! It feels nice to be at a decent hotel. I hope this rain lets up, for it will be miserable tomorrow if it doesn’t. We bought some American magazines and newspapers.

I must say I like Rome better than any of the European capitals I have seen outside of London. The shops have beautiful things, and the whole city is very attractive.

Ed, John and I boxed a few rounds before dinner.

Rome

Tuesday, October 13^th, 1925.

Truly, I am at a loss to know how to attempt to des­cribe all that we have seen and done today. It would take pages and pages to tell about each place we visited, so I will limit myself more or less to just mentioning a few of the most important things we saw and several general im­pressions. 

First of all, I am in love with Rome. To me, it has it all over any other capital in the world. There is sim­ply an infinite amount to be seen and one has all the com­forts and conveniences that he would have in the states. The Excelsior Hotel is wonderful. The rooms are fine, the food is delicious, and everything is just as nice as it can be. I’d give most anything to be able to spend a couple weeks or more here. It aggravates me when I think of the time we spent in Tunis that was practically wasted in com­parison to the use we could have made of it here. However, as we aren’t running the steamboat services, we can hardly be blamed – it is just our misfortune.

As previously arranged, our English speaking guide was on hand at nine o’clock and we started out to see Rome. In this respect of seeing Rome there is a great difference from other cities. You can see Berlin, Prague or Vienna in a comparatively short time but I honestly believe one could spend a year or more here without exhausting the supply of interesting buildings, galleries and ruins.

The Fountain of Trevi, which is supposed to be the most beautiful fountain in the world was our first stop. There is an old legend connected with it that says the person who throws a coin into this fountain insures himself of another visit to Rome before he dies. But we were all too busy to stop and waste time here.

The Parthenon, built in 27 B. C. by Marcus Agrippa, is one of the most impressive buildings I have ever seen. It is the best preserved of the many pagan temples in Rome. It is simply colossal and I will not attempt a description of it other than to add that here we saw the burial place of the great Raphael.

At the American Academy we applied for an audience with the Pope and learned that the chief fellow there had gone for the day so have to go back tomorrow. Rome is very crowd­ed this year with a lot of pilgrims who have come to see the Pope and visit the many famous churches. Our guide said that there were over three hundred Catholic churches in this one city.    

I was simply astounded at St. Peters. Its size and mag­nificence was bewildering. I had always thought that it wouldn’t be any more imposing than a good many other churches even though it is by far the largest in the world. A description would fail to do it justice and would only detract from its grandeur so I am going to leave it with these words “don’t fail to see it if you ever have the oppor­tunity.” We decided to leave its interior until tomor­row so made our way around it to the Vatican which stands right next to it.

To me, it had always seemed a great crime that the Pope should have to remain shut up in the Vatican – a virtual prisoner. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve thought I’d rather die in poverty than be Pope for this reason. Now, for the first time, I obtained a revolution­ary idea. The Vatican is simply fascinating from every point of view. Besides being enormous in size containing over 11,000 rooms, it holds some of the most valuable and interesting things in the world from an artistic and his­torical point of view. Here in the Vatican, where one could spend months or years, we broke all previous exist­ing records for long distance running and marathon races. I got just enough out of it to make me hope that some day I’ll be able to come back and see it properly. By noon my head was swimming with all I had seen. I thought of Ziegler – the Swiss. He remarked one day that the trouble with sightseeing in a hurry was that a man’s brain was like a glass of water – you can fill it just so full and then the more you pour in will just run out again.

There are six main divisions of the Vatican as I saw it. First, there is the museum of sculpture and tapestry where we saw many famous works by ancient Greeks, Michel­angelo, and other sculptors. “The Discus Thrower” is the outstanding one in my memory. Second, there are the four stanze or rooms painted by Raphael near to the old apart­ments of Pope Alexandria VI of whom I will write later. Third, there is the Sistine Chapel which contains the masterpiece of Michelangelo called “The Last Judgment.”

The ceiling too is remarkable and was painted by Michelangelo while lying on his back. It doesn’t seem possible that he could have completed this gigantic work in four years. But I mustn’t stop to comment even on such a great and inspiring work of art. It is here in the Sistine Chap­el that the great services of the Catholic Church are cele­brated and it serves as the room for the election of new Popes. Oh, I must add one little detail. In Michelangelo’s “Last Judgment” which covers the entire front wall of the chapel, there is a figure of a devil way down in one corner just over the door opening into the chapel. The face of the devil, Michelangelo painted to resemble one of the cardinals on whom he wasted no love. The cardinal was enraged and applied to the Pope for permission to have the devil removed. The Pope, laughing, remarked, “If you were in purgatory I could help you but over Hell I have no power.” The Sistine Chapel has also paintings by such famous artists as Perugino, Raphael’s teacher, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, and others. I was particularly interested as I have been studying quite a bit lately about these men and their works.

The fourth great section of the Vatican consists of a library of over two million volumes, the bindings of some I’m sure can not be surpassed anywhere in the world. In­laid with a variety of precious stones, they are not only priceless but fascinating. The library runs along two sides of a hall half a mile long and here are exhibited all the gifts to the Pope from the kings and queens the world over. The presents are so many, so different, and so perfect that I won’t try to describe any of them. Fifth, there is the picture gallery which contains interesting pictures by Fra Angelico, Lippi and. others. “The Transfiguration” by Raphael is probably the best picture in the gallery.

The sixth and last part, as I pictured the Vatican, consists of the private apartments of the Pope and certain workshops to which we were not admitted. Perhaps one of the most unique sights is the Swiss guards who attend the Pope. They are dressed in the most brilliant yellow and blue costume imaginable. The suit looks like a sort of patch quilt and is made up of different colored pieces about six inches wide and a foot or so long sewed together. These costumes, I discovered later, were designed by Michel­angelo when one of the Popes, who fled to Switzerland for safety, returned to Rome with some Swiss guards. Ever since then it has been the custom for him to be surrounded in the Vatican with these queerly dressed fellows. 

By this time the clock had turned around past one so we decided to take an hour’s rest for lunch and a general recuperation. Two o’ clock found us on the way again. We drove to a spot where we could get an advantageous view of the whole of the Forum- one of the most spectacular ruins in the world. From this point of view, the guide pointed out all the main buildings and told us who they were built by and their entire history.            

Then we visited the Temple of Vesta where the vestal virgins kept the fires of Rome burning continually for cen­turies. We also saw the Baths of Caracalla and Diocletian. The latter alone accommodated over 3000 bathers at the same time. The Cloaca Maximus, Circus Maximus, Tombs of Trajan and Nerva, the great monument to Victor Emmanuel II, which is the most imposing memorial edifice in the world, and a hundred other buildings and ruins all received their due visit.

The church of St. Paul, a little way outside the city, was the next stop. It is noted the world over for its famous mosaics and although the new part of the church is only about a hundred years old it is extremely beautiful. Here rest the remains of St. Paul. On the way back to Rome, we stopped long enough to visit the tombs of Shelley and Keats. Only the heart of Shelley is buried here. As every­ one knows, Shelley was drowned while out sailing near Genoa. His body was cremated but the story is that his heart was the only part that wouldn’t burn and so it was buried here in Rome. It lies with Keats’ body in a beautiful little cemetery. On Shelley’s tombstone is written “Here Lies One Whose Life Was Writ in Water.”

The Coliseum was next. I can best describe it by say­ing that it looks exactly like the picture of the ruins save for the fact that the present ground level is some twelve or fifteen feet above the old gladiatorial ring. Along in the fifteenth century, the arena part was all fill­ed in with walls of fortification and these in turn have been covered over with dirt so that one can see the real level only in spots of the ring that have been purposely excavated.

The Arch of Constantine, erected by the emperor in 311 after defeating Maxentius, is the best preserved of all the ancient Roman arches.

There now! I have finished our day’s sightseeing. I feel absolutely ashamed of what I have written but, poor as it is, it will have to suffice for if I don’t write now or if I attempt to enlarge and improve on this miserable attempt, I will be swamped in no time with an impossible amount of work. Even now, I remember places we visited and things we saw that I have omitted but omitted they will have to remain for this account, don’t forget, only touches the high spots.       

It was well after six when we got back to the American Express and John and I scouted around a few shops buying post cards, pictures and American magazines and papers. I received a cable from Father dated October 11 asking where to send my next mail and saying that his last letter of September 21 was sent to Rome. As I had just cabled about twenty-four hours earlier that I would be in Cairo October 23 and to send the next mail to Nairobi, I presume an answer to his cable isn’t necessary. Evidently my cable from Gra­nada reading “Naples tenth – Rome fifteenth – Alexandria ­twentieth – India trip off.” never reached him.

Some of the shops have wonderful things. They remind me a great deal of Paris. At Cook’s we started them looking up information for us about the Nile trip and then returned to the hotel for dinner. We were all to snuffed out to dress and after dinner sailed in to our diaries in a desperate effort to save ourselves before being completely lost in a sea of never ending new sights. 

Before going to bed I boxed a few rounds with Ed who just showed me a long article from some American paper which his mother sent him. It was by Jack Dempsy who said Eddie Eagen would be the next world’s champion. Not a bad compliment!

Clydesdale’s brother is sick and he is going to Switzerland with him instead of taking the Nile trip. Perhaps he’ll meet us in Nairobi.

            Well, goodnight.

Rome

Wednesday, October 14^th, 1925.

This morning we left the Excelsior bright and early for our second day of sightseeing in Rome, and we say and did about as much as yesterday. Our guide, Ruffini Mareo, was even better than the one we had yes­terday, and knew a lot of things that are not printed in the various guidebooks. As might be expected, these are the things that are the most interesting.

We stopped for a minute at the American College, where we met an awfully nice young American priest, who gave us a passport to the Vatican, where we were to apply for tickets to see the Pope. On the way there we passed the famous Fountain of Trevi, and little Ruffini insisted that we stop and throw in a coin so that we would be certain to return to Rome. When this ceremonious event had taken place, we proceeded on to the Vatican, where we found a line about a mile long waiting to get invitations to have an audience with the Pope. Our guide said to slip one of the guards ten lire, and much to our surprise, we were moved ahead to the very front of the line. Ruffini is an awfully nice little fellow. He is a Catholic himself, but says he doesn’t believe all the stuff the priests tell him. He said half of them over here are looking for a good ten lire tip anywhere it may be found.

St. Peter’s. Well, it is monstrous, and contains a thousand different items of interest. It is located in the Circus Nero, where, in ancient times, many Chris­tians were killed, and it stands next door, as it were, to the Vatican. Approaching it, one cannot help but be amazed at its tremendous size. Reaching out in front of it, from both sides, are massive Doric columns, four deep, which are in the form of an ellipse about the Piazza of St. Peter. This is the work of Bernini, of whom I shall have more to say later. St. Peter’s was not built in a day, and, therefore, contains several different styles of architecture, and is more or less pieced to­gether, but the result is certainly very beautiful and impressive.

On the right of the main entrance is the Jubilee Door, which is only opened for twelve months once every twenty-five years. It is open this year, 1925, and was last open in 19OO. There is quite a ceremony about it. On the night of December 24 the Pope knocks it open with a golden hammer, and thus the holy year begins. Hundreds of thousands of Catholic pilgrims come to Rome from allover the world to pass through the Jubilee Door. We saw a number kneeling on the steps in front of it. To pass through it I believe is supposed to cleanse or remove all your sins.

The great church is 696 feet long, 450 feet wide and 403 feet high at the center of the dome. It is so perfectly gi­gantic that at first one does not comprehend its size, and it is only after noticing how the people on the dome look like flies that you can get any idea of its vastness. It is, like a good many things in Rome, impossible to describe. It would take pages and pages, so I will put down only a few general impressions, and some of the interesting things Ruf­fini told us.

St. Peters is very rich in mosaics, colored marbles, bas-reliefs, and monumental tombs. In one chapel is Michel­angelo’s “Pieta,” and wherever one turns, there is some fa­mous relic. We saw one of the pillars of Solomon’s Temple, against which Christ leaned, and boxes containing bits of the cross on which he was crucified. St. Peter’s is full of this sort of things. Over the monumental tomb of St. Peter is the bust of Pope Leo XIII, I think, who was Pope for 32 years, thus breaking St. Peter’s record of 25 years. The high altar, where only the Pope himself can celebrate mass, is the work of Bernini, and was made out of the bronze from the ceiling of the Pantheon. St. Peter’s tomb is directly below the high altar, and consists of a very beautiful gold casket about two or three feet square. Hundreds of pilgrims were around it praying, and thousands of candles were burn­ing all around the cathedral. It was quite a sight.

(Father, here is an interesting story which our guide told us. You may include it or omit it, as you think best.)

Bernini, while hired to do a good deal of work in St. Peter’s, was not a devout Catholic, and attempted in all of his architecture to show the people the truth about the Popes, and the miserable and degraded lives they led. This had to be done in a very subtle way, so that it escaped the notice of the ruling kings of the Church. Alexander VI was a very immoral and pernicious Pope. His real name was Alessandro Borgia. He had a son Cesare Borgia and a daugh­ter Lucrezia Borgia. The two children were even worse than their father, and used to poison people and do all sorts of terrible deeds, having no fear of the law because their father was the Pope. A child was born to this brother and sister, and their father, the Pope, fearing that the people would be enraged if they heard of this obscene act, forced another man to marry his daughter Lucrezia Borgia, and bought a big es­tate somewhere in Italy, where the child was brought up. The little boy grew up in time, and eventually became Cardinal Ippolito d’ Este. Bernini knew of this infamy, and decided to tell the story in the high alter. Here our guide was very careful, for it has been strictly forbidden for anyone to point out this tale illustrated so well, in a subtle manner, in the decoration of the altar, or to mention the story while in St. Peter’s. At the foot of each of the marble columns supporting the canopy over the high altar of St. Peter’s, Bernini carved the famous coat of arms of the Borgia family, which consists of three bees. Over every shield except one –namely: about eight or ten—is the face of a girl, and over the last one is the face of a child. At first there is hardly anything noticeably different about the expression of the various faces of the girl, but after minute examination you can see the agony of pain ap­pear more clearly. The shield also becomes slightly fuller to indicate approaching motherhood. As I said before, this story would pass unnoticed if it were not pointed out, for Bernini was careful not to make it too obvious.

Bernini received the task also of making a monumental statue of Pope Urban VIII; having no higher regard for Urban than for Alexander VI, he decided to take a good crack at him also. Among the many decorative figures about the tomb is a skeleton writing on marble “Urbanus VIII Pontiff Maximus.” At least that is supposed to be what he is writing, for it means literally “The Great Pope.” As the space is small, Bernini has had the skele­ton write Pont., which is the familiar abbreviation, and for Maximum the word Max, but the skeleton does not com­pletely cross the letter X, so that it looks like a per­fect V. Now the word MAV in Latin means Never, so what the skeleton actually writes is “Great Pope Never.” Ber­nini naturally makes it appear that the skeleton has not quite completed his work, but nevertheless there it is writ­ten “Great Pope Never” in an obvious way.

There were many other things of interest in St. Peter’s, but, of course, I haven’t time or room enough to include all that we saw. It was already after one o’clock, so we went back to the Excelsior for lunch, and arranged to meet Ruffini shortly after two o’ clock.    

In the afternoon we started our sightseeing by a drive around Rome, seeing objects of interest, such as the Torre delle Militzie, from where Nero watched Rome burn, and the Cloaca Maxima, which was built 2,400 years ago as a means of draining the marshes. After seeing a dozen or more other sights, we motored to the top of a hill, from which we obtained a splendid view of the whole city of Rome. Ruffini pointed out all the important buildings, and the seven hills of Rome. At the summit of the hill where we were is a lighthouse from which at night there are flashed the national colors of Italy, green, red and white, over the great capital.

We motored out along the famous Appian Way to the Catacombs of Saint Calixtus. On the way we stopped at several interesting churches. One of them contained a marble slab on which were two foot prints. These were supposed to be the foot prints of Christ, as he met St. Peter fleeing from Rome during the torture of the Christians. Jesus was carrying his cross, and when asked by St. Peter where he was going, replied that he was going back to Rome to die once more for men. There were a lot of weeping pilgrims around. A number of them had handkerchiefs with which they wiped the impression of the feet in the mar­ble; others kissed the marble, and rubbed their hands all over it. (Honestly, such nonsense!) Our guide said that when he took Catholic people around, he said, with all the dramatic feeling he could muster: “Here, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the place where our Saviour met St. Peter, ready to die again for humanity.”

The catacombs are over forty miles long, and the possibility of getting lost in them is considerable, so that all parties are accompanied by guides. Personally, I did not find them very interesting. All the bodies have been removed, unlike the catacombs at Palermo, and there isn’t a great deal to see. There are five dif­ferent levels, and excavations are still being carried on. As everyone knows, the catacombs were considered as sort of sacred places, and thus furnished a refuge for the Christians in Rome during the many persecutions.

We drove along the Appian Way for some distance, and then, returning to Rome, visited the Church of St. Peter in Chains, where we saw the actual chains that bound St. Pe­ter in prison. Here also was the statue of Moses by Mi­chelangelo. There is a story that one day Michelangelo, becoming so enwrapped in his work, hit the statue on the knee, and said, “Stand up, if you can.” It is a most fascinating work, and is certainly almost lifelike enough to breathe.

By this time it was very late, so we went to Cook’s and made a few arrangements before returning to the Excel­sior. After dinner we were all so tired out from our sightseeing, that it was all we could do to write a few pages on our diary, and go to bed.

It is impossible to see any of the night life of Rome when we do so much in the day time, for we find ourselves completely snuffed out after dinner. Undoubt­edly I have omitted a great deal again today, but this is all my poor bewildered brain can recall.

Romes—Naples

Thursday, October 15^th, 1925.

Friday, October 16^th, 1925

Saturday, October 17^th, 1925.

The events of these three days are so closely linked together and form so unique and disagreeable a chapter in the history of our trip around the world that I feel they should not be separated. As it is, I am sure that no de­scription could do justice to the experiences we have been through nor could it adequately express the humiliating time that we have had.

We left Rome on Thursday afternoon of October fif­teenth after checking out of the Excelsior Hotel. The journey to Naples was uneventful but the time passed rapidly as we played three handed bridge. On arriving in Naples with all our luggage – seven enormous suitcases and a big laundry sack – we started for the taxi stand. Suddenly an Italian in plain clothes stopped me and said something to me. Quite naturally, I didn’t understand a word that he said so shook my head and went on. He seem­ed rather insistent by following me and finally said “Police” and showed me some sort of a badge. By this time, we were surrounded by about twenty plain clothes detectives who conducted us to a room belonging to the Commissioner of Police in the station. We were all quite indignant as we were tired and wanted to get to bed. An interpreter told us that we would have to submit to a search. I demanded that we should be told why we were being held up and what they wanted from us. Further, I added that we were three American students and that if we weren’t set free at once, we would telephone the Amer­ican Consul. Then they volunteered the information that a telegram had been received from the Rome police stating that something had been stolen and requesting that they search three Americans when they arrived. It seemed better to let them look through our luggage and avoid making a scene so we submitted to a thorough examination of all our things. This held us up for over an hour and we were very irritated so we decided to go to the American Consul in the morning and demand an explanation why we had been singled out from amongst all the other people on the train and made to open all our bags. I couldn’t help but feel that the police did not have the right, without some sort of a warrant or order from the custom house officials, to examine the personal things of three American citizens.

The next morning we found that we had many things to attend to in Naples, and further, wanting to visit Pompeii, we thought we wouldn’t bother the American Consul with a complaint but just overlook the whole business. The Esperia was to sail at five o’clock and, once on her, all of Europe with its pettiness and inefficiency would be behind us.

We boarded the Esperia about four o’clock and got our luggage more or less settled in our cabin and then went up on deck to watch the ship sail. We were leaning over the rail about 5:15 wondering what the cause of delay could possibly be, when a steward came up to us and said that some government official wanted to see us down on the deck below. Of course, we went right down and were told that we would all have to get off the boat. In short, we were arrested by the Italian police. For what reason, we had not the slight­est idea. Here was the Esperia just waiting to sail the minute we got off. To let her go without us would upset all our plans for there wasn’t any other boat that could land us in Cairo in time to make our connections at Khartoum. The Sudan government steamer from Khartoum to Rejaf only makes the trip once every two weeks. Not taking the Esperia meant a two weeks’ delay in getting to Nairobi and also the incon­venience of canceling all our accommodations for we had booked our passage in Rome right through to Rejaf, as this is the busy season of the year.

But what could we do? There were twenty or more police­men standing around us and the officials of the Esperia were insistent on our getting off in order that the boat could sail. To resist, would have been futile. We were all just boiling with rage. I demanded that the American Consul be notified at once of our arrest but evidently the police had no such idea. Ed attempted to telephone at the police sta­tion at the dock but was not permitted to get into the tele­phone room. 

We were first put in a sort of inside room with no win­dows where we were detained for about an hour until the local police could obtain further orders. About seven o’clock, we were taken with all our luggage in two taxies to the central station. I might add that we were forced to pay not only the porters who carried our bags off the boat but also the taxi fare for the cabs which took us to jail.

At the central station we entered the main court through a guarded iron door and we were led into a big cell where we were told we must wait for further orders. Several guards were put at the door so that we could not get out into the court. The room was fairly large but as dismal and damp as could be. There were no chairs at all -only several long benches about a foot wide with no sort of back rests. The floor was of stone and the walls were covered with a dirty grey white wash over which could be seen the greasy hand prints of many prisoners. The only light came from one small electric bulb over a little table near the door where the guard sat. Our only other companion was some bum who sat slouching in one corner of the room.

A young, English speaking guide had come up to the jail with us and I pleaded with him to get the American Consul for us which he finally agreed to do in spite of the fact that the police absolutely forbade it. He was gone out for an hour or so and returned with the news that the Consul had gone out for the evening but that he had left our names and a message with the housekeeper. Whether he ever went or not, I rather question for when we eventually did see the Consul he said that he never had received any word from us.

We all argued and argued that the police had no right to put us in prison without telling us why we had been ar­rested or without allowing us to send word to the American Consul. But all our efforts were in vain. They simply wouldn’t listen to us and took the whole matter as a big joke which made us even more furious. Our little guide went out and bought us a few grapes, a ham sandwich apiece, and a bottle of water. We were so upset that we couldn’t eat a thing even though we were just about starved.

About ten o’clock I got so nervous I went to one of my bags to get a deck of cards. I thought that if we sat on the floor and played bridge, even if the light was very bad, that the time would pass more quickly. But the guard be­came excited at once and motioned to us that we weren’t al­lowed to touch our luggage, so we had to sit around doing nothing but think about our misery. I never wanted to be home so much in my life. Why we came over here to be treated like this by a bunch of Wops is more than I can figure out. And John kept saying, “Just think, you pay to go through ex­periences like this – it serves us right.”

At eleven o’clock a whole crowd of detectives entered and I thought, “Thank the Lord, we’ll be questioned and then get out.” If only I could have had a nice hot supper and a good bed to sleep in, I would have been almost ready to for­give them. A thorough search of our luggage and persons began at once. Every bit of our clothing was taken out and felt along the seams, under the collars, etc. Our mail was read, our tooth paste and shaving cream was even squeezed out to see if we had hidden jewelry in it. The top of one of my suitcases was ripped open to see if it contained a false piece of leather. You just can’t imagine what a thorough search they made. They even read my diary – (God help them) – and asked a million questions. After our luggage had been completely ripped up and our belongings strewn about the floor, they started in on us by going through all our pockets, feeling all over our bodies and even making us take off our shoes to see if something was hidden in them.

I though surely that they would let us go now but not a chance. We were told that we would have to spend the night in jail. I said that it was an outrage. The police had our passports and all our luggage. I begged them to let us go to a hotel for the night with a guard if they wished, but they refused to let us budge from jail. Just about this time they brought in an old man – a perfect souse who was so drunk he could hardly stand up. He was so near passing out that he wasn’t much of a nuisance. He sank down on a bench in one corner and fell fast asleep in a couple of minutes. Our first companion, a filthy wop, on learning that we were to remain for the night, made a dive for the widest bench and threw his dirty self on it. I know he had fleas for he scratched himself all night.

Not long afterwards a couple of policemen brought in a disreputable woman that had been picked up off the street. She flopped herself down next to me and I crowded over toward John and Ed. She was the cause of much amusement among the guards who gathered about her making what appeared to us to be dirty and suggestive remarks about her. I must limit myself here but it shouldn’t be difficult to imagine that her presence only added to the rottenness of the whole affair. One of the guards could mumble a few words of English and, pointing at the woman, said, “Five times she here.” As an answer, the old fool just smiled at us. Honestly, I was so enraged. Why we should have to stand for such treatment from the Italian police, for absolutely no reason, was more irritating than I can possibly narrate. Finally the woman was removed to another room amidst another outburst of filthy gestures and wise cracks in Italian.

It was just at this point that we learned the cause of our arrest. One of the guards showed us a paper he was read­ing. In spite of its being in Italian, we could make out a few words, enough to figure out that evidently a robbery had occurred at the Excelsior Hotel in Rome a few hours before we had checked out and that we, being three American students, were suspected. It seemed that a Mrs. Grant of New York had been robbed of two million lire worth of jewelry. One guard said that we had been accused of the theft. This made us even more exasperated. Why Mrs. Grant should take it upon herself to charge us with the hold-up was more than we could figure out. But all our anger and rage didn’t help us one bit – we were simply out of luck.

Pulling a couple of benches together, we stretched ourselves out on them. Believe me, they were mighty uncomfortable and I realized that if I slept a wink I’d be lucky. It grew colder and colder and, not being permitted to open our luggage, we had to shiver or else walk about and exercise. John chose this latter method but I for one was too exhausted. I just wrapped my coat about me as tightly as I could and hoped morning would soon come.

About every half hour a bunch of guards would come in, point at us and talk in such loud voices that my ears just rang. Of all the filthy, disreputable gangs! Sleeping was im­possible. The time dragged by very slowly and it seemed hours between the different times I looked at my watch which in reality was about every fifteen minutes.

By three o’clock things had quieted down. The guard took his chair and, putting it in front of the door to prevent our escape, soon fell asleep in it. I never in my life heard anyone snore like he did. The whole cell just vibrated like a drum. I couldn’t stand it. I got up and paced around the room for an hour and then took it upon myself to wake him up by hammering on the bench with my heels.

Well, the night passed and I managed to doze off a couple of times. When the first rays of dawn slipped in through the iron grated window ten feet above the floor in one wall of the prison, I couldn’t help but feel better. Nevertheless, I was frightfully cold, almost starved and completely exhausted. A night without sleep isn’t so bad but when you consider the nervous excitement that went with it all you can well surmise how we felt.

The lazy Commissioner of Police, who probably had spent half the night at some dance or festival, didn’t show up until about nine thirty. Of course, we hadn’t had a bite to eat. We were led up to the sitting room outside his office and, after about a half hour’s wait, John was called into the main office. Ed and I waited for over an hour during which time John was put through a sort of third degree of questioning. When Ed and I were requested to enter we too were thoroughly interviewed by two special policemen who had come down from Rome.

Here is the explanation they made- They said that we had been held because our names had been registered in the hotel in Florence and the hotel in Rome on the same dates and that evidently some people were using our names. We were simply furious to think that we had been held up for such a petty reason and we told them that, more than likely, the hotel clerk in Florence had made a mistake in months for we were in Florence about September 10, 11, and 12 and we were in Rome from October 10 through 15. We all had to make out affidavits which confirmed all that was on our passports. Then we were set free with, even yet, no knowledge of why we had been held other than some mis­take in police records. They didn’t seem to realize that we had lost our boat, missed all our connections and that the affair had involved us in spending another two weeks in Italy with quite an additional expense. When we mentioned a reimbursement, they said that we would have to get it the best way we could.

Before I stop I want to add a few details. They certainly had gone to the bottom of the case. They knew that Scytha had telephoned me in Florence from Venice and they had a letter of introduction to the manager of the American Express in Rome that John had torn up and had thrown out of the porthole of the Esperia. Such nonsense! They seemed amazed that such a letter should be torn up and thought it a great clew. John told them that he had had no more use for it as we were leaving Italy for good. Some men in a rowboat had dashed out in the bay, picked up the pieces and put the letter together. Can you beat that? After a few more formalities we were set free. A Mr. Douglas, a nice Scotch chap who had served as an interpreter, went back to the Excelsior Hotel with us and then we all went directly to the American Con­sul. He was amazed and said that he had not received any message from us and that the first news he had of the matter was in the morning paper. He was just starting out to get us. Mr. Byington, the Consul General, said that he was at the central police office at 5:30, just about half an hour before we arrived and incidentally after we had been taken off the Esperia, but that not a word of the affair had been mentioned to him. He admitted that it was an outrage that we hadn’t been permitted to communicate with him and that the Italian police hadn’t even yet officially notified him that we were in jail. We made our case very strong and demanded that some action be taken at once. He quite agreed with us and said that the whole affair would be sent to the Embassy in Rome immediately. It was almost one o’clock by this time so we made an appointment for four P.M. at which time we were to start making out a complaint.

Dashing over to Cook’s, we explained our difficulties and asked them to try to get the money back on our tickets on the Esperia, which had cost about five hundred dollars. I think that a refund will undoubtedly be made. Ordinarily the consular office is closed on Saturday afternoon but we were on hand at four P.M. Mr. Byington and a secretary were there also. We related all the events and an affidavit was made out. We all signed this and Mr. Douglas, as inter­preter, made out a separate affidavit of the conversation that took place at the inquiry. That was about all we could do for the present so we decided to go back to Rome. It seems that the Italian papers, which are full of the news of the robbery, have not altogether placed us above suspicion. I want very much to tell the Chicago Tribune man in Rome exactly what took place and what outrageous and miserable treatment we had to stand for from the Italian Police. I realize that it will mean publicity which I would like to avoid but I am sure that it is the best and only way of re­moving the slur that has been more or less cast at us and on our names.

On returning to the hotel, we learned through the in­discretion of the head waiter that Mrs. Grant was coming on from Rome to Naples and was due this very night. Hav­ing heard that she was responsible for our being detained and indirectly the cause of our night in jail, Ed wrote a note to her requesting an interview as we felt we had a bone to pick with her. She hadn’t arrived by nine o’clock and being literally snuffed out, we decided to go to bed.

It has been a long time since I was quite so all in.

Rome- Visit to the Pope

Thursday, October 15^th, 1925.

We got started good and early this morning as it was our last day in Rome, for we had planned to get the five o’clock train back to Naples. Last night we receiv­ed our official invitations from the Pope for an audience at 6 P.M. But, as we were planning to be on our way to Naples by that time, we had fully decided that the Pope would be out of luck. Rufini Mareo, our nice little guide, told us that he would change our invitations for the noon audience but we all weren’t too keen to see the Pope even then. However, more to satisfy Mareo rather than ourselves, we said we would go to see his Holiness if the tickets could be changed. Ed and he went off to arrange matters while John and I went to about ten banks to get a good exchange rate. Twenty-five lire to the dollar was the best we could do. I drew out $750 to pay for our tickets up the Nile, which were just a little more. This gets us as far as Rejaf but we can’t make or reserve connections further until we get there.

We returned to the Excelsior and met Ed and the guide who said that after bribing one of the Catholic officials at the Vatican, they had sneaked past a line of people wait­ing for tickets and had changed ours for the noon audience. This makes the second time we have moved ahead of our turn by merely slipping one of the men in the Vatican a few lire. Everyone says that the chap who hands out invitations to see the Pope during the Holy Year makes a regular fortune.

It was 11:40 when we met Ed and we had to be dressed and at the Vatican at twelve. We dashed up to our rooms to put on dark suits. John’s had been at the bottom of his trunk ever since he left England and such a mass of wrinkles you never saw. He refused to wear it saying that he’d rather not see the Pope at all. I didn’t have time to argue with him other than to say that he was a darn fool to miss the opportunity. The ride to the Vatican was taken up with trying to persuade John that his light green suit was per­fectly all right. We finally got him to agree that he’d go in if he saw anyone else that was dressed in a light suit.

We presented our special sort of passports for the Vatican and were admitted. After passing through a number of rooms and courts, we arrived at a chamber full of people. Most everyone was dressed in black except for a few women who were totally in white. All the women had veils over their heads, long sleeve dresses and collars that buttoned up tight around their necks. John slunk off to the darkest corner where he would be least conspicuous. We waited and waited but the Pope didn’t come. Finally, about one o’clock a few men in dress suits announced that his Holiness was coming. Everyone got down on one knee, and all eyes were turned toward a big door at one end of the room. In came the Pope dressed all in white, except for his slippers which were red and, like his dress, trimmed with gold braid. On his head he wore a sort of white skull cap. He was rather short and stout and wore glasses. He was very nice looking and impressed me as being very intelligent, altogether much more refined and sensible appearing than I had expected him to be. Followed by a cardinal, his secretary, and several immaculately dressed guards, he at once started walking around the room holding out his right hand on which was his ring. Everyone leaned over, took his hand, and kissed his ring as he walked past. There really was very little ceremony to it. The cardinal in back handed each person a little charm with the Pope’s picture on it. When he came to us, the Pope said, “Are you from America?” to which we replied, “Yes” and he inquired from what section. We answered, “From the United States.” All he said was, “The United States, well.” I noticed that we were the only people in the room he spoke to and others were eyeing us enviously. When he completed his round of the room he muttered something in Latin to which the audience replied. Then he blessed the people with his right hand and, amidst a burst of applause as loud as when he entered, he withdrew from the room.

Once he was gone, everyone made a rush to get out. We fooled the crowd by easing out a side entrance and were on our way to the Restaurant di Caesar long before half the people left the Vatican. Our Swiss friend had recommended to us this famous restaurant which is on Aventine Hill. He said that it was quite typical of Roman life and customs.

To us, the most typical thing was the millions of flies that infested the place. After a rather ordinary meal, we raced back to the hotel to pack up our things and catch the train.

The ride to Rome was uninteresting. There was no diner so we got off at a little station and got a ham sandwich or two and a bottle of water. The rest of the time we spent playing bridge. We arrived at Rome about ten o’clock.

Naples – Pompeii (First Part)

Friday, October 16^th, 1925.

John and I left about ten o’clock this morning to drive out to Pompeii, which is about sixteen miles from Naples. The road was through the dirtiest and filthiest part of Naples and you’ve never smelled such awful odors. The children were half dressed and were more like a lot of swine than human beings. Besides being so dirty the road was simply terrible. I thought that the car would fall to pieces before we got there.

On arriving in Pompeii an hour and a half later we left our coats at the Inn and started out with our guide to visit the ruins. Of the 20,000 people that lived in Pompeii at the time of the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 A. D., only two thousand were actually killed. The whole city is in a remarkable state of preservation. We visited the various buildings including the Forum with its interesting ruins and the Amphitheatre. Among the things that were of interest to me was the fact that they had no sewerage system at all. All of the refuse was dumped into the streets and stepping stones were provided for people to cross from one sidewalk to another. The bakery shop is still well preserved and one can see where the corn was ground and the bread baked. In the museum, near the chief ruins, the bread itself is on exhibit, as are the bodies of several individuals who were buried under the hot ashes. Several of the houses contain rather questionable things. One is led to believe that the people who once lived here were not of the highest moral and spiritual character. Our guide said that Pompeii was sort of a pleasure city and that there were no great work shops or industries. 

In one way I was disappointed with Pompeii. Most of the beautiful marble has been removed. It stands like a sort of skeleton with all its magnificence removed and only shows the hideous side of what used to be there. Perhaps I am wrong but I had the feeling that the whole place would be better covered up with earth.

The hotel where we ate was poor and the food miserable. I was glad to get back to Naples where we packed up our things and went down to the dock to catch the Esperia which is beyond all doubt the most wonderful ship I’ve ever seen. It makes the Majestic look like a second rate liner. It is fitted out in the most gorgeous manner possible. It really seems a crime to use it- it ought to be put on exhibition. She is 12,500 tons and we are all looking forward to a de­lightful trip. In spite of the fact that we are traveling second class we went right up in the first class apartments. John says it is the only way for if you sneak up the second day or so they notice you, while if you go up at once they become accustomed to seeing you and think you are first class.

Naples

Sunday, October 18^th, 1925. 

Due to our rather strenuous last few days, we slept late this morning and eleven thirty found us just dressed and through breakfast in order to keep our appointment with Mrs. Grant. We soon learned, however, that she, being a nervous wreck, had put off seeing us until this evening and had gone for the day on a sightseeing expedi­tion.

We took a short walk before lunch and then met Douglas, our guide, and incidentally our interpreter of yesterday, at the police station. We hired a comfortable car and started on an excursion to the west and north of Naples. Pozzuoli, a town about seven miles from Rome, was anything but attract­ive. Its streets were as disreputable as any in Naples and one couldn’t help observing the filth everywhere. From an historical point of view it has some interest, for here it was that St. Paul landed in 61 A. D.

The Amphitheatre nearby is very well preserved and we found it quite novel to walk all through its ancient pass­ageways and dark dungeons. It has all been excavated for it was built centuries ago by the Greeks and was afterward completely buried by the eruption of neighboring volcanoes. Our guide told us that at certain times of the year the floor of the arena used to be covered with marble slabs and sand and then flooded with water. In this artificial lake were enacted the notable naval battles of history. I took all this with a grain of salt for his story seemed to me to contain more of poetry and less of truth than it might have. Another good one was how Nero pierced four bulls in the arena with one lance. Now I have seen just enough bull fighting to know where to catalogue this story. If they ever were able to get Nero in the ring with one bull, they were doing well.     

The Solfatara, half a mile from Pozzuoli, is the place of an ancient volcanic crater whose last and only historic violent eruption was in 1198. The crater rim is several hundred feet in diameter but looks like thirty cents com­pared to Crater Lake in Oregon. The floor of the crater, however, is not covered by a lake but contains several vents or fissures from which one can watch the boiling lava. Steam and sulphur fumes arise from numerous holes all over the crater floor. On one side of the rim a little stone house has been built which serves as a sort of sulphur fume bath for people with consumption. The natives claim it is a wonderful cure out I am rather dubious of these native stories. The floor of the crater is quite hollow, being only a couple of meters thick, and by dropping big stones, it is easy to hear a sort of boom. It was really quite worth while seeing.

The road to Cumae and Baia was simply atrocious. I thought we would never get back to Naples alive. Baia is a little picturesque town on the famous Bay of Baia, which Horace claims is the most beautiful bay in the world. It is attractive, but I can’t say that I altogether agree with Horace. Cape Miseno, the residence of Brutus, where he retired after killing Caesar, is very impressive. The top of it is some 300 feet above the bay, and the castle on its summit is certainly imposing.        

We stopped to look at Lake Lucrinus, and Lake Avernus which is supposed to be the gateway to hell. I was rather bored with all this rot. There wasn’t anything worth bothering to see; there were a number of mediocre ruins, but I was glad when we started back for Naples. The sun was just setting, and it cast a magnificent, deep red color over the mountains. It certainly was a glorious sunset.

When we got back to the Excelsior, the manager came to our room and said that Mrs. Grant would like to see us if we cared to come to her apartment. Ed, John, and I, followed by the manager, stalked into her rooms, where we met a Mr. and Mrs. Myers, who were traveling with her. She appeared a minute or so later. She seemed quite hurt by the letter Ed had written, and evidently did not see why we should be so put out when after all she had suffered by far the greater loss. I noticed her eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and when she told how she had come over here to recover from the shock of the death of her little boy, and then had this robbery occur, I confess I was rather sorry Ed had sent her such an indignant note. I explained to her all the misfor­tune we had had, and how the Italian papers had said it was she who had accused us of the robbery. The conversation lasted a half hour or so, and ended with apologies all around. She said she had come down to Naples to escape the publicity and annoyance of re­porters, and was rather anxious to know how we knew she was coming to the Excelsior. The manager had previously warned us not to blame it on the head waiter, so we said the police told us. Mrs. Grant seemed very nice in spite of her dumbness in carting $80,000 worth of jewelry around Europe with her. She said, contrary to the story in the papers, that her jewels were locked in a box in her trunk; that the robbers had to enter through three different doors, and break the locks on the trunk and the box contain­ing the jewelry. All this occurred within fifteen minutes’ time. She had never heard of us, and didn’t know even that we were arrested until she read it in the papers. I felt very sorry for her, though John and Ed didn’t seem to waste too much sympathy on her. Of course, she is really to blame for our inconven­ience, but my grievance is more with the Italian po­lice. 

By the time our interview was over, it was quite late, so we had dinner and went to bed tout de suite. We are all still exhausted after our night in jail.

Tomorrow we are going back to Rome. All the people in the hotel kid us about the jewels. We have become quite prominent, and everyone bows to us. It is really funny what a little notoriety will do.

I forgot to include something that, although a little detail, was rather interesting to me. I never knew until today that the idea of the Corinthian col­umn was conceived from the flower that we in America call the snap dragon. I must say that a comparison of the two makes the story seem quite plausible.

Naples- Rome

Monday, October 19^th, 1925. 

There was one grand rush this morning. Our train for Rome left at 10:30 A.M. and we had to make arrange­ments at Cook’s and the American Express. Ed went to see about our wire to Brindisi for accommodations to Alexandria on the boat next Saturday and John went to the American Express to send a cable to Father and Mr. Pirie and, in­cidentally, the lucky dog, found a couple of letters wait­ing for him. I packed the suitcases. We left most of our luggage here in Naples. Arriving at the station with a few minutes to spare, we tipped the ticket man who let the three of us pass with our four bags. We have learned by experience that this is, after all, the cheapest and easiest method. It is a wonder what difference a few lire make. The train was jammed and we piled our stuff in a compart­ment which the conductor was holding for someone who would give him a tip but we couldn’t be bothered tipping the whole railroad force so we took the compartment, not without a great deal of protest. Experience has also taught us to get seats for the diner at once as everyone tries for the one o’clock service and if you don’t get seats you have to eat at 11:30 A.M.

We arrived in Rome about 3:30 P. M. and came right to the Excelsior. All the hotel people are most apologetic about our misfortune and certainly are as nice as they can be. Our rooms are just the same as we had before and are most comfortable. At Cook’s, the manager was quite sur­prised to see us. They all seem to think it was a great joke and I admit it does seem pretty funny now but, believe me, I failed to see the humorous side of it while sitting in that confounded Naples jail.      

Lilian Gibson, from the Associated Press and New York­ Herald, was over here at 5:30 to see us and get our story and believe me we gave it to her with all the details. I was so mad at the Italian police and so upset at the Italian papers, because of the miserable way they had cast a doubt­ful suspicion upon us, that I thought the best way to clear the whole matter up was to tell the entire story. John, Ed and I all interviewed her and gave her an earful. I noticed that she tried to worm some information out of us about our interview with Mrs. Grant but none of us advanced any news in that direction. The hotel people looked rather excited. I don’t believe they liked the fact that we gave her our story for, quite naturally, it will be connected with the Excelsior and they aren’t looking for this sort of publicity.

Short afterward, the Chicago Tribune man called up and wanted the dope. He said that he didn’t have time to come to the hotel but asked about a million questions which Ed answered over the phone. We played a hand or so of bridge and then went down to dinner. It sounds ridicu­lous to say that we are still rather behind in sleep but we must be for by ten o’clock none of us could keep our eyes open to write. Good heavens! The diaries are days behind.

Rome

Tuesday, October 20^th, 1925. 

This morning, before we had finished dressing, the Associated Press was on the phone wanting to take our pictures which we, of course, would not permit. After breakfast, we went down to Cook’s and obtained our sleepers to Brindisi for Thursday night. The boat which we are to take from there to Alexandria doesn’t leave until Saturday but all the Friday night sleepers are full so we will have to spend a day in Brindisi. Ed is going back to Naples to get our laundry and steamer tickets, while John and I will go straight through to Brindisi from here.

We took a walk through the main shopping district and stopped at an excellent English bookstore where we all bought some reading material. As usual, I saw a lot of things I wanted to buy but limited myself to a little pocket comb that cost about 20 lire. I had to laugh this morning when I thought about seeing Ruffini Mareo, our guide, again, for he told us that if we dropped a coin in the Fountain of Trevi we would surely return to Rome, and, by golly, here we are again.

While lunching at the Excelsior Hotel, the Marchese Bernardo Patrizzi called on us. He is a friend of Ed and Clydesdale and seems to be quite a figure in the Mussolini government. We told him of our experience in jail and the way the Italian police had treated us. He was quite upset and said that it was a dreadful mistake and asked us if we would mind going to the Commissioner of Police here in Rome to tell our story so that the party to be blamed could be punished. He told us that Mussolini wanted to find out just this sort of thing and said that the only way to improve the police system is to fix the responsibility for such mistakes on someone. Incidentally Patrizzi gave us some information we hadn’t heard before which made us feel less sympathetic toward Mrs. Grant. It appears that on leaving New York she merely told her secretary to put in what jewels she would probably need and, not having looked at them herself, she is unable to give the police any description of what she had lost. Of course, this makes the situation almost impossible for them. Besides her jewelry she had five or seven hundred dollars in American bank notes. Why she is carting this currency around with her is a mystery to me. So, all in all, I think that she more or less deserves to lose the whole business.

I spent the entire afternoon writing on my diary, from two until seven o’clock. Ed went out to visit a few friends. Just before dinner, John and I took a walk about town for a little diversion. Gosh! I’m sick of this fool diary! Patrizzi telephoned us after dinner and invited us all to lunch at his club tomorrow. It certainly was nice of him. He is an awfully attractive fellow and, being from one of the better class or highest type of Italian families, he is a real gentleman.

Rome

Wednesday, October 21^st, 1925. 

I spent the entire morning writing on my diary which of late has been sadly neglected. It is practically im­possible to keep up with it while in Rome for we see so much that, unless we spend hours and hours writing, we all find ourselves slipping hopelessly behind. Before I really begin today’s account, I want to add a correction to my diary of a few days ago. While describing the interior of St. Peters, I said that the coat of arms of the Borgia family consisted of three bees. That is wrong. The three bees are the emblem of the Barberini family. 

As previously arranged, the Marchese Bernardo Patrizzi called for us at the Excelsior Hotel at one o’clock and we drove over to his club for lunch. The club is located in an old palace that used to belong to the Borghese family. It is a tremendous place and only about one fourth is oc­cupied by the club members. We had a most interesting time. Patrizzi is very ambitious for his country and if all the Italians were like him, I’m sure they would be much further along. One of his chief hobbies is fox hunting which they have taken up over here. This fall two packs of American hounds, which have recently been imported, are going to be given their first trial in this country. After lunch he showed us about the palace, which was built long before America was discovered. Patrizzi sang the praises of Mus­solini who seems to be a favorite with everyone over here. I can’t help feeling that Mussolini will make a tremendous improvement in Italy if given a chance. He seems to know his business when it comes to politics. For example, Italy is about 95% Catholic. Pope Leo XIII, years ago, before he died, wished to be buried in a certain church in Rome but, up until now, the Italian government has refused to permit it. When Mussolini came into power, he at once granted this permission to show that he wasn’t against the church. Furthermore, he has had several crosses erected over old decayed churches as a sign that he is in accord with the Catholic religion. He certainly is a smart fellow.

But, getting back to the subject, Patrizzi is a very charming chap and we all enjoyed our lunch with him. He was very apologetic about the trouble that the police had caused us and said that he was going to investigate the whole business. At the Excelsior, we found little Ruffini waiting for us so we started right off to see some more of Rome.

The Villa Umberto Primo, formerly the Villa Borghese, belonging to the same family who owned the palace where we had lunch, was our first stop. Here we saw Titian’s masterpiece “Sacred and Profane Love.” The other great pictures were Raphael’s “Entombment,” Correggio’s “Danae” and “The Madonna of the Finger” by Carlo Dolci. Here too, was another picture by Raphael bearing his signature- the only one in the world. The Villa Borghese also contained some marvelous sta­tues. I liked Canova’s masterpiece of “The Sister of Napoleon” the best. Honestly, it is one of the most wonderful pieces of work I’ve ever seen. Bernini is represented by several well known groups such as: “Apollo and Daphne,” “The Three Genera­tions” and “Pluto with the Wife of Hercules.” It is a most interesting little gallery and well worth visiting.

We next turned our steps toward “Scala Santa.” This is really very unique. It consists of a flight of twenty-eight steps supposed to have been brought from the House of Pilate. It is claimed that Jesus walked up and down these same marble steps many different times. On them are several red blots which are thought to be some of the drops of blood from Christ’s body. These marks are covered over with glass. No one is per­mitted to walk up these stairs but hundreds of people climb them on their knees, saying a prayer on each step. At the top is a picture of Jesus painted centuries ago. It was a most unusual sight to watch the pilgrims go up these stairs half of them weeping and all of them kissing the glass plates over the drops of blood. Some of them are regular fanatics and they kiss every step, the walls, floor, etc., everything they possibly can. At the bottom of the stairs is a sign, placed there by one of the popes, which reads that all who go up the stairs on their knees are freed from purgatory.

There are four holy doors in Rome that are opened every twenty-five years. The chief one, of course, is at St. Peters. The others are at St. John in Lateran, St. Paul and the Church of St. Maria Maggiore. After leaving Scala Santa, we visited St. John in Lateran which is one of the largest and most im­portant of the churches in Rome. This used to be the main or head church of the Catholics before 1870 when the popes chose to remain prisoners of the Italian government. A big building next to the cathedral was formerly the residence of the popes and here we saw the first real holy door. Of course, it is now opened by one of the Roman cardinals for the pope only opens the holy door at St. Peters, not being able to leave the Vatican. The Church of St. John in Lateran contains a number of interesting things, among the most important being the private chapel of the Corsini family where Pope Leo XIII is now buried due to the kindness and tact of Mr. Mussolini. “Pieta” by Bernini is also one of the more significant works. Here, too, are the heads or skulls of both St. Peter and St. Paul and two pieces of wood from the cradle of Christ. As far as I was concerned, the chief thing of interest was a fresco by Giotto. It illustrates so well what I have been studying about him that I must admit I felt rather excited about it, almost as if I had made a new discovery.

The cloisters adjacent to the monastery contained some famous relics. Among the chief ones were the chair of Pope Sylvester I from which he baptized Constantine, and a piece of Egyptian porphyry on which the soldiers of Pilate shot dice for the clothes of Christ after he was put on the cross. 

The Church of St. Maria Maggiore, the largest church in the world built to the Virgin Mary, and one of the four churches in Rome containing a holy door, was our next place of visit. The legend, connected with the building of this church, is that Pope Liberius had a dream in which God told him to found a church in Rome where snow would fall that night, so the next day he went out on the Esquiline Hill and there, miraculously, had fallen a heap of snow. He took a stick an in the snow drew the plans of the church which was to be erected there. This church contains the private chapel of the Borghese family, the same family who owned the palace we had lunch at and the Villa or art gallery we visited in the early part of the afternoon. It is supposed to be one of the richest chapels in the world as there is a lot of lapis lazuli and precious marble in the altar and walls. The ceiling is decorated with gold brought from America by Columbus.

I had to laugh at John’s remark in the Corsini chapel. The guide was telling us how St. Peter had wished to be crucified upside down so that it wouldn’t be in the same way Christ died. “Of course,” the guide added, “St. Peter died much quicker this way- in about six hours.” John said, “Believe me, there was no grass growing under St. Peter’s feet- he knew his eggs.”

Well, this ended our day’s sightseeing and we went back to Cook’s next door to where I purchased some American newspapers and magazines. Before dinner, John, Ed and I all boxed a few rounds and, after an excellent meal, we settled down to this never ending writing business. I realize my diaries of late, especially since I got to Rome, have been much too long and uninteresting but as long as I started putting down so many details I might as well finish all of Rome in this manner. 

Merely as a matter of record, I will add that I am the same height as Jesus Christ in case you’d like to know. At the cloisters we visited this afternoon was erected a slab that had been brought from the Holy Land which, lying in a horizontal plane above the ground, measured how tall our saviour was. Also, in the same place, we saw the well of the good Samaritan. For further information in regard to this story, see Mr. E. L. W.

Rome

Thursday, October 22^nd, 1925. 

Ed left very early for Naples to get our steamer tickets, and any cables that might have been received at the American Express there. It was 9:30 before John and I were dressed and had finished breakfast. With Ruffini, we went at once to apply for tickets to visit the Royal Palace and Stables which are open to the public only once a week, and then the number of visitors is limited. Just as John and Ruffini were stepping up for their turn, after an hour’s wait, the guard said that no more tickets would be issued but a five lire tip made him change his mind. You can really get most anything over here if you give a small tip. The people’s respect for law and order seems to worth from five to ten lire. For more than that they are ready to start a revolution. 

The Church of the Capuchins contains Guido Reni’s “St. Michael,” but aside from this it is worth seeing for its interesting and unique burial vaults. The Capuchin monks have been laid to rest here in the basement of this church for years and years. Rather recently, someone conceived the idea of decorating the walls and ceilings with their bones. Consequently, a sort of mosaic pattern of skulls and bones covers the whitewashed walls. Even the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling are made of old limbs and fingers. The remains of 4,000 monks are in this place and at the farther end of the various little vaults the skulls are piled one on top of another from the floor to the ceiling. Ruffini told us that when he acted as guide for a bunch of American soldiers after the war, they swiped practically all the bones near the floor to take home as souvenirs.

Our next stop was at Capitoline Hill, on which are located several interesting buildings. The Capitoline Museum contains many well known pieces of sculpture, such as, “The Dying Gladiator,” “Venus of the Capitol” and the “Faun” by Praxiteles. This would be an admirable place to study Roman history, for there is the best collection of busts and statues of Roman emperors, statesmen, and philosophers here that the world possesses. 

Right across the square is the Palace of the Conservatoire, where the most famous works are the “Bronze Wolf” and the “Boy with the Thorn in His Foot.” A little church nearby contains the statue of the “Divine Infant,” which is covered with hundreds of watches and gold chains. When a person is very sick this statue is carried to the house of the afflicted party and if he or she recovers some sort of jewelry is draped over the wooden body of the Christ Child. We were given a little card as a souvenir of the church. On the back of it is printed a little prayer. Every time you say this prayer you are granted 100 days indulgence from Purgatory. 

This ended our morning’s sightseeing. On arriving back at the Excelsior, we read the accounts of our arrest in the Chicago Tribune, Paris Edition; and also in the New York Herald. The reporter, of course, got everything mixed up and didn’t make the articles half forceful enough to suit us. John termed both write-ups as “lousy.”

In the afternoon we went to the Royal Stables and saw one of the most wonderful collections of saddles, harnesses and carriages in the world. John says that even the stable of the King of England does not come up to these. What was so amazing to me was the perfect manner in which everything was kept up. The bits were polished so that they shone like a nigger’s heel. Everything was immaculate. The carriages were beyond description. Never have I seen such magnificent ones. Most of them were built over a hundred years ago and are decorated with paintings, gold trimmings, etc.- perfectly priceless. I couldn’t help feeling that if half the time that is spent keeping the stables in such faultless order was put in cleaning up the filth in the streets Rome and Italy would be far better off. 

The Royal Palace is one of the very best we have seen. While it is enormous it isn’t as large as Potsdam or some of the others but its interior is gorgeous. And somehow, too, there is a much more livable atmosphere about it. Among the things that impressed me very much were the wonderful Japanese vases which decorated most every room. Like most of the other royal palaces in the capitols of Europe, it is superb and no description can do it justice. 

We had tea at a little place across from the Excelsior. We left Ruffini at the American Express and decided to pack up and write a few letters before dinner. John met a Mr. and Mrs. Downs while in the lobby. Mr. Downs and his wife are on a trip around the world and are following practically the same itinerary that we are. Mary Downs, whom John and I met a couple of summers ago while she was visiting Daisy, is their niece. 

Our train for Brindisi left at eight forty so, as soon as dinner was over, we piled into the bus. As usual, the whole staff at the hotel was out to see us off, each one holding out his hand for a tip. On boarding the train, we went right to bed but the road was so rough and the train jumped around the track so much that, when we reached Caserta at one o’clock where Ed got on, we were still awake. Ed had a lot of mail for John, mailed from Chicago October 3, and two cables for me- an awfully nice one from Father and one from Bill that made us all roar. It said, “Confine efforts to collecting Spanish desks. Leave jewelry alone.”

Brindisi

Friday, October 23^rd, 1925. 

The crazy porter woke us at eight o’clock to give us some cold, rotten coffee and, with its arrival all chance of sleep departed, so I got dressed to have a look at the scenery. The railroad just north of Brindisi runs parallel to the Adriatic and the beautiful blue sky and the sea air were welcome to sight and smell after the treeless mountains and stuffy tunnels. 

At Brindisi we were stopped by a bunch of petty, annoying, inefficient, useless and worthless Fascisti who claimed that we had too much baggage and said that we’d have to pay for excess weight. Honestly, Italy is beautiful and all that but the Italians are such a little, rotten lot that they take all the pleasures out of traveling over here. The Hotel International sounded fine but it is terrible. We learned that, according to our instructions, the mail that was here—three letters for John and two for Ed—had just been forwarded to Nairobi. 

The lunch was abominable. In the afternoon we hired a little sailboat for thirty lire and went for a twelve or fifteen mile sail about the bay. There is a strict rule that no pictures can be taken of the harbor, as it is supposed to be one of the strongest fortified ports that Italy possesses. Consequently, John was stopped with his camera before he had gotten aboard and had to leave it at the hotel. We took a little guide from the Lloyd Triestino along with us and, as there was a good breeze, he was scared to death. He said that he was always glad when these sailboat rides were over. 

We went to the Cook office here to see about going to Athens and Constantinople. It seems quite unadvisable to attempt any such scheme for we are apt to miss our connections in Cairo and, further, the steamship service out of Constantinople is uncertain and irregular due to some sort of war down in the Holy Land. Baghdad is out of the question as all tourists have been ordered out and regular transportation lines shut down. 

After our sail we all wrote and slept until dinner which was considerably better than lunch due to the fact that we ordered a special meal a la carte instead of eating their awful table d’hote. The movies furnished the evening’s entertainment and the picture, “The Merchant of Venice,” was only able to hold us for half an hour. I think the movie business would be the right thing over here. The theatre we were in was simply packed and jammed full. If someone built a decent movie house and had a few American pictures they could make a fortune in no time. Our little guide said that all Italians greatly preferred American movies to their own. 

Brindisi is a city of 40,000 but you would never guess it. It looks absolutely like a mass of shattered ruins—washed out and dried up. Excuse me from Brindisi! The harbor is quite a different matter. It is well constructed and looks as if it were in admirable shape. We saw, on this afternoon’s sail, several forts with disappearing guns and a lot of hangars. It is evidently quite an aviation base.

We went to bed about eleven o’clock in our mosquito net covered beds and, believe me, nets certainly were a welcome protection against the hundreds of flies and mosquitoes that buzzed all around us. The hotel is right on the edge of the bay and about twenty feet from the main wharf. About two o’clock, several ships came in and when they set off the steam whistles right next to us we were almost thrown out of bed. But the worst was yet to come! They proceeded to unload their cargoes with several donkey engines and you never heard such a racket. It continued all night long even if I was too exhausted to listen to such a bedlam of squeaks, hoarse voices and the muffled sound of motors. John and I certainly will be glad to see the last of Brindisi.  

Sail from Brindisi

Saturday, October 24^th, 1925.

This morning the record for miserable and undrinkable coffee was tied. Golly! Never have I tasted such a mess! If it were given to someone at a hotel in the States, I think he would shoot the manager. On the whole, the breakfast was terrible.

We were busily packing our luggage when the hotel clerk, who, incidentally, is the representative of the American Express office here, brought up our bill. Well, the trouble began right here. He insisted on charging us for two days at the hotel when we had just arrived exactly 24 hours before to the minute, it being then about eleven o’clock. He even showed us the wire we had sent, saying: “Reserve two rooms for Friday night.” His argument was that he had reserved the rooms since last Tuesday so that he would be certain to have them for us, and that we ought at least to pay for two days. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? He was quite ready to go to the police about it until John said he had a letter from the President of the American Express, who he knew very well, and that he would most certainly report such an outrage. At once the clerk calmed down. He had also charged us for a private bath, which was absurd, for we didn’t have any bath at all, but went way down the hall to bathe in the public one. In the end we got him to reduce the bill to one day, and to take off the charge for the private bath. That is what I dislike about the Italians: they want to, and try to, do you at every turn of the road. You haven’t any idea how annoying it is to be gypped every minute of the day. One has to be on his guard constantly. The clerk’s statement about reserving rooms was silly for there were not four people in the whole hotel besides ourselves.

At the dock I sent a cable to Father, acknowledging his and Bill’s cables, which Ed had picked up at Naples. The “Helouan” looked might nice, as we boarded her. She is about a 9,000 or 10,000 tonner. But once in her, we were even more delighted, and surprised. While she doesn’t compare with the “Esperia,” she is a peach of a boat, and our stateroom, where all three of us sleep, is quite large and comfortable. John and I walked all over her, and certainly are pleased, for it looks as though we were going to have a slick trip to Alexandria. None of us would breathe a sigh relief until we got outside of the harbor. I expected the Fascisti to come aboard any minute and take us off. Somehow I almost have a guilty con­science, and feel that we are a bunch of a sort of escaping criminals.

The “Helouan.” I could write pages about her. She is a perfect beauty: nice, wide decks, closed-in porch, with palm trees; big writing room, and all that sort of thing. Besides, she is loaded down to capacity, which is a good thing, for she is very steady, and not top heavy as she might be with a light cargo.

We had a fine lunch, the first good meal for sev­eral days, and in the afternoon, after we sailed, John and I read. I can’t describe how wonderful I felt. The boat is so darn comfortable, and I have a wonder­fully luxurious feeling walking about her decks. By dinner time a good breeze had sprung up, and while a few individuals heaved their cakes, I must say that I didn’t feel the least bit seasick. The “Helouan” is as steady as the “Majestic,” which was really amaz­ing to me. At four o’clock we had a delicious tea, and then listened to the orchestra for an hour or so. Ed and I boxed a bit on the upper deck when it got a little dark so that a whole bunch wouldn’t stand around looking at us in dumb amazement. I felt es­pecially foolish, for I look like a big, awkward calf boxing with Ed.

At dinner, which was about a ten course one, we learned that there was a moving picture show, which we were on hand for at nine o’clock. The first reel was all we could stand. John says two records have been shattered today: first, the prize coffee which we had at breakfast, and the second the worst movie ever produced. The rest of the evening we spent playing bridge, and when we went to bed found that it would be impossible to open the cabin port hole for ­there was a big sea that completely washed over it every fifteen seconds, and we would have been swamped or drowned in no time. Consequently, the fan was the only means of ventilation, and it was hardly ade­quate for it was extremely warm.

At sea en route, Brindisi – Alexandria

Sunday, October 25^th, 1925.

I awoke this morning, in spite of the stuffy atmos­phere, feeling like a new man. This nice warm sea air is more than a tonic. I had hardly finished a wonderful breakfast and settled down in the writing room to catch up on my correspondence when a steward brought me a cup of delicious hot consomme and some toast. While not the least bit hungry, I decided not to miss a thing which, I think, rather disgusted John. I spent the whole morning writing except a half hour or so that I spent walking around the deck.

Lunch was as good as the one we had yesterday and, feeling too lazy to write, I settled myself in a comfort­able chair where I sat most of the afternoon reading “Saint Joan” by Shaw. This makes two books that I have read in two days for I finished “These Mortals” yesterday and it wasn’t much to rave about. It was four o’clock by this time so we all went down to another delicious tea. As John said, all we seem to do on this boat is eat.

After tea the scenery was really too beautiful to spend one’s time reading or writing. All day we had been able to see little islands in the distance but along about sundown we passed within a few miles of the island of Crete. It was a glorious sight. It seemed like a mass of enormous lofty mountains had been pushed right up out of the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean. Barren, bleak and uninhabited looking – yet it was magnificent. There was a sort of haze of low hanging clouds alone in the blue sky that clustered about the highest peaks. Add to this an indescribable golden color of the setting sun and the silvery gleam of a half full moon – it was simply perfect. ­I watched it for an hour or so and then regretfully left it all to box a few rounds with Ed. After this I took a nice hot bath and fresh water shower.

The dinner was delicious and we all felt so fine afterwards that we decided to make another try at the movies. We were certainly greatly surprised when we saw an old, but good, American movie starring Mary Pickford. During the movie I started a conversation with an old Yale graduate of the class of eighty-eight. The comedy was Harold Lloyd and Bebe Daniels, or as Clayton says, “Babe” Daniels, and while it was produced in about 1912 it was not half bad.

By this time the moon was quite high up in the heavens and it was the most romantic and glorious night I’ve ever seen. The wind had dropped down and there was only a warm salt breeze blowing. Golly, it felt wonderful just to be alive. The sea being calmer, we were able to open the porthole and the cabin was soon flooded with fresh air. I went to sleep thinking what a won­derful time I was having and that I was the luckiest boy in the whole world. I certainly am enjoying this trip more than anything so far since I left home. I can’t help feeling that we have left all of Europe be­hind. It was fun- it was interesting – it was educa­tional – but me for the land of Africa and the heat of the desert. (Sounds like I’m getting to be a poet or something.)

En route to Alexandria and arrival,

Monday, October 26^th, 1925.

My first thought on waking this morning was the un­comfortable one of realizing that our trip, to Alexandria was almost over. It has been so nice and restful after the confusion of Italy that I hate to think of getting into all the mess of porters, custom house officials and mobs of people which we are bound to meet on docking.

After a delicious breakfast I went up to the writing room where I scratched off a few more letters. It is much warmer and brighter out today. The sea is quite calm and the Helouan is clipping along at a faster rate in an effort to make up time. The heavy sea we ran into outside of Brindisi slowed us up considerably. At eleven o’ clock we all had some delicious consommé and toast. Nothing of particular interest happened during the morning. In the afternoon, along about three o’clock, land was first sighted. There at first appeared a long line of yellow sand and, as we drew closer, we could see the numerous buildings – all of a bright color and vividly reflecting the brilliant light of the sun and sea. I had been reading “The Last Days of Pompeii” but deserted it to watch the shoreline grow larger and larger as we neared it. However, tea interrupted my observations for twenty minutes or half an hour. When I came up on deck I noticed that the boat had stopped. It seems that the channel is very narrow and we had to wait for a Dutch battleship to come out of the harbor.

The coastline is very low and the country to the west of Alexandria looks like a lot of desert sand hills, very small and barren. The famous lighthouse is quite prominent. It is said that the architect who built it for Ptolemy II carved his own name in the marble and filled it in with plaster over which he wrote Ptolemy II. After a few centuries, the plaster fell out so that the great monument to the sailors of the Mediterranean bears the architect’s own name. 

As we entered the harbor, people became noticeably excited and started rushing allover the boat. A dozen or more officials, wearing those waste paper basket red hats with black tassels like the shriners wear, came aboard. There was a jam to get the passports stamped and to obtain health certificates. After an hour or so, we proceeded to the wharf. We were met by fifty little boats, each one flying a flag of a different hotel in Alexandria or Cairo. There was a shouting of “Cook’s,” “Shepherds Hotel” and “Majestic” as well as a dozen or fifteen more. In each little boat was a crew of oarsmen in native costume. They had a great time bumping into each other and yelling back and forth. After ten or fifteen min­utes, as we neared the dock, there was a race back to the wharf in which Cook’s boat, in spite of run­ning down several of its opponents, beat the one from the Shepard’s by half a length amidst much cheering. They are really just like a lot of kids.

It was after six when we finally got on shore, and into a terrible confusion of people running in all directions, shouting, jams of luggage, and porters. John and I had the devil of a time finding the cus­toms, where we discovered our bags were about five from the last. I’ve never seen such heartless cus­tom officials. They just ripped into every suitcase and opened every sack. It seems you have to pay a duty on anything that is new, or anything outside of personal clothing. I almost died when I thought of all the things, like cameras, victrola, records, films, etc., that I had in my bags. We tried to bribe one of the customs men to let us go on without inspection, but “no soap.” After an hour’s wait, we piled our eight bags on the counter. The man from the Claridge Hotel in Alexandria was with us so the custom man only made us open four bags, two of which were mine. For­tunately, he picked out the two in which I had the least number of dutiable things. I certainly breathed a sigh of relief. He said I’d have to pay three pounds on the victrola and records, about $15.00. Instead, the Shepard man winked at me, and told me to give him 35 pi­asters, or about $1.75, and he’d let me pass. Golly! Everything here seems to be graft.

We all felt relieved to get to the hotel and to know that the whole mess was over. On the way from the station, we saw a sign which said “Barbara La Marr in ‘Sandra’,” so after dinner we went to the movies. All the subtitles were in French, but over on the wall to the right were flashed translations in English and Arabic. Of course, the English was about two jumps back of the French subtitle, so that it made the whole thing quite complicated. I’m getting so that French is about as easy for me to understand as English. It certainly seems simple after looking at Arabic and Egyptian hieroglyphics.

We walked about the town a little, but didn’t see much as all the shops were closed. It is a great deal warmer here, and, believe me, I feel great. It is just like Florida, wonderful moon and all. Good night.

Alexandria to Cairo

Tuesday, October 27^th, 1925.

He got up early this morning and after a miserable breakfast of muddy coffee and cold, partly boiled eggs we went out to see the sights of Alexandria. At Cook’s office John arranged to have his movie camera shipped in bond to Cairo and to clear it there. We saw some nice shops and a darn good Kodak place out I have decided to wait until I reach Cairo to make any purchases. As a matter of fact Cairo, which contains almost a million people, is about twice the size of Alexandria. Somehow there is a sort of cosmopolitan atmosphere about Alexan­dria.

On arriving back at the hotel we secured a guide and hired a car to drive about the city. It didn’t take us long to decide to take the 3 P.M. train for Cairo for there isn’t really a thing to see in Alexandria. We motored down to the harbor and then visited an ancient burial place, a vault affair about sixty feet underground. Our guide, who was really rather annoying before long, told us that a great deal of opium is smuggled into the country because practically all of the soldiers are not above taking a few piasters bribe. We were not able to get in the King’s palace so, after driving through the Arab quarters which were exactly like those in Tunis and Algiers, we returned to the hotel. We took an early lunch and caught the three o’ clock train for Cairo. In spite of all our luggage, a tip to the gateman was all that was needed to put our stuff all into one compartment and save us the expense of checking it through.        

The trip from Alexandria to Cairo was most interesting. In the first place it was a perfectly beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky and just as warm and nice as in Florida. I felt better than any time since I left home. It is, in a way, a relief to feel that Europe is behind one and that the best part of the whole trip is just ahead. I’m sure I’m going to like Egypt. I knew it for certain this afternoon on the way to Cairo. The country was flat practically all the way- flat as a pancake – but the soil was as black as any I’ve ever seen. The natives are able to raise three crops a year and it is a wonder they can’t raise more. Every field is irrigated and the Nile is prevented from entirely flooding the whole district by canals, dams, etc. The three chief crops seem to be corn, rice and cotton. Corn, or maize as the English call it, is the main one and I’ve never seen so many miles of it in my life. Here and there we saw strange, beautifully colored birds, water buffaloes and hundreds of half dressed black children. The buildings of the native villages, like everywhere in Egypt, are made entirely of a peculiar clay, a sort of grey, dried up looking composition. It began to get considerably warmer and we were not long in taking off our coats and vests. This kind of weather just suits me. I revel in it.

We passed several little towns along the way, the sta­tion platforms of which were covered with Egyptian officials, railroad policemen, and natives selling everything from dirty drinking water to miniature tombs and coffins. It was after six when we reached Cairo and we hopped aboard the Shepard Hotel bus at once.

Personally, I thought the hotel was right in there. John and Ed both seemed a little disappointed as they had heard about the great Shepard’s Hotel in Cairo for years and years. But I was amazed to find such a nice place. After the one we stopped at in Alexandria, Shepard’s seems like the Drake. The interior was most attractive, being finished in Egyptian style and having many large lounge, writing and sitting rooms. Our bedrooms, too, were excellent and over­looked a beautiful garden of tropical plants and palms. The beds I never will forget for they were as comfortable as any I’ve ever slept in and were protected from the flies and mos­quitoes by big mosquito nets draped around them.

After boxing a few rounds, having a hair cut and a much needed shampoo, we dressed for dinner. The dining room does not open until eight so we were on hand at that time. We had hesitated whether to put on our tuxedos or not but we were greatly satisfied with ourselves when we saw no one in the dining room without one.

I was talking to John and Ed when I noticed a couple of boys smiling at me from the other end of the room. At first I thought that they must be looking at someone in back of me so I paid no attention to them. Suddenly I recognized Roth Sheriff in spite of his half grown mustache. There were he and Bic Bissel, an awfully nice fellow from college, and a member of Elihu Club. Golly! I was glad to see them. You haven’t any idea how nice it is to meet friends while travel­ing like this so far away from home.

After an excellent dinner we all gossiped together for hours. We discussed college, football and all. Gosh! I did enjoy it. Roth and Bic are waiting for Mike Thorne and Nut Enders. They are following practically the same itiner­ary as we are and are even going to hunt in Nairobi at the same time. I tried to get them to come up the Nile with us but they have all their accommodations the other way and Bic’s father is beside himself that Bic is going to risk the African fevers at all- much less go up the Nile. Some people are dumb for there is really little danger if a person is careful. 

Roth’s experiences were most interesting. He and Bic were in Budapest shortly after we were but followed a dif­ferent route by going to Belgrade, Bucharest, Constantinople and Athens and then across to Alexandria. Roth said it was the most miserable time he had ever spent. He said that Belgrade was the jumping off place and Bucharest one step further. They could only find one fellow in all of Belgrade who spoke a word of English. The hotels were dreadful and the food beyond recognition as such. The Black Sea, they said, was rougher than the devil and uninteresting. In Constantinople they found a great improvement but nothing to rave about. Athens was unexpectedly poor and the boat trip from there to Alexandria was terrific. Roth said the only way you could eat the food was to take a mouthful and then wash it down with wine to remove the taste of it from your mouth. The decks were so oily that sand was sprinkled on them so that the passengers could stand up. When I think of Venice, the Lido, Nice, etc., and the delightful trip to Egypt on the Helouan, I breathe a sigh of relief. Roth says you couldn’t get him back to the Balkans for a million dollars.

After several hours of conversation, we settled down to a little bridge. Bic is one of the best players in New Haven and Roth decidedly the worst. At twelve o’clock the card room steward said that we would have to pay 20 piasters apiece for every hour we played in the card room after twelve so we all moved out in the 1obby, about ten feet away, and played an, hour or so longer for nothing.        

Roth and Bic are staying here at the Shepard Hotel but are moving out in a day or two to the Mena House. It is under the same management but quite a ways out of town on the edge of the Libyan desert where there is excellent riding, a swimming pool and tennis courts. They are planning to spend three or more weeks in Cairo. I was rather amused at them for their chief dread is to be taken for tourists. Well, goodnight. I’m getting so I ramble on in these diaries more every day.

Cairo

Wednesday, October 28^th, 1925. 

The flies here are unique. They are extraor­dinary. Unlike the ones in the States or in Europe, they don’t buzz around you for a minute or two, land on your face and then hop off the minute you make the least move, but they fly right at you and make for your lips or your eyes, and they stick. You can shake your head all you want, but they won’t budge; you have to slap them off, and then, before your hand has scarcely left your left eye, they are back at your right. I’ve never seen flies so persistent or so annoying.’

Practically three fourths of the Arabs are cross-eyed, blind, or have something wrong with their sight. It is really unusual to see a native whose eyes are all right. The reason for this is that, according to the Mohammedan religion, the flies are sent by Allah and are not to be chased away. Therefore no one thinks of shooing them off a baby’s face. I saw one little child of about six months whose eyes were black with flies. The flies either eat part of the unlucky kid’s eyes, or infect them with germs so that, their sight is ruined. It certainly is a dreadful state of affairs.

The first thing we did this morning was to visit the American Express, where I got a letter and cable from Father, who cautioned me to investigate the Nile trip thoroughly before deciding to go that way. The entire morning was spent getting vises at the Sudan Government office, and arranging at Cook’s office about accommodations, reservations, etc. There is some doubt about the road from Rejaf to Nemuli being open, so have telegraphed the Governor of the Sudan.

Cairo is great. There are fine stores and many interesting shops. The weather was bright and clear, but very warm.

At the American Express we learned about a five day desert duck hunting trip, and we are investigating it.          

Much to my relief there is a fine kodak store here, where I left my movie films to be developed, and where I was able to get a lot of new films for the Nile and hunting trip.

One bad feature about Cairo (and it is very annoy­ing) is the countless number of dragomen that hang around every corner, and especially in front of the hotel. They pester you every minute of the day. And the people trying to sell things are a nuisance. Beg­gars are always around, but of necessity I have become very cold hearted. The other day one said to John, “I am blind,” to which John replied “So am I.” Then he said, “No: you are not,” and John said, “How do you know? I thought you couldn’t see.” 

After a delicious lunch, we selected a dragoman who seemed fairly honest, and hired a car to drive out to the Pyramid of Cheops and to the famous Sphinx. They are located a short distance from Gizeh, and right next to the Meno House. After some hesitation we decided to climb the Pyramid of Cheops, which, although the higher of the two, looked fairly easy. But looks are deceiving, for, believe me, it is some climb. From the bottom it seemed to slant backward at quite an angle, but as one climbed, it seemed almost vertical. To the top it is 415 feet. About half way up, one of the guides (each person has to be accompanied by two) said he would tell my fortune while we rested. Before I got through it cost me about a dol­lar. They certainly played all of us for fish, but perhaps it was just as well for after today no other dirty, lousy Arab will get a cent out of me. They are certainly out to do you, and while our dragoman appeared to be very nice, he is in league with the whole outfit. From the top of the Pyramids I got some good movies. The trip down was awful. I thought my knees would burst. After visiting the Sphinx, which is ever so much smaller than pictures of it lead one to believe, and after being thor­oughly reamed a second time, we returned to our car. The Sphinx is going to be ruined in a short time, for some crazy people are already restoring its nose, which makes it look ridiculous. On the way to it we all took a camel ride, which I must say was very comfortable, and most enjoyable. On returning to the auto, I looked under my coat to see if any fins had made their appear­ance.

We had no sooner reached Shepard’s than John discovered that one of the Arabs had relieved him of his wallet, which contained, among other things, forty dollars in cash. John offered our dragoman $25.00 if he would get it back. I had a feeling that he would get it, for he wants to take us on a five day desert trip, in which case he would make considerably more than the fifteen dollars’ difference between $25.00 and $40.00. As I thought, he appeared with it a couple of hours later saying that he had hired some men at the Pyramids to look for it. I don’t like him. He is too smooth to suit me.

Roth, Bic, Ed, John, and I went to see some Egyptian dancing and listen to some music after dinner, and of all the farces this wins. It was absolutely terrible, and the woman who tried to sing Andalusian was miserable. We stayed only a few minutes, and then went for a drive in the moonlight. I almost died laughing at Roth and Bic, who took great delight in kidding the dragoman about how they were looking for a good harem to hire. The poor Arab didn’t see through it a bit, and told us he was a good Mohammedan, etc.

By this time we were all rather tired, so we went back to the hotel and to bed. Roth and Bic told the dragoman that Ed, John and I wanted to go on a long camp­ing trip beginning at six the next morning, and we had an awful time to convince him that Roth was only fooling, for he at once got very enthusiastic about it. This, of course, delighted Roth.

Cairo

Thursday, October 29^th, 1925. 

Today was clear and bright again, but hotter than ever. We spent the entire morning buying outfits for the trip up the Nile, and some things we need for our desert trip, which we have definitely decided to take, making arrangements through the American Express and not through some dragoman from the hotel. The Sheik, or head Arab of the American Express, is to make all plans, and is very reliable. John and I bought some sun helmets, a couple of white suits apiece, as well as some dark glasses, sneakers, stomach protec­tors, and other necessities for the tropics. At a good bookstore we got a supply of books, which I don’t think we will ever have time to read, for we are all so far behind on our diaries.

Ed met us for lunch at the hotel, with the sad news that John’s camera, while it had safely arrived in Alexandria, had been lost in the Custom House there. John was beside himself, and greatly upset. I tried to calm him down, assuring him that it would be found all right. During the morning Ed had a fight with our dragoman, and decided that he didn’t care about doing any sightseeing with us in the afternoon.

John and I left after lunch, and visited a number of places. Among the most interesting were the Mosques of Husem, Sultan Hasan, and the Citadel of Mohammed Ali. Cairo is noted for its mosques, and one of them near the Citadel was beautiful inside, with large rugs, colored glass windows, beautifully carved wood, etc. Our guide dragged us through the bazaars, and tried to get us to buy some scarabs, but we refused to be fished and didn’t buy a thing, much to the disappointment of the dragoman, who was hoping to get his regular commission from our purchases.

Cook’s have not been able to get any definite dope on traveling conditions beyond Rejaf, and there is as yet no answer to our telegram to the Governor of the Sudan about the road from Rejaf to Nemuli. This leaves things rather up in the air, especially as John’s camera has not been found as yet. The manager of the American Express here is a silly English ass by the name of Smyth, who doesn’t know a thing.

After dinner John and I played some bridge with Roth and Bic until midnight when we all turned in.

Cairo,

Friday, October 30^th, 1925.

This morning we received the good news that John’s Akeley had been found in the Custom House at Alexandria. It certainly was a big relief, and John, I know, feels 100 percent better.

As we are leaving on the desert trip early in the morning, we had to get a few things we forgot to purchase yesterday. We spent most of the morning rushing around like a couple of chickens with their heads cut off, cashing letters of credit, etc. At eleven o’clock we had try-ons for our white suits. Needless to say they fit like a couple of sacks, but as we aren’t going to any fashion show, guess they will be all right. Anyway, they are light and cool. Ed is going to stay here and clear John’s camera at the customhouse.

We left the hotel at two o’clock with our dragoman to motor to Memphis and Sakkarah. It was a nice drive of about fifteen miles through cultivated fields. We visited the ancient city of Memphis, where we saw an enormous statue of Rameses II lying on its side. It belongs to the British Museum, but is too large to take to London. At Memphis we saw several interesting sphinxes and ancient ruins, and then went on to Sakkarah. The two most worth while things to see there are the Step Pyramids and the cemetery. The latter consists of under­ground caves where the ancient Egyptian kings were buried. Most of them were ransacked years ago by the Romans, and what remained has since been carried off to the museums in London and Cairo. 

On the way back to Cairo, we met a couple of Arabs who were out of gas. We sent another fellow back to help them, but don’t think he ever went. I don’t care much whether he did or not. These Arabs get my goat. Our dragoman is as bad as the rest. When we settled up with him, he charged us double for his services today as we went outside the city limits. You know that is ridicu­lous. Well, he didn’t get it, believe me.

    After dinner John and I wrote while Ed went to some sort of native Egyptian game, which he later said was punk. 

    Went to bed early, as we have to rise at six o’clock or so. ­

Desert

Saturday, October 31^st, 1925. 

It seemed like the middle of the night when the hotel porter called us at six o’ clock. For a few minutes I re­mained in bed thinking what a fool I was to leave such a comfortable and luxurious hotel to go out into the desert where it probably would be hotter than Hades and anything but restful. However, I finally dragged myself out of bed and after a nice breakfast started in a motor car for the Mena Rouse on the edge of the desert where we were to get our horses and camels. It was rather difficult to know what to take in the way of personal clothes for the desert is supposed to be as cold at night as it is hot in the middle of the day. John and I managed to tie all our stuff up in a couple of bundles which we stuck inside of a laundry sack.

At the Mena Rouse we were met by the Sheik, the so­-called head Arab of the American Express. He regretted that he could not go with us but introduced us to Abdul Aal who was to act as our dragoman. My first impression of him was wrong. I thought that he looked rather cross and, as he was rather old, I feared that our trip would be a pretty slow one. I might say here that I was absolutely wrong and. that Abdul Aal is the nicest, politest and most efficient and cautious man that I have met in all of Egypt. But I will write more about him later.

The Sheik told us that our caravan consisting of four camels loaded with all our camping outfit had left about five o’clock as they moved considerably slower than we would and that we would most likely catch up to them about 4 P.M. John and I each had a horse. Abdul rode a drome­dary packed with our clothes, lunch and guns. We were also accompanied by a camel man, a boy of about twenty who took care of the horses and a little Egyptian lad of about thirteen who acted in the capacity of a handy man doing all the odd jobs. His name, obviously, was Mohammed. Beside this rather heavy escort, we were accompanied for a quarter of a mile or so by a crowd of Arab kids which dwindled down to nothing after we had traveled a hundred yards on the desert.

We passed the pyramids of Gizeh and the famous sphinx and headed right out across the desert. It was only about half past eight when we started but it was pretty warm and I realized that my sun helmet and dark glasses would most likely be quite useful before the day was over. I found the pair of glasses Inez packed in my suitcase unsuitable for use as they afford no protection against the sand and dust.

I rode and walked about equal distances during the morning and about 12:30 we stopped for lunch. There was really no choice of spots for there wasn’t a bit of shade for miles and miles. It was so darn hot that a descrip­tion is useless. All I can say is, if the temperature in Florida is taken as absolute zero – or -240˚ C – then the desert is about a hundred in the shade – the point being the joke about the shade. Well, to get on with my story, it was dreadfully warm, so warm that I could scarcely eat a thing which John said was, if not a miracle, a thing un­heard of before.

I found out two things about the desert that I did not know before. First, it is quite hard and, while flat, much rockier than I had imagined so that a Ford could quite easily be used to motor over it. Secondly, the sand is simply covered with pieces of petrified wood.

Poor little Mohammed had started out in good form but I felt from the start that he would have to be almost a giant to stand the heat and walk. Consequently, when he began to drag behind, John and I made him take turns riding our horses. At this point the camel man, who didn’t seem the least bit tired, offered to bet me a pound that he could beat me in a race. Fortunately, the heat hadn’t affected me to the extent of accepting his wager. After I had declined his invitation and had taken a short trot with him, he told me how he had run all the way across the desert to Lake Kerun- about 100 miles without stopping once. John’s remark on this statement was really excellent, even if the poor camel man didn’t understand it, but I regret to say that this is hardly an appropriate place for it.

About 1:30 found us once more trudging along, but it was cooler in the afternoon, for a rain storm kept just ahead of us, and it settled all the dust. The clouds were fascinating; they were a brilliant yellow, and reflected perfectly the color of the desert. It is things like this that surprise one, for he never imagines them before actually seeing them.

The most amazing things of the whole day were the mirages. I have seen them in Florida on hot days, when the Keys seemed to be lifted above the waters, but never have I seen anything like I have seen today. All afternoon we kept seeing what appeared to be lakes ahead of us, and I would have sworn on the Bible each time that this one really was a lake; then every one turned into nothing but sand as we drew nearer. I can’t describe how incredible it seemed.

Just about this time John’s horse went head over heels as he was galloping to catch up with me. Luckily John wasn’t a bit hurt, nor did the horse himself seem to mind the fall. While trying to account for it, John discovered that the horse was foundered; at least that is what he said was the matter with him. No sooner had this great even occurred than three gazelles trotted off over the desert not more than two or three hundred yards ahead of us.

::::::::Mr. Mark, unreadable print….Need the original text to see what the next sentence is::::::::

-preciate it until we actually arrived. I was never so utterly surprised in all my life. What a camp! There were, as I said before, three tents, two of which were for the comfort of John and me. They were large, round ones. In the sleeping tent there were two comfortable iron beds, with good springs and mat­tresses. Each one was made up completely with clean sheets, blankets, and pillows. Between the beds was a large table on which were placed two wash basins and a couple of pitchers of water. At the foot of each bed was a camp stool. The floor, or rather sand, was completely covered with a big grass rug. The in­terior of the tent was decorated in white, red, and black Egyptian figures, designs, and Arabic writing.

The second large tent, or dining room, had the same kind of decorations inside as the sleeping tent. It was furnished with a table, covered with a cloth and all set for tea. At one side was a sort of serv­ing table. At the flap of the tent stood the waiter dressed in a long, immaculate, white robe, with a red sash, bowing to us. The sand was covered, as in the other tent, with a big grass rug. Just outside were two canvas chairs, most comfortable ones.

The third tent was the kitchen, and beyond that were the Arabs and camels. Believe me, John and I felt like regular sheiks. Never have I seen or used such a luxurious camping outfit.

We had no sooner arrived than Abou, our waiter, announced that tea was ready. It was excellent, and with some cookies and jelly sandwiches tasted de­licious.

I thought, so long as we were living in such style, I might as well play the part of a regular Arabian king, so took a sponge bath and shaved.

Dinner was ready at seven, and it was even more of a surprise than the camp. The table was set just like a table at the Ritz in New York, with about twenty knives and forks. Needless to say the dinner was the best John and I had had for ages. The cook certainly knew his job. The menu was as follows:

Consommé,

Fried Fish with Sauce,

Lamb Chops and French Fried Potatoes,

Quail and New Peas,

A sort of Corn Pudding (Delicious!),

Prunes, and other Fruit consisting of Apples,

Pears and Bananas,

Three kinds of Nuts,

Coffee and Chocolate Candy.

Six courses in all!

Abdel stood behind my chair during the dinner, answer­ing whatever questions we asked, and seeing that every­thing was perfectly served.

After dinner we sat outside the dining tent in our comfortable chairs. On the desert there are no flies, mosquitoes, or other insects. A wonderful, cool breeze had sprung up, so that when a full moon poked its head up over the horizon, it seemed like Paradise. There wasn’t a sound from anywhere, even the wind had no trees to rustle through. I certainly fell in love with the desert. I believe it is the most peaceful and restful place in the world. We watched the moon climb higher and higher, throwing a brilliant light across the white sand, so that it seemed almost like daylight. Abdel, squatted in front of us, was most interesting. Unlike other Arabs, he doesn’t talk continually, but is quiet, and speaks only when you ask him questions, or when you feel like talking yourself. We asked him about the Mohammedan religion, and learned several things.

In the first place, they never put their money in the bank. That is strictly forbidden by the Koran. It is all right to invest their money in land or other property, so long as it isn’t put in the bank where it is lent to someone else. Secondly, polygamy, while allowed, is not practiced to a large extent except by the rich, for a poor man is not able to keep more than one wife. Sometimes, though, a man has during his life seven or eight wives, divorcing each one in turn. The day before we started on our desert trip, one guide pointed out four houses built side by side, each one identical with the others. These four houses were built for the four wives of a rich Mohammedan merchant, who had the foresight to build them all the same so that one wife could not complain that another had re­ceived more. But no sooner had the houses been com­pleted than the man died. The Mohammedan religion, furthermore, like the Jewish religion, prohibits the eating of meat or game that has not been killed by a priest. But it is not without its virtues.            Drink­ing liquor of any sort is absolutely forbidden, and I must say, from my own observations, seems to be pretty well lived up to.          

As we planned to get an early start, we decided to go to bed shortly after dinner. It seemed a crime to go to sleep on such a glorious night. A watchman was posted outside our tent to see that no desert tribes attacked us during the night. I really felt too all in to worry about this minor detail, and soon was fast asleep.

Second day – Desert

Sunday, November 1^st, 1925. 

Abdul called us at six o’ clock and I jumped out of bed feeling on top of the world. It had gotten bitter cold during the night but with three or four blankets John and I both had kept nice and warm. I never slept better in my life. The clear, cold, dry air of the desert night is cer­tainly the best thing in the world for sleeping. We decided last night to get an early start in order to cover as much distance as possible before it got hot. Between eleven and four o’ clock the heat is almost unbearable.

John and I both felt a little stiff, so after a two hours’ ride, we walked about eight miles. It kept getting hotter and hotter so that when we got on our horses again, about eleven o’clock, we felt all but dead to the world. While walking, we came up within a hundred yards of two gazelles feeding on some three or four blades of grass that had managed in some miraculous way to poke their heads thru the scorching sand. The gazelles looked like a couple of does to me but John claims that one had nice horns.

I thought that we never would get out of the desert. We seemed to travel miles and miles. Each time there would be a little hill obscuring the scenery beyond and I would think, well now surely from the top of that, we will see Lake Kerun, but each time all that I saw was a vast stretch of desert ahead. When we finally did get out of the desert and I actually saw the real lake in the distance, it did not look the least bit different from the mirages. No wonder a man dying of thirst goes crazy in the desert.

We ate lunch beside a little canal used for irrigation purposes. It was as muddy as could be and a bunch of naked Bedouin children splashing around in it didn’t form too beautiful a picture. But there was a nice tree nearby that afforded a shady spot. Golly! I certainly was tired. It has been terrifically hot this morning – much more so than yesterday. As luck would have it, John and I were both as thirsty as could be and had only brought along one bottle of Evian which we quickly killed. Our Caravan was miles behind and to have drunk the muddy water of the canal, as the Arabs did, would certainly have finished us.

After lunch, when we had recovered enough to drag one foot after another, we started off for a couple of bogs where we intended to do a little jacksnipe shooting until our cara­van caught up with us and made camp. It was too early in the day to have much luck but we messed around in cornfields and in mud up to our ankles for a couple of hours. Of the three snipe we saw, we got two and then being about shot ourselves we decided to call it a day. Our camels and outfit had ar­rived and we could see the tents pitched on a high sand hill on the edge of the lake. Camp was at least a mile from the Bedouin village on the edge of the canal and in a wonderful spot overlooking Lake Kerun about five miles distant.

Our feet were soaking wet and covered with a pasty grey clay which we thoroughly washed off in the canal before going to camp. A glass of lemonade on arrival was certainly more than welcome. As it was still early, John and I each took a nap and changed our clothes before tea. Abdul showed us some wolf and jackal tracks in the sand and we decided to go up on the ridge a little further back on the desert tomorrow night. During the afternoon we saw some beautifully colored birds. The Arabs called some of them Egyptian kingfishers. There were several other different kinds all brilliantly colored.

Dinner was again excellent. We had cream soup, cauli­flower au gratin, chops and fresh beans, snipe that we had shot, French fried potatoes, compote of fruit, fresh fruit, nuts, coffee and candy. Golly! I never tasted such good food.

Before I went to bed at 8:30 I took a walk back into the desert. It certainly was divine. The full moon came up like last night and everything was as quiet and peaceful as could be. Overhead I could hear flocks of ducks whizzing past on their way to the lake which the natives say is full of ducks that arrived about three weeks ago. It was another heavenly night. I’ll hate to go back to Cairo. Went to bed very early as Abdul says we ought to get up at 4 A.M. As there is eight hours difference in time between Chicago and Cairo, that means starting the day at 8 P.M., the night before, Chicago time.

In desert,

Monday, November 2^nd, 1925.

Abdul called us at four o’clock and I never hated to get up so much in all my life. It was still very dark, the only light being that of a glorious full moon that was al­most ready to set. Besides, it was bitterly cold. However, I finally made myself get out of bed and then I had to dress in a hurry for it was too darn cold to be slow about it. We had a good hot breakfast and by 4:45 were ready to leave camp. We took a camel 1oaded with our lunch, guns, ammuni­tion, etc. and a couple of horses. The ride to Lake Kerun was extremely windy and not too hot in both senses. As it is about five to seven miles, the sun was just coming up when we arrived at the edge of the lake. As per usual, there was a scene of Arab bickering which ended by our climbing aboard one of the dirtiest and most primitive boats I ever saw. I say that we climbed aboard – I mean, rather, that we were carried aboard for there was no clock of any sort and the boat was some ten yards out from the shore. But the boat itself was too ridiculous for words. It was made out of heavy wood, very thick and roughly hewn, and being built with a V bottom it drew about four feet of water. The oars consisted of very long four by fours not rounded or cut in a paddle shape so that they were very difficult to pull thru the water and didn’t help the boat a great deal when they were put into action. Naturally, progress was very slow. We managed to secure a second boat which John and Abdul got into along with a couple of native oarsmen. The lake was simply lousy with ducks but our method of hunting them was not as good as it might have been for we just rowed after them. Of course, they would all get up before we got in range. The boats were so slow that it was almost impossible to sneak up on them. There were all kinds of ducks, shovel­ers, blue bills, mallards, widgeons, etc., but the net result of the morning’s shooting was only four ducks, two of which John killed. I shot one more and he fell about fifty yards from the boat. He was still alive but one of his wings was broken. Like a dumbbell, I didn’t shoot him again in the water but told the men to row over to it. As soon as the boat was about ten yards from it, the duck dived under the water and twisted its feet about some weeds thus drowning but escaping from capture for it never came to the surface again. I was reminded of “The Wild Duck” by Ibsen in which are the following lines: “Yes, an amazingly clever dog; one that goes to the bottom after wild ducks when they dive and bite themselves fast in tangle and seaweed, down among the ooze.” By this time it was getting some hot. We rowed and rowed but the ducks weren’t as foolish as the Arabs expected them to be for we hardly ever got in range. I had two extra fine shots during the morning. The first duck flew calmly past me, if ducks ever fly calmly, and I dis­covered too late that the safety was still on. The second one was as safe as the first for the cartridge misfired or rather didn’t fire at all.

Just about this time I heard a beating of tin pans and a lot of hollering. I had noticed a lot of fishing boats arranging their nets and for a moment I thought a native war had broken out or something and I had visions of being boil­ed to death and eaten. I asked one of the rowers what all the excitement was and he explained that after the nets are laid the fishermen row along side of them beating together pieces of iron and tin – making as much noise as possible- ­and in this way frighten the fish into the nets. Honestly, I almost died laughing. You never heard such a racket in all your life. As cou1d be expected, this conglomeration didn’t improve the duck shooting. John says that this method of hunting ducks is absolutely crazy – that you might as well get a boat on Lake Michigan and row after the geese on the lake.

We ate lunch under the scorching sun amidst a swarm of pestering flies. Abdul wanted to make some blinds for shoot­ing tonight but we told him that we had had enough for the day and that if we were to hunt in the morning we had better get a rest this afternoon. Reaching camp about two o’clock after riding all the way  from the lake on the camel whose name, by the way, is Mary Anderson, we took a two hour nap. A nice shave and bath made us feel 100% better and after a delicious tea we took a gun and walked back into the desert. We saw a lot of old wolf and jackel tracks leading down to the maze but it was too light for any to be astir.

Dinner, as usual, was marvelous. We had, besides the regular menu, two of the ducks that we had shot and some wonderful roasted corn. Golly! It was good. The camel drivers were having a corn feast and one managed eat twenty large ears.

Shortly after dinner a strong wind blew up so that all the tents were reinforced with extra stakes. They certainly flapped and blew around as if they might collapse at any minute but fortunately they didn’t. It was another heavenly night out but as we intended starting at four o’clock again in the morning we were in bed by 8:30. 

Desert

Tuesday, November 3^rd, 1925.

The wind blew like the devil last night, and I thought more than once that the tent and all would come down in a mess. It was still very dark when Abdel called us at 4:00 A.M., but we got up right away and after downing a couple of cups of hot coffee, felt considerably more like shooting ducks. We took a dif­ferent path to the lake. Instead of crossing the desert, we set out across a marshy bit of land toward the lower end of the lake. As I mentioned before, I think, the lake has no outlet and is drying up by degrees, for it is already quite salty. We passed through sev­eral little mud house villages of the Bedouins, quite unique in themselves. To say they are primitive is mild. They are practically caves raised to a ground level. The roofs of these miserable shelters are stacked high with brush and cornstalks. Here and there a mongrel dog ran along the tops of these houses barking at us. As it was still very early, there was no other sign of life ex­cept a few chickens and goats scratching about in the rubbish.

If the way to the lake was different, it was just as long, for it was broad daylight when we reached there. Taking off our shoes and socks, and rolling up our trou­sers, we waded out a hundred yards into the lake. The bottom was a regular ooze, so that we were knee deep in the stickiest and pastiest slime you can imagine. Abdul fixed a sort of blind around us made of palm branches, and then he and a couple of the camel men went off to drive the docks toward us. It was a ridiculous proce­dure, as we soon discovered, for the ducks wouldn’t come near us. This, obviously, was a dismal failure, so we struggled back to shore, and attempted to scare up some snipe while a boy went off to the fishing camp to get a couple of boats for us to go duck shooting in. The same method of rowing around after ducks was used again today, but with more success. We had hardly started before John got a double, and brought down two Blue Bills. This looked like business. At the end of an hour and a half we had between us about sixteen ducks, ten of which John had killed. Out of the whole mess, however, there were only five which were real good eating. Here, John beat me again, having got three to my two. The lake was simply alive with ducks, and no matter in which direc­tion you looked, you could see hundreds of them, but as you rowed toward them, they would all fly just out of range. It was quite difficult, and the fool Arabs in my boat kept saying “Shoot,” when we were about a mile off and couldn’t possibly kill a duck at the distance. The shot itself wouldn’t carry that far.

We stopped shooting about 10:30, and walked over to the shade of some palms, where we intended to eat lunch, but a rather nicely dressed Egyptian asked us to come to his house so we went. It seems he is the manager of the surrounding farms for some rich Arab. He was most courteous and polite to us, bringing us comfortable chairs, table, and even grass rugs which he spread in the shade of the house. He said he would like very much to kill a chicken or something for us, but, of course, we wouldn’t let him. I felt like telling him we would appreciate it a great deal more if he would kill a few flies instead, for they, as usual, were swarming about. I thought how much they would have annoyed Father, for he hates them so. I don’t mind them on my face so much as long as they keep out of my eyes and mouth. The Egyptian made us some coffee, which tasted good in spite of the terrific heat. All the coffee over here is different from what we drink in the States. It is much thicker and sweeter, more like syrup, and at the bottom of each cup there is always a quarter of an inch of coffee grains and sugar.

After lunch and a short rest, we started for the town of Sennuris, near where we intend to camp for the night so as to be on hand to take the early train to Cairo, which leaves at 6:30 A.M. John and I walked most of the seven or ten miles along an irri­gating canal. It is really most interesting to see how the land is irrigated by different methods. I have taken movies of the various ways, which I think will be quite a novel sight. The flies were very bad, and we saw several water buffaloes that had gone into the canal, leaving only their heads above the water. On all sides we saw corn.         They certainly raise hundreds of thousands of acres of it here in Egypt, and it is all mighty fine looking, too. It couldn’t help being excellent quality, for the soil is about the best I’ve ever seen, just as black as night. We also noticed a number of wild pigeons, ibis, and other beautiful colored birds. I saw a most unusual one, and asked one of the boys what it was. He stupidly replied: “Why, I guess it is a chicken.”

The first sight I had of Sennuris was a tall minaret, the church steeple of the mosque, which tow­ered above some green date palms. As we drew closer, I observed that Sennuris was quite a large village, or an absolutely typical Egyptian town. As usual, the first word we heard was “Bakshish,” which was shouted at us by a gang of filthy, half dressed little natives. This word, meaning “Tip,” was the first one we heard when we landed in Egypt, and probably will be the last one we hear when we leave.

There was some new construction under way, but for the most part the village consisted of a mass of dried up looking mud houses jammed one against the other. Some of the better ones were made of clay bricks manufactured locally by the natives out of a mixture of straw and wet clay. The streets were very dirty, being chuck-full of garbage arid old rubbish, and showed signs of being a regular clay bog in the rainy season. Along the streets, on both sides, were open shops where a number of Arabs in soiled clothes and red hats walked. Here was a butcher shop where half a steer was hanging up in the sun, simply black with a swarm of flies. Then there was a shoemaker’s shop. In and around each place was a gang of black skinned kids, almost white from the clay which stuck like plaster to their faces. They looked pitiful, or horrible, I’m not sure which, as they stared up at us with their crossed or bloodshot eyes when we passed them. Most of the women and young girls have the right side of their nose pierced, and wear a brass ring or coin. It seems to be the custom, while the children are only half dressed, or naked, the women wear long, black robes, which are wound around their necks and over their heads so that only their eyes are visible. The men wear long robes that were once white, but have long since become so badly spotted that they are something between a dirty grey and brown. On their heads they wear red Shriner’s hats with a black tassel, or a white towel affair wound about. All of them, men, women, and children, are barefooted. Chick­ens, goats, water buffalo, cats, dogs, donkeys, and cat­tle, all run about the streets at random.

A half mile on the other side of Sennuris we found our camp pitched beside a big corn field on a rather high bit of land. Tea was ready upon our arrival, and it was most refreshing. I shaved and took a bath, and watched the natives going home from work until dinner time. It is a nice spot, surrounded by enormous date palms and softly waving cornfields. The moon was beautiful as it came up, but I like the desert better.

Dinner was superb. We had the regular menu plus delicious corn on the cob, and one of the ducks we shot. There were a few mosquitoes after dinner, so we went to bed early, and arranged our netting about our beds so we could sleep in peace.

Sennuris to Cairo

Wednesday, November 4^th, 1925.

John and I were both out of bed and dressing by 5 A.M. as we had to have breakfast and hoof it down to Sennuris to get the 6:30 train for Cairo. Abdul made all the arrangements about tips so we didn’t have to bother with any of it. He certainly is an honest and efficient fellow.

The train left on time. As a companion, but not in our compartment, was a native who had become insane. He was in a straight jacket however so he didn’t cause any trouble. We had to change three times before we finally reached Cairo.

At the hotel we found John’s camera waiting as well as some clothes we had purchased before starting on our trip. A good hot bath, shave and lunch made us feel like different people. John and I both have a terrific sunburn.

In the afternoon we did some more shopping and met Roth and Bic. All of us motored out to the Mena House in Roth’s Ford for a swim only to discover that on Wednesdays the pool is cleaned so there wasn’t a drop of water. The Mena House is certainly attractive and much nicer than Shepard’s Hotel, if one plans to spend any length of time in Cairo. Instead of the swim, we had tea and then went back to Cairo. The manager of the Kodak place, another nice Englishman, projected all my cinema films. I can’t say that I am satisfied with them. Some are pretty good but now I think I see what the main trouble is – nearly all of them are over-exposed. They are not a failure though, by any means, and the ones of the bull fight are quite good.

Roth and Bic had brought their tuxedos in with them so after the films had been shown we went back to the hotel and dressed for dinner which we had about eight-thirty. Dinner over, we played bridge until quite a late hour. We met Mr. Downs and his family who came over on the Helouan with us and who visited the Holy Land before coming up to Cairo.

So this day is written not on November 4

                                                            but November 12, hence its briefness.

Cairo – Luxor 

Thursday, November 5^th, 1925.

In spite of getting to bed very late, we were up by eight o’ clock and busy making arrangements. It doesn’t seem possible that there can be so much to do. But it takes so darn long to make people get started over here – they are the slowest outfit I’ve ever seen. Roth and Bic came in early to help us in any way they could. They certainly are two wonderful fellows and offered to drive us around Cairo on any errands we had to do.       

I shipped one suitcase direct to Bombay and sent the other around to Nairobi. I am taking only one little leather one with me up the Nile. I bought a couple of chains and pad­locks for the ones I sent by express. We had to settle up with Mr. Smyth at the American Express, cash letters of credit, say goodbye to people and all that. I forgot to mention that all this haste is due to the fact that one E. E. was too slow about getting railroad reservations so that there are no berths available for Friday night. Therefore, we are all going up to Luxor tonight, spend the day there tomorrow and catch the train to Aswan the following night. The trip from Cairo to Luxor takes about twelve hours and, as we leave at 7:30 tonight, we are due in Luxor at that time Friday Morning.

After lunch John went to see the dentist and I bought some more cinema films.      Roth and Bic fooled around with us all after­noon. I wrote out letters of recommendation for Abdul, our cook and waiter and sent off cables and that sort of thing.

We had dinner at 5 P. M. as there is no diner on the train. The sleeping car is a regular wagon lit and is most comfortable. We just got a copy of the New York Herald of several weeks ago that Bic gave me to read on the train. It has all about the Yale – Penn game. I read every line of it. Gosh! It seemed wonderful to read a real American paper. Bic is going to wire me at Khartoum the result of the Yale – Army game which he will hear in a few days from the Paris edition of the New York Herald. I went to bed early.

This is written on November 12 as will be account of November 6. We got quite a ways behind but are catching up. Have given up idea of carbon copies and am writing on both sides of paper from now on.

Luxor

Friday, November 6^th, 1925. 

We had tea before getting up this morning. That seems to be a custom over here for everyone drinks a cup of tea as soon as he wakes up. Arriving in Luxor about eight o’ clock, we were met by a mob of screaming porters and an American Express representative who conducted us to a carriage in which we rode to the Winter Palace Hotel. It is located right on the bank of the Nile and one can see in the distance across the river the famous Valley of the Kings and the ancient city of Thebes. We had a nice breakfast and then with our guide, Sahib Hanna, which means, “Cross John,” we sailed across the Nile in a little boat. Or rather we rowed across for there wasn’t a breath of wind. On the other side we were met by some donkeys. It was my first ride on a donkey, and I think they have it all over a horse. You can ride for hours and never get tired for there is so little motion. I think they are great and, believe me, they don’t waste any time. It was dreadfully hot but they trotted or galloped nearly all the way to the Valley of the Kings which is about three miles from the river Nile.

I might write up today’s experiences in the ridiculous manner I did the time spent in Rome but I think it would be foolish. There is no sense in saying that Tomb 35 was built in 1448 B.C. in the 18th dynasty by Annophis II for, even if it were, no one gives a darn, so I will make this account as brief as possible.

The Valley of the Kings is about a mile long and about a hundred yards wide. The whole thing is really only a mass of excavated rocks that have been heaped in two parallel hills about a hundred feet wide leaving what appears to be a winding gulch or valley between. There are no trees or foliage of any sort—just bested up pieces of hot rocks and glaring sand.

In this valley have been found most of the ruins of Egypt that are worth while. Cairo and Alexandria have practically nothing in this line compared to Luxor. The tickets to see the tombs are something over one and a quarter pounds apiece, about $6.25. It seems like a terrible holdup but what can one do? The whole affair is run by the Egyptian government and the tombs are guarded by soldiers. Just as we were about there, Ed fell off his donkey, which afforded great amusement for John and myself.

We were not able to get in King Tutankhamen’s tomb as it won’t be open to the public until March. We tried to work some drag about Ed’s having been to Oxford but, as Mr. Carter wasn’t at the tomb today, we failed to get in. The door is always kept sealed when he isn’t there. Our guide was quite an intelligent fellow so we picked up a lot of information. These people who excavate make the following arrangement with the Egyptian government: If the tomb of a high priest is found, the men who do the excavating get half the treasure found, the rest going to the government. But if the tomb is that of a king the government gets the whole business and the explorers, as it were, must depend on the generosity of the government to reimburse them for their expenses.

We went down inside three different tombs and found them most interesting. Large passageways, about fifty yards long, lead down into the burial chambers. The walls are covered with Egyptian figures telling various stories or events which occurred during the life of the Pharaoh who is buried in that particular place. Also, inside each entrance is a diagram on the wall showing a plan of the entire tomb. Usually, there is one large room where the king is buried and then four treasure rooms containing jewelry, money, etc. King Tut’s tomb is one of the very smallest as he only reigned a few years but he was the richest of all the Egyptian kings. This is definitely known and is accounted for in this way. The king before Tut changed the religion from worship of the sun to worship of the sun’s rays. When Tut changed the religion back to what it had originally been and worshipped the sun itself, the people and high priests were so delighted that they gave him all sorts of precious jewels and gold coins. The public is kept out of Tut’s tomb because one of the treasure rooms is still unopened. This also accounts for the heavy guard of soldiers stationed there. It is impossible to describe each tomb for each one was different and well worth seeing.

We climbed one of the steep hills nearby from which we were able to get a great view of the whole Valley and surrounding country. The descent was rather steep and hair raising and John and I laughed when Ed said that he felt more like walking.

We passed a number of other ruins and the queens’ tombs and then we settled down for lunch in the shade of the Rameseum, the great temple of Rameses II who ruled for sixty-seven years. He seems to be the chief one of the lot. Everything is Rameses this or Rameses that. After lunch we fooled around for a bit taking pictures and then proceeded to the river by our donkeys. On the way we saw some camels plowing. It was quite a unique picture so we stopped to movie it. The natives fishing and ir­rigating their land by hand also was unusual.

Arriving safely on the other side of the Nile, we had a little tea and then continued on by carriage to the Temple Karnak about five miles distant. It is perfectly immense and was by far the best thing we saw all day. It is being restored but the work is being carefully done so as not to spoil the effect. The work is different in various sections as it represents the work of fourteen kings.

We hastened back to Luxor as it was quite late and rather dark by this time. I wanted to buy a scarab but one is very apt to get gyped so I didn’t get any.

Dinner was rather good and we spent the evening writing letters and diaries. The American Express fellow was good so we gave him the letter of recommendation he wanted. The mosquitoes were dreadful and almost ate us alive. The cover­ing over the beds helped a great deal!

Luxor

Saturday, November 7^th, 1925. 

Seven o’clock found us dressed and ready to do a little sightseeing before breakfast. Having seen Thebes and Karnak yesterday, the only important thing left was the Luxor Temple. All these things around Luxor date back several thousand years before Christ. I, for my part, am fed up with dates and antiques and can hardly wait to start on what I feel is going to be a real adventure as well as experience – the trip up the Nile.

Luxor Temple is a mass of ruins which contain many Egyptian stories carved into the granite in picture form. A good many of the scenes are in colors and are really quite wonderfully done. It was from this temple that Napoleon took the obelisk that is now in the Place Vendome in Paris. Its twin, as it were, is still here in Luxor.

We got back to the hotel in time for an eight o’clock breakfast, after which we bought postcards and sent a few letters. The train to Aswan left at 9:30 so we were down at the station half an hour ahead of time where we settled accounts with the American Express guide who had come down an hour before to hold our compartment. Two things that we have learned on this trip are how to travel and how to be patient.

The cars are quite revolutionary from any that we ever saw before. They are painted white, have smoked glass windows and numerous electric falls. All the windows are shut tight to keep out the dust and heat which is supposed to be terrible. In fact, there isn’t any supposing about it. All records were broken for dust. In spite of the fact that everything was closed as tight as a drum, the dust seeped in and covered everything until it was absolutely white. Actually, we had a regular dust bath—and hot! Man, oh man! Lunch was refreshing and the afternoon passed quickly enough. The scenery was unvaried—just stretches of the Libyan desert with a little scrub here and there scorched to the same color as the sand.

I bought a number of Ibsen’s plays before I left and have been reading at a great rate every time we go through the desert which means that I read almost continually. We arrived at Aswan about five o’clock. It is supposed to be the driest and warmest place in Egypt and I can well believe it. Here we saw our first “Fuzzy Wuzzy” that Kipling writes about with his long, black, braided hair looking more like a mop than real hair. The train only stayed about ten minutes at Aswan and then backed out to the main line where we proceeded to Shellal about ten miles further up stream where we were to get the steamer. 

Between Aswan and Shellal is the first cataract and, incidentally, the Aswan Dam, which is one of the greatest in the world, holding eight-eight billion cubic feet of water. This is used to irrigate lower Egypt and the evaporation is over one million gallons a day. We didn’t have time to see it for the train didn’t stop until it had pulled its cars right up along side of the boat which was to carry us to Wada Halfa. Shellal is the southern terminal of the Egyptian State Railroad and the only connection between Shellal and Wada Halfa is by boat operated by the Sudan Government Railroad.

We were told to visit the ruins on the island of Philae which was only about a hundred yards away across a narrow stream of the Nile but it didn’t seem worth while to us so we got our baggage aboard the steamer. It certainly is a fine one. We found that three single compartments had been reserved for us, each containing a wash basin, bed and camp stool. They were spick and span and the beds were made up with clean sheets and pillowcases. It was a delightful surprise to find such nice accommodations. The boat itself has three wide decks and, obviously, was constructed for this sort of service. There is a nice dining salon and wide deck space forward with Wicker chairs where one can sit out and watch the boat slip along up the Nile. What looked so good to me was how nice, white and clean everything was. It certainly was a relief after the dusty hot train ride.

There seem to be a lot of English Sudan government officials returning to Khartoum after their summer leave of absence. It was about seven o’clock before we left, not without a shouting of natives along the shore waving a last farewell. We had had tea on arrival so we took a bath and shaved before dinner which was at eight o’clock. It was delightful out on deck at night. There wasn’t a ripple on the Nile and we pushed upstream so smoothly it was impossible to imagine oneself on a boat. We were all tired so we turned in about eleven. 

On the boat, Aswan to Wada Halfa,

Sunday, November 8, 1925.

Promptly at 6:30, the room steward brought in a tray with a cup of tea and a couple of crackers. I judged that this was a sort of call to get up so dressed quickly. It was glaringly bright out already and not a cloud to be seen anywhere. I heard later that rain is practically unheard of in this locality. The last time it rained was over two years ago.

On both sides of the Nile, which is about a quarter of a mile wide, was the desert. It seemed to stretch to infinity. Not a blade of grass, just a few piles of rocks and long distances of mud banks close to the Nile. After breakfast, it began to grow fearfully hot as there was a slight south wind. I spent the entire morning writing post cards, working on my diary and taking a few movies. At noon the heat was terrific. It was about 100 in the shade. One of the men from the Sudan, with whom I talked said that in Khartoum the average temperature at mid-day is between 110 and 120 in the shade.

In the afternoon nearly everyone looked for a cool spot which couldn’t be found- sort of like looking for a needle in a hay stack. I tried to sleep but found it too hot so did some more writing. The scenery changed considerable. More green palms appeared along the banks and the native mud villages became more numerous. Here and there one could see Shadufs working. These are men who irrigate their land by hand, hauling the water up from the Nile in buckets and dumping it into a clay trough some twenty feet above the Nile from where the water runs to the fields in back. The natives seem to be blacker up here and even the color of the desert is darker, having more of an amber shade. At times it becomes hilly and rises almost to mountains in the distance that have a hazy, bluish, golden color with streaks of red. With the blue sky in back it makes a wonderful scene. Mirages are a common sight and the Nile continues to be as dirty as ever. 

Hot tea made one perspire at about twice the normal rate. I took a bath before dinner and then sat up on the forward deck with some Englishmen. Some of them are most interesting and most of them have been in Khartoum for ten or fifteen years. They all seem to think the Rejaf Nemuli trip fine but, peculiarly enough, none of them seem to have been south of Khartoum, not to mention the Rejaf which is 1100 miles further up the Nile. One of them got out his new records and I produced a victrola which amused and pleased them greatly. Most of these men are in Khartoum eight or nine months getting a three or four months vacation in the hot weather during the summer.

The chief steward of the boat, an old fellow who has been on the Sudan government boats for twenty-five years, showed us a letter that he had received from “Teddy” Roose­velt written in 1910. We became more or 1ess acquaintedwith everyone this afternoon and really enjoyed it a lot. One of the construction engineers for the Sennar Dam was among the ones we met and he advised our taking the 200 mile trip over to see the dam which holds enough water to irrigate 300,000 acres of land.

I forgot to mention yesterday that Ed. received a wire at Aswan from the Governor of Mongolia saying that previous information about a car being able to go over the Rejaf Nemuli road was wrong and that the road was impassable. This was rather depressing news as it means a week’s safari and will take us three weeks to get from Rejaf to Nairobi in­stead of two. It really is surprising how little people know of the actual condition over here. I hope that at Khartoum, at least, we will be able to get some real inform­ation. 

Dinner was excellent and as it had cooled off consider­ably the night was very nice. We sat around gossiping with these English officials for quite a while and went to bed about eleven when all lights were turned off. We had understood that, unlike the Aswan boat to Wada Halfa, the Post boats between Khartoum and Rejaf tie up at night. This story appears to be untrue. We met a doctor who patrols the upper Nile and he said he envied us for we would see some real wild African tribes and loads of wild game along the Nile banks to photograph. He says the Khartoum -Rejaf two weeks’ trip on the Sudan Post boats is great. I hope so! Well, we’ll see.

On the Nile, Wada Halfa,

Monday, November 9^th, 1925. 

As usual, everyone was stirring by six-thirty so I got dressed and after the customary cup of tea went for­ward to take a few movies of the scenery. It looks very much like what we saw yesterday except for the fact that there seems to be a greater variety of green plants and trees along the edge of the banks of the Nile. Otherwise, the yellow, sandy desert, the blue cloudless sky and the glaring sun were the same. I had noticed during the night that it had grown considerably cooler and discovered this morning that the wind had swung around to the north. The way these seasons work is remarkable. For instance, one of the Sudan government officials explained that the shift­ing of the wind during the night was the first sign of the cool season setting in. He said it always starts within the first ten days of November. It will be cool for about a week and then a lull will come for four or five days when the wind will drop back into the south and the same scorching weather as we had yesterday will be in evidence. After that the wind will shift to the north again where it will settle down and blow steadily for four months. It doesn’t seem possible that the wind can affect the temper­ature so much. Yesterday was almost unbearable and today was just like a nice summer day at home.

After breakfast John took a few pictures with his camera and his Akeley and then we went and packed our luggage for we were due in Wada Halfa at eleven-thirty. The Nile is quite broad up this far but rather shallow so we only poked along this morning, sounding bottom all the time.

Wada Halfa, the end of the Sudan government steamship service where the railroad to Khartoum begins, is not a very big place. Located on the left bank of the Nile going upstream, it boasts of a line of red and white plaster flat roofed houses about a quarter of a mile long. There are a few date palms sprinkled about and other vegetation along the river bank but no cultivated fields of corn or cotton—just the desert stretching out behind for miles and miles.

As we docked, a number of black fellows in brown uniforms with lavender sashes and peculiar pyramid-like hats that set on the very back of their heads, came down to meet us. These, I learned, were the local police. A few Englishmen- custom officials and Sudan government men- dressed all in white with their sun helmets could plainly be seen against the brown background of the soldiers or police. No one was permitted to land until all the heavy baggage had been carried to the customs, and no one seemed in a hurry to leave. It is really quite a change from European travel where everyone jams up like a lot of cattle in order to rush out the first minute possible. There was no excitement, no confusion of any sort. Wewalked over to the customs where they didn’t bother to open a thing so we went right through to our train which was waiting to take us to Khartoum.

Really, I can’t say enough for the English. They are the only people that know how to manage the natives. It is amazing the differences one notices in the Arabs in Tunis, where they are under French control, and in Egypt, where the English are in control. In Cairo the natives are annoying but Cairo is really under Egyptian management. Up here in the Sudan the natives are as submissive and obliging as can be. But aside from all this the English are real gentlemen: The Sudan govern­ment officials were as nice as they could be showing us where the telegraph and post offices were located and helping us to get our baggage aboard the train. I’ve never seen a more obliging lot.

The train was most interesting in itself. It was made up of about a dozen wooden cars all painted white. On the outside a long board running the entire length of the car some six inches distant from the car and reaching down about half way over the window is designed to keep out the sand and to make the compartments as cool as possible. The inside of the sleeping car is fine. There are two comfortable beds, a wicker chair and wash basin in each compartment as well as an electric fan and electric lights. The windows are fitted with smoked glass and shutters to keep out the glaring sun. All in all everything is done to make the cars as cool and com­fortable as possible. They certainly have it all over the Egyptian trains. Outside our compartment was a sign reading “Mr. Mark and Mr. Pirie.” Everywhere we go up in the Sudan people know of us before we arrive for it is essential to make your reservations three weeks or a month in advance. 

It seems probable now that we shall have to walk from Rejaf to Nimule so we wired the governor of Mongolia to secure a cook for us. Arrangements for porters, etc., must be made two or more weeks in advance. But we plan to get more definite information and news when we get to Khartoum.

The train didn’t leave until 2 P.M. but we had lunch about 1 P.M. which, I must say, was very nice and served in a most comfortable dining car. Oh! I wish I could tell you how thrilled I am about the whole trip up the Nile. It is glorious. If I were to take another trip around the world, I would cut out all of Europe with all its rottenness, robbery, and inconveniences. Africa and Egypt, particularly up around the Sudan, is glorious. There is no bickering or arguing. Everyone wants to and does help you. No rain nor clouds, just the hot sun, desert and the Nile. It’s as near heaven as anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t think Florida comes up to it at all and that is saying a lot. 

The railroad from Wada Halfa to Khartoum was built about 1897 and is approximately 600 miles long. For the most part it runs across the Nubian desert which is extremely flat and barren. The track itself is a narrow gauge one- three feet six inches wide. At intervals of twenty miles there are little mud brick stations with a side track of a hundred yards or more. Nothing else except a half dozed naked blacks who stand gazing at us as we pass.

I spent the afternoon reading some of Ibsen’s plays and drinking lemonade to keep cool. Dinner was at eight o’clock after which we played bridge until a late hour before turning in. The trip to Khartoum takes about thirty hours. We are due about six or seven tomorrow afternoon.

Enroute to Khartoum,

Tuesday, November 10^th, 1925. 

The porter brought us our tea at 6:30 A.M. and we got dressed at once although breakfast wasn’t ready until eight a’ clock. We were still going through the same sort of desert as we had yesterday. I hadn’t realized before haw far apart places are over here nor how big the Nubian Desert is. At Atbara, which we reached about eleven o’clock and where one can catch a train for Port Sudan, we were met by a Sudan government man who told us that recent investigations had shown the Rejaf Nimule (pronounced Nim – u – lee) road im­passable for a car. But this cheerful bit of news couldn’t dampen our spirits and we were soon chugging along toward Khartoum. It was dreadfully hat today and as each hour pass­ed the temperature seemed to go up another ten degrees.

Lunch was a welcome affair even if it was too warm to eat much. In the afternoon the scenery changed considerably. We saw huge piles of rocks and boulders fifty or more feet high. These tremendous heaps could be seen dotting the desert in all directions. They were made thousands of years ago when the ocean covered the desert. The various ocean currents are said to account for their peculiar formation.

Our engineer friend, a Mr. Grabham who incidentally invited us to dinner at his club in Khartoum Wednesday night, was a most interesting chap. He is the one fellow we have met that has actually gone by safari between Rejaf and Nimule. He gave us a list of things that we should purchase in Khartoum and gave us a lot of valuable information. He said the price of porters and food is amazing. A porter carries fifty pounds a day and you pay him seventeen and half cents a day out of which he supplies his own food and water. Can you beat that? Chickens for broiling can be purchased in Rejaf at the outrageous price of three cents apiece and a whole sheep can be had for fifty cents. But he said that these were really too high being wartime prices. On the other hand, certain articles are really correspondingly high- bicycles, blankets and that sort of thing. 

The trip itself, he said, takes a good seven days being 108 miles. There are a few rest houses along the way but they merely provide shelter in case it rains. Traveling is done between 3 and 9:30 A.M. after which the camp is made for the day. There is little danger of Tsetse flies for they do not bite at night and seldom come more than two or three hundred yards from the river. 

I didn’t expect to get to Khartoum until six-thirty but about four o’clock we crossed the Nile and found ourselves in south Khartoum. The Nile splits here; the lesser branch going to the east, the Blue Nile, is the one on which the Sennar Dam is located; the one going to the south is called the White Nile. It is up this latter river­ that we continue to Rejaf. The station at Khartoum was crowded with people. Every Englishman wears a hel­met. You never see one without a helmet for half a minute any time of the day. As usual, there was a crowd of native porters who made a grab for our luggage. We turned it allover to the Gordon Hotel man. The Grand Hotel, the only first class hotel in Khartoum, is not open this season.

Khartoum, while having a population of 20,000 or so, has only about three or four hundred whites. It is a peculiar city. All the houses seem to be built of a yellow-brown mud plaster. They are hardly ever more than two stories high, and have wide porches and big windows. The streets are tremendous in size and reminded me of C.S. They are not paved, but are in excellent condition, being a sort of red clay color. The two most striking things about the town are the wide area over which it is spread, and the unusual shape of the build­ings, all so low, with flat roofs. There are very few trees except along the Nile banks.

At the station we were met by another Sudan govern­ment official, a railroad man, who told us that all the government offices are closed for the day at two P.M., and that we would have to wait until tomorrow to see anyone like the District Commissioner, etc. He also reminded us that tomorrow was Armistice Day, and that probably a good many of the officials would be in Church. However, he offered to do anything he could for us.

At the Gordon Hotel I found a telegram from Bic, con­taining the wonderful news that Yale defeated the Army   28 to 7. Hot Dog! We reached the hotel just in time to get the last two rooms. The Englishman who arrived about two minutes later was simply out of luck. I can best describe the Gordon Hotel, and the temperature at Khartoum, by quoting a few lines from the account of Felix Shay in the February, 1925, issue of the National Geographic, as follows:

“The Gordon Hotel where we stayed faced the Public Square, perhaps 100 yards across. There was no grass. There was only sand. Step out into this Square under the mid-day sun without one’s pith helmet and one may have a sunstroke before he takes 100 steps. A short time before our arrival a Greek trader, who attempted to cross the Square at noon on a rush errand without his topee, was stricken and died before he reached his destination.”

Personally, I find this rather exaggerated, but it is perhaps hotter than you imagine, and the actinic, rays of the sun are supposed to have a deadly effect on one here in the tropics. Shay doesn’t say enough about the Gordon Hotel. It is a regular square barn and hotter than a furnace. There is practically no plumbing, and we found very unsanitary conditions in many respects.

As the government offices were closed for the day, we decided, after a little tea, to see what sights we could that afternoon. The zoo seemed to be the only thing open so, under the scorching sun, we rode over to it in a carriage. A good many of the animals run around wild. It is really most interesting. We saw several little gazelles as tame as could be. The lions and leopards were exceptionally good. The zoo contained, in addition to most of the African type of animals, a number of tropical birds. 

We wandered back to the hotel about sundown. There is something fascinating about Khartoum. It is practically surrounded by the desert, and being approximately 1,500 miles by train and boat from Alexandria, it stands as a sort of last outpost of civilization. It is the last place where one can buy camping equipment between here and Nairobi, with the wildest and most unexplored part, in fact, the very heart of Africa in the middle. Along the banks of the Nile, we found wonderful rows of sausage trees, completely shading the road, and the green bank on the other side of the Blue Nile looked very beautiful. 

After dinner, I met a Mr. and Mrs. Upton, who had just arrived from Rejaf. They have been six months traveling between Cape Town and Cairo. They gave us a lot of information, and got us all excited about going from Rejaf over to Aba in the Belgium Congo, and then down to Faraje Moto, Araba, Aru, Arua, and pick up the steamer between Nimule and Butialia at Rhino Camp. We could do it in about the same time as our Rejaf-Nimule safari, for they followed this route in coming up to Rejaf. However, such difficulties as a Belgium Congo visa, many sleeping sickness zones, and only a possibility of securing a car, and its breaking down somewhere on this 400 mile trip, discouraged us. We decided to stick to our Rejaf-Nimule plan. It is through one of the worst sleeping sickness areas, but there isn’t much danger if one travels by night, and keep away from the river. We must secure permits to enter these forbidden zones before we leave Khartoum.

Another interesting chap we met was a Dutch missionary, who, with his son, had also come up from Cape Town. They left some time in June.

The Daily Paper in Khartoum consists of a couple of pages of telegraphs blank, on which are typewritten the arrivals, departures, temperatures, and one or two items of local interest. I read that Mr. Pirie, Mr. Mark, and Mr. Eagan were due to arrive at 4:30 P.M. on the semi-weekly train from Wada Halfa.

There are no mosquitoes this time of year, thank goodness.

Khartoum,

Wednesday, November 11^th, 1925.

Getting up at the crack of dawn, for it was too hot and bright to sleep any later, we had breakfast, and started in making lists of what we had to do, etc.

Our first trip was to the office of the Game Warden, a chap named Brocklehurst. He is one of the nicest fellows we have met so far. He is an excellent exam­ple of a perfect English gentleman, and the type of man a Game Warden should be. We were ushered into his large office, which was wonderfully decorated with heads, spears, and game photographs. Brocklehurst knew all about the trip to Nairobi and gave us all the dope. We must secure a cook, for there is none avai1able at Rejaf. He sent out for a couple whom he interviewed in our presence. The natives’ are just frightened to death of him. He is the type of man that wont stand for any fooling. When one cook said he could talk Swahili, Brocklehurst told him to start right in. As a result, when he could say only about two words, he was elimina­ted. Finally, after pouring over letters of recommen­dation, Brocklehurst found one from a friend of his, and engaged Guma Mohammed for us. He then wired to the Marmur at Rejaf for 20 porters for us; in fact, he helped us in every possible way, getting us sleeping sickness zone permits, and giving us advice about camp­ing outfits. He is one man who knows his job thor­oughly, and we were mighty thankful to have discovered him.

From Upton and his wife we purchased quite a bit of camping outfit, including all the blankets, mosquito netting, etc. we needed. Mr. Upton, who has spent ten years of his life in India, and who has been around the world several times, outlined a trip for us through India so that we would see the best things. Kashmir, to the north, which he raved about, won’t be open until April on account of the snows.       

After dashing about Khartoum, shopping to get pri­ces on camping beds, and visiting the bank, we returned to the hotel for lunch feeling practically snuffed. The heat here gets one, and to try to move around like we do, as if we were in New York, is ruinous. It was 105 in the shade at one P.M. I couldn’t help but think of Lyd.

Five o’clock found us at the Zoo with Brocklehurst to see the lions fed. Here we saw the most ferocious lion I ever saw. Brocklehurst, for our benefit, excited him until he roared so loudly it deafened one; and grind­ing his teeth, he clawed and struck at the bars of the cage. Believe me, my 375 seemed to shrink to a 22, and I decided right then and there to get a larger gun like a 450, 470 or 500. Then the lion was fed with about 20 pounds of raw meat dripping with blood. Brockle­hurst took us all around the Zoo, showing us the dif­ferent animals. They all seemed to know him, and he let loads of them out of their cages to play around for awhile. None of them tried to run away.

We arrived back at the Gordon Hotel in time to keep our appointment at 6:30 with Grabham. Why he should take such an interest in us is what amazes me. He has had two of his boys out all afternoon getting prices for us at different stores. When we met him this evening, he started right out with us to buy our supplies. He interpreted for us, and jewed the store clerks down. Really, he was more like a father to us, and picked out everything we would need. He even took some mosquito netting and had his boys sew it up for us. Can you beat it?

As I mentioned before, Mr. Grabham invited all of us for dinner at the Sudan Club. Not having tucks, we felt rather embarrassed to accept his invitation, for the English always dress. However, he said it was per­fectly all right to go in whites, so we did. The Sudan Club is a men’s club, and is like a paradise in the desert. The club house was most attractive, and was surrounded by large trees, and had beautiful grass tennis courts. We ate on an open porch by the light of a little red lamp, and the brilliant tropical stars. These English officials are a happy young lot. They wore black trousers, tuck tie, and white coat. Instead of belt or suspenders, they wore a black sash. When one sees men like these –healthy, happy, lively, good natured, well bred and well educated fellows — out in a place like Khartoum, it isn’t difficult to see why England is a past master at colonization. No other nation in the world can handle their colonies like the English, and I believe it is largely due to the type of man that she sends out to her colonies. I forgot to mention that, besides Mr. Grabham, Ed, John and self, there were Doctor Crouch, a fellow we met enroute to Khartoum, and a Mr. Crowfoot, the head of the Department of Education in the Sudan, who is going to Rejaf on the boat with us on Friday. Both are extremely interesting men.

After a delicious dinner, we went to Grabham’s house. It wasn’t difficult to see that he was a bachelor, and a geologist, for his house was jammed to the doors with rocks, geological books, and one thing and another. On the front porch was a Ford truck. While he was on his leave, they had built a garage up against his house so there was no way of getting the Ford out except by bust­ing down some concrete pillars. He thought the whole situation most amusing.

Grabham, who is a photograph fiend, and who possesses some 24,000 slides, showed us pictures of all the country between Rejaf and Nimule, over which we were going. It was very interesting indeed. We left his house at 11:30 or 12, after inviting him to lunch at the Gordon next day.

Khartoum,

Thursday, November 12^th, 1925.

We were all up early again this morning in an effort to get something done before the scorching rays of the sun make us feel like wet rags. It was frightfully hot out, and the heat seemed to be reflected from the red clay, sandy roads with an even greater intensity.

The morning was spent waiting in the bank, where they think you intend staying in Khartoum for a couple of months, and in trying to buy a few things at reasona­ble prices. I find that one can apply a new mathemati­cal formula here in the tropics. It is my own discov­ery, but I think it is quite accurate: The limit of one’s patience is a variable, decreasing with a propor­tionate rise in temperature.

I found Mr. Brocklehurst in his office, and after discussing the situation thoroughly with him, decided it was rather advisable to add a heavy gun to my outfit, so bought a second hand 450 Jeffery that is in extremely good condition. Thrown in with it was a set of clean­ing rods, leather case, and 300 rounds of ammunition. I think 45 b for the whole business was quite a good bargain. 

Doctor Crouch called for us at the Gordon at 12:30 and John and I went with him over to North Khartoum to see his hospital ship, which is being refitted for a new trip up the Nile. His work is most interesting. He travels along the Nile between Khartoum and Rejaf, doctoring the natives. The ship he has is an excellent one, with operating room, wards, bathtubs, and all mod­ern conveniences, such as electric fans, lights, ice machines, etc. Usually he works for two years steadily and then gets a four months’ leave. With him he takes about eighteen natives as a crew, and one young English boy as an assistant. Last year he treated over 40,000 natives. The vast majority of his cases are of a syphi­litic nature, called yaws by the natives. An injection of 606 in the arm has been proven to be at least a tem­porary cure. Once, during three days, he treated 733 patients, who are brought aboard in lots of 20 at a time. It is really a wonderful work. On board he carries a horse and several donkeys for trips inland that he has to take. This shows that England knows what she is doing with her colonies. Instead of giving the natives absolutely free treatments, which Crouch says they don’t appreciate half as much as if they pay for it, he makes them pay with cattle and sheep. He says that the boat is a sight when he returns to Khartoum, being loaded to the top deck with hundreds of animals, which are sold at auction.

Crouch asked us to lunch at the Sudan Club, but we told him we expected him and Grabham to lunch with us at the Gordon, and this was the plan carried out.

Grabham is a scream. He insisted on our visit­ing the town of Omdurman across the river, so dragged us to the 2:30 P.M. tram on a frightfully hot afternoon. I didn’t think I could bear it, but he was so enthusias­tic that we all went. The tram only went as far as the ferry, where we waited about fifteen minutes for the boat. The other side of the Nile reached, we climbed aboard another tram, and soon were in the center of Omdurman, a pure native city of 80,000 or over three times the size of Khartoum. The trip over had taken about an hour and a half, so thought we really ought to make an effort to see the place. It turned out to be more interest­ing than I had expected it would. The market place is typically Arab, with its hundreds of grass and rag roof sheltered shops. The variety of goods for sale ranged from uneatable looking grains to donkeys. Old tin pans, rusty, worn out looking kettles, and empty glass bottles were, as usual, in abundance. Some of the shops were more interesting. There was a whole street given up to the making of red leather pumps which all Mohammedans wear on Friday, their holy day. The Arabs making native beds with heavy string and wooden posts was an unusual sight. But perhaps the most unique spectacle was the camels grinding oil out of sesame seeds. They are blind­folded, and walk around a circular path, the diameter of which is about eight feet, the whole day. It is really a pitiful sight. They are covered with oil and flies, and trudge along day after day without actually ever get­ting anywhere.

The natives were much the same as one sees in Cairo, and all through Egypt. Each one carries a knife on his left arm between his elbow and shoulder. Before we went back to Khartoum, we witnessed a game of soccer between a couple of native teams, and visited the tomb of the Mad Mahdi, which Kitchener dismantled, due to the mania the Mohammedans have for anything that is sacred. If anyone can do a few magic tricks, the Arabs are imme­diately very respectful, considering the magician possessed with power from Allah, or some such crazy idea. It is said that Kitchener feared the tomb might become the seat of religious uprisings. Grabham said that even now some natives make pilgrimages there and carry some of the soil home. Kitchener, I believe, defeated the Kalifa, suc­cessor to the Mad Mahdi, at Atbara on the railroad be­tween Halfa and Khartoum in 1898. Kitchener is the pride of the Sudan for he took his title as “Lord Kitchener of Khartoum.”

The ride back to the other side of the Nile was un­eventful. It is rather amusing to watch the Arab boys and men. They have a craze for running alongside of anything that is moving, no matter what it is — a horse, donkey, bicycle, or train. They gallop along by the score after it. Another thing one notices about the natives. Each one has three or four scars on the cheeks. These gashes about three inches long are tribal marks, and are wade on the children’s faces when they are very young. Into them are rubbed various materials so that a definite scar will remain.

Just before dinner I got my hair cut very short, as it will be six weeks before we get to Nairobi, and it won’t have to undergo another operation until then.

We all turned in rather early, as were dead tired, and have a lot of things to do in the morning before leaving. I looked through the temperature records for the past month, and couldn’t find a day when the maxi­mum temperature was less than 100 degrees. For the three days we have been here, it has been comparatively cool, never more than 110 or so, and averaging between 10 A.M. and 5 P.M. 105, 104, and 101 degrees. I really haven’t needed my red flannels lately.

Sail Khartoum for Rejaf,

Friday, November 13^th, 1925.

Khartoum, the only real gate to the upper Nile country some 1500 miles by river south of Alexandria, is practic­ally surrounded by the Nubian Desert which Stevens describes in three words, “Devastation, desolation, damnation.” Ihave already described the heat at Khartoum but if I attempt­ed a different description every day for a year, I’m sure I never could find the adequate or necessary words. Chapman in the “Savage Sudan” says that bread is turned into toast before one has time to eat it.

Speaking of the Sudan, I’m sure that few people in the states have any idea, of its real size. It covers some one million square miles, approximately one-third the area of the United States and one-fifth of the whole of Africa. About six million people live in the Sudan, and, as most of these are uncivilized tribes and most of the land is wilder­ness, it represents, in a way, the wildest part of Africa. Of the million square miles, only about two thousand are under any sort of cultivation. At present, the Sudan is under joint control of the British and the Egyptians.

Two things are of particular interest in Khartoum­- the Governor General’s Palace, where General Gordon was killed by the troops of the Mad Mahdi in 1885, and the Gordon College. In the center of the city, or rather village, is a statue of Gordon on a camel. The account of his exper­iences and death in the Sudan is well worth reading.

The Zafir didn’t sail until 11 A.M. so we had time to take our stuff down to the dock and call for my 450 as Brocklehurst had to get a license and sale transfer slip for me. After all these last minute preparations, we arrived at the Nile in ample time accompanied by Grabham who had been up since seven o’clock seeing that we had all should have. I never saw a chap like him. All yesterday afternoon at Omdur­man we were followed by two of his boys in case of any trouble. This morning he had map of Uganda which he gave to us and said that he would send a couple of the Sudan to Kosti by mail. He certainly has been a perfect godsend. At the dock we were met by Guma Mohammed all dressed in white who saluted us. There was the usual hustle and bustle before leaving but 11 o’clock found us waving goodbye to Grabham and we were soon steaming down to the White Nile. 

To me, the Zafir was a most welcome surprise. I had expected to find a little tub of a boat with no comfortable accommodations of any sort. On the other hand, I found everything very nice. The staterooms are much larger than the ones we had on the Sudan Government steamer between Aswan and Halfa. Each one has an excellent bunk, wash basin, table and camp stool and is fitted out with a screen window, electric fan and lights. What more could one ask for? There are three decks, the lowest being taken up with stores and the boiler; the second contains about eight staterooms and two bathrooms with running water. Forward, is a well ventilated dining saloon and a porch. On the top deck are two mosquito houses, one for the men and one for the women. They are open on all four sides so that the wind, if there is any, blows right through. The occupants are protected from insects by screens, and a roof serves to keep out the dew. On the whole, the Zafir is a very comfortable boat and being only four months old, that is, it is four months since it was refinished, it is by far the best of the Khartoum­-Rejaf Post boats. The same engine, hull and boilers that are in the Zafir were used by Kitchener when he came up the Nile.

One thing is certain, the Zafir is not without company for she is pushing and towing about half a dozen or more barges loaded with freight and Arabs bound for the Congo. However, I will write more about them later. I can’t say that the Zafir was a beautiful sight leaving Khartoum with this ungainly looking mass of coal barges and disreputable bunch of rafts. We soon reached the junction of the Blue and White Nile and, rounding the bend, steamed south up the latter. Icouldn’t help feeling a sort of thrill as I saw the last sign of civilization, Khartoum, disappearing in the north.

We had heard that the thing to do was to get in good with the engineer of the boat so that he would stop the engines for us in order to make good photographs or in case we saw a crocodile so that we could sneak up on it and get a better shot. Willenson is his name and he is all awfully nice chap. These post boats are entirely run by the natives who do all the navigating. An English engineer just goes along to superintend things. Among our other companions are a Miss Easton and a Miss Babbitt, two American missionaries, who are on their way to the Congo for a five year stay. The rest of the passenger list includes Mr. Crowfoot of the Department of Education, a young Syrian who is going to an inland place called Wau to teach the natives to be clerks, a couple of well to do Arabs and a Major Tithering who is returning to his district in the Sudan after a summer’s leave of absence. 

At lunch we were seated at the engineer’s table along with the two missionary ladies. Miss Easton, who has already spent five years in the Congo, isn’t so bad but Miss Babbitt is dumb. They speak of their mission stations as being “in the field.” For instance, Miss Babbitt said, “After spending twelve years in Christian charity work, I decided to go in the field.” It sounds as if they were going into battle or something. Wilkenson who is a real fellow, told us after lunch that the pity about these mission stations was that after so many young women spend years of their life out in the wilderness, they accomplish no real good. That the natives never actually understand the mission purpose and at the first signs of religious uprising, they all join against the foreigners. I am quite convinced of their uselessness and it will be a long time before I’ll be giving money to support Christian missionary societies in central Africa. It doesn’t take one long after seeing these natives, to discover that the sort of missionary work the churches are carrying on is a ridiculous waste of time and money which might be spent to a much better purpose in the States. Here­after, I am an advocate of the “charity begins at home” idea.

The White Nile above Khartoum is immensely broad and the scenery is rather dull. All that one can see, beside the many mirages, is, a distant shore line of flat desert waste. To the average person, it might have seemed boring to watch miles of this monotonous scenery slip by but to me it meant the last of civilization fading in the distance and the open­ing of the African wilderness. I guess I should have been an explorer for nothing fascinates me as much as an adventure of this sort. I can hardly wait to get to Rejaf.

The Zafir pokes along at about five miles an hour. It is no wonder with this barrage of barges all around us. The sunset was glorious. I’ve never seen such a riot of colors. No sooner had the sun disappeared than the major rang for a whiskey and soda. These people who live in the tropics carry out two policies that have become part of their religion -­ first, never drink liquor between sunrise and sunset and, second, never go out in the sun after seven o’ clock without a pith helmet, not even if one has only ten yards to go. Speaking of drinking, my diary would be a failure if I left out a note about Grabham. He is such a tall, gawky looking bird with his shaven head, glasses and red face. He stammers to a certain extent and never takes a drink of any sort, soft or hard, without stating the following phrase or toast: “The first today and – – and – – the – – the Lord knows – – it’s badly wanted.” He seems to say it with a tremendous effort as if he is never quite sure if he can get it all out; the first hundred times I heard it I laughed – after that I began to weep.

Dinner was fine and in the evening John and I took Ed and Mr. Crowfoot over the rocks at bridge. All of us crowded up into the mosquito house which is only about twelve feet Square. You have to be a broad jumper to make your bed or else crawl under someone else’s on your hands and knees. No one was foolish enough to sleep in his cabin.

Enroute, Khartoum to Rejaf,

Saturday, November 14^th, 1925. 

During the night I awakened with such a start that I almost fell out of bed. The steam whistle, which is just outside the mosquito house, fairly blew me off the top deck. Never have I heard anything so loud or shrill. It was blow­ing for a little native village, called El Getenina, where we stopped for a few minutes to pick up mail for Rejaf.

When I awoke this morning at 6: 30, it was as bright, clear and hot as ever and the old Zafir was slipping along at its usual poky rate. Everyone else seemed to wake up about the same time so we drank our tea in bed before going down to get dressed for breakfast. The Mayor and all these other people wear flannel bands around their stomachs at night. It is supposed to make you dreadfully ill if you don’t but I can’t help thinking it a lot of rubbish. I’ve got one but haven’t any intention of wearing it.

Most of the day I spent writing letters and reading. We are due in Kosti tomorrow afternoon and from there we can post mail for home. I guess it will be our last chance until we get to Rejaf about two weeks from now. The scenery is much the same as yesterday except that the land is a little more spotted with scrub and grass than it was before. The Nile continues to be very wide. Yesterday afternoon we passed the place where the Egyptian government desires to build a dam across the White Nile but, as yet, no active work has been done. We saw one or two gyassas. They are a native two masted felucca rigged boat.

At lunch Miss Easton told us a couple of stories of the Congo. It seems that the women are sold there. Ten knives is a good price to pay for a wife but if at any time after the purchase the original owner desires the woman back he can have her by returning the ten knives. Therefore, no one is ever sure of his wife. It seems that the women have a pretty tough time. To teach them anything, that is, to give them any education, is forbidden. They do all the hard work and are not even permitted to enter a mosque until they have given birth to four children. Wherever one sees a man and his wife and one seat, the man is always in the chair and the woman, like a dog, squats at his feet. 

Wilkinson said that the crocodiles are really very bad and that on the average one or two men are lost every year from the post boat he travels on. It is very dangerous crossing streams for one never knows where the crocodiles are and they can take a good hunk out of you in midstream. They never eat their kill when it is fresh but hide it under the banks until it is partly decayed and rancid.

It was terrifically hot this afternoon. I wrote more letters and then went forward to get a picture of one of the Arab doing his daily dozen. I tried to be very clever about it so that he wouldn’t see me. However, even if I did get his picture, my attempt to hide myself from view failed for when I looked up I saw several glaring indignantly at me. I suppose I will get a knife between my shoulder blades before we reach Rejaf.

These barges are really quite a sight. The natives eat, cook and sleep on them with nothing to protect them all day from the glaring sun. In the coal barge are half a dozen sheep- our supply of meat. They walk around all day trying to find some shade. There are an assortment of chickens, turkeys, goats, and about ten other species of animals wandering about the barges among the natives who can be seen cooking over a few pieces of coal. Half of them are practically naked while the others are covered from head to foot with Mohammedan robes. It is quite an unusual spectacle.

Reaching El Dueim about eight o’clock, we were met by a crowd of yelling natives each one carrying a squawking chicken. Chickens are cheap as dirt here, selling for about three American cents. The Arabs carry them about by the feet so the poor birds keep continually trying to right themselves by flapping their wings and squawking. We didn’t go ashore as the boat just remained for a few minutes.

I took a nice hot bath before dinner and put on my crash suit. It fits like a sack but then I guess it doesn’t matter much how it looks. After dinner I played bridge with Crowfoot, Wilkinson and Ed.

On the Nile,

Sunday, November 15^th, 1925.

150 miles south of Khartoum the scenery undergoes a complete change, as one enters a locality that receives greater rainfall. This atmospheric difference has a geo­graphical effect. The Nile becomes much narrower, and the banks appear a great deal more solid. The desert disappears and in its place comes tropical vegetation. The papyrus makes its first real appearance, and the seroot fly becomes a regular pest of the first order. Speaking of the seroot fly, Chapman writes:

“This insect terror first appears in the region of Kosti bridge, some 170 miles south of Khartoum, and thence forward forms a perpetual menace to peace. The seroot combines the speed of a peregrine with the sleuth of a weasel. Whereas the common house fly alights with a buzz and a bump and then crawls, the seroot settles, silent and insidious, and goes to work at once. The victim is unaware of his attack until the spear pierces like a red hot needle.”

I give this detailed description for I know only too well how they sting. I might add to the above that the seroot fly is unmistakable, due to its large size, being sev­eral times larger than the common fly. The appearance of the sacred Ibis is another and the last of the most marked changes of scenery.

I awoke early this morning, and after tea and breakfast settled down to the serious task of writing letters and diary which I want to mail at Kosti. I might add that we were due to leave Kaua at one A.M. today, but by 10 A.M. we were still fast aground on a mud flat. However, after consider­able effort we were able to get off. It took some twenty-five blacks swarming all around us pulling and pushing to get the Zafir off ground. They have a peculiar system with these post boats. There are no docks of any sort, so they run full speed into a mud bank until the boat stops. They never worry about getting off until they are ready to leave, and then they usu­ally spend a couple of hours tugging, backing, etc. 

While we saw a great many birds yesterday, we did not really enter the bird country until rather late last night. A description of them is practically impossible, as they were present by the hundreds of thousands, and the variety of spe­cies was uncountable. Among the ducks were Pintails, Widgeons, Shovelers, Teals, Garganeys, and Tufted. Nile geese, Shedrakes, Spoonbills; Cranes of three kinds: Common, Crowned, and Demoiselle; Herons, both grey and white; Storks of count­less families; Ibises; Sandpipers, and Cormorants. These were only a few among the living mass. The shores and trees were full of them, and they dotted the surface of the Nile by the millions. Never again do I expect to see such a riot of birds of all sorts and descriptions.

The brilliant red bee eater was beautiful, as were the big black winged, white bodied Egyptian and Nile Gese. The Nile is famous for its bird life for, here in the Sudan, practically all animal life is dependent on the Nile for water. Pieces of grass and weeds in clumps twenty feet across and strong; enough to bear the weight of a man are continually floating down the river. They break off from the Sudd district several hundred miles south and are carried downstream by the current. These drifting masses and the nu­merous floating cabbages provide food for the birds as do the many small fish in the weedy banks.

The day passed without affording any real excitement. I watched the river banks for miles and miles, read, wrote and slept. Lunch was fine and so was tea. The sunset was perfect. Everyone seems to be better than the previous one. We have no such gorgeous colors in the States. They are quite impossible to describe except that they last much longer and that all the sky to the east, north and south reflects the last tints in the Nile and through the waving palms.

I skipped rope before dinner in order to get a little ex­ercise and then took a bath. Dinner is at eight o’clock so we just have time each evening to play a couple of rubbers of bridge before turning in. Ed and I crashed through tonight and made Wilkinson and Mr. Crowfoot look sick. We are not expected to reach Kosti until about midnight but, as we are not scheduled to leave there until tomorrow morning at 8 A.M., we will make up for the time we lost this morning at Kawa.

I forgot to mention that John went ashore this morning at Kawa with Mr. Crowfoot to inspect a school. John said to tell Bill that he felt like the Prince of Wales as all the kids saluted, bowed, etc. standing in line as he inspected them. John says it is great stuff.

On The Nile, Kosti

Monday, November 16^th, 1925.

When I awoke this morning at six o’clock, we were tied fast at Kosti. I got right up as I wanted to have a look at the place before breakfast. I must say I was greatly disappointed, for there is absolutely nothing to see. John, Ed, and I, accompanied by Guma, the cook, made a tour around the mud houses. I took a few feet of film of a camel grind­ing oil seeds, and some pictures of the Zafir and her mob of tugs. The village itself was like all the others we have seen, at Omdurman and elsewhere. Row after row of scorched mud houses with burnt up looking corn husk and straw roofs. The natives continue to be as indescribably dirty as ever. John and Ed were feeling a little under the weather, so they left me to wander about awhile longer with Guma. These Arabs are all right if you keep them in their place. They are very respectful, always bowing or saluting you, and even a crowd of strangers you have never seen before rise when you pass. We are careful not to be familiar with Guma so that he is quite all right. I do pity him at times during the day, when I see him sitting down in the scorching coal barge surrounded by sheep that are probably full of fleas.

I had started out leaving my pith helmet behind, as I didn’t think the rays of the sun would be dangerous until after eight o’clock, but, never again! I wasn’t sick when I got back, but I felt a little light headed and bleary eyed. Wilkinson says that sunstroke makes one a little “coo coo,” but that everyone that is “coo coo” is not neces­sarily so on account of the sun. Now, take Scytha, for ex­ample, I don’t believe she has ever been exposed to the sun a great deal.

It wasn’t long after breakfast before the famous Kosti Bridge appeared around a bend in the river, and I rushed for­ward to movie it. Over it the last bit of railroad of the Sudan runs to its terminus at El Obeid, a little desert sta­tion on the west of the Nile. It is quite a beautiful piece of engineering, especially when one considers the difficul­ties that must have arisen during its construction. Towing two barges, and pushing four abreast in front of us, we were just able to squeeze through the draw.

John developed a short piece of his film to see how it was going to be, and it came out excellent while mine was a little over exposed. The other side of the Kosti Bridge reached, we were attacked by swarms of seroot flies. The vege­tation became more tropical, and the last traces of desert disappeared. More birds appeared. The Sacred, Glossy, and Hage­dash Ibis; White Egrets, Openbill Storks, Darters, Buzzards, and Hawks fluttered about among the previously mentioned mass.

Along an open stretch in the bank I saw a herd of cattle, the number of which must have run up into the thousands. I wanted to movie them, but they were a little too far off. The wind dropped back into the south so that today turned out to be a scorcher. Ed, who can’t stand the heat very well, felt pretty miserable and John, due to other causes, wasn’t up to par. The clay passed much the same as the previous ones. We picked up a new passenger, a chap by the name of Stubbs, who is returning to his dis­trict in and around Wau. Out here, every day counts as two on your service record so that his seven years in central Africa counts as fourteen.

It was so hot at lunch one could scarcely eat a thing. By tea time it was somewhat cooler but when sunset came and everyone felt “ah, at last – a cool breeze,” the mosquitoes attacked us enmasse. I closed the door of my cabin and fought it out with them until the last one fell. Then I carried on a battle with them in the bathrooms where they insisted on biting me on the back while I was trying to wash my face. All I can say is that one can’t kill all of the mosquitoes in Africa.

Ed got several bites so at once started taking quinine as if every mosquito carried malaria germs. After dinner I played bridge with Wilkinson against John and Mr. Crowfoot and didn’t get to bed until about midnight. Wilkinson is a prince and offered to stop the boat any time we wanted to take pictures. This morning he said he would set breakfast back half an hour if we wanted more time ashore.

On the Nile

Tuesday, November 17^th, 1926.

Passing through Jebelein during the night, we awoke to find ourselves traveling in a slightly different sort of country. The sparsely treed banks had given way to a more tropical, viney, vegetation, which formed what looked not unlike a Florida hammock. The Nile was even narrower, which made it more interesting as one could see more of the animal life on shore. We are passing through big game districts where elephants, rhinoceros and buffalo live by the hundreds, but it is a very unfortunate time of the year to make the trip. What game there is stalking about is in­visible due to the halfa and elephant grass that is six or eight feet high. This reaches right down to the water’s edge, and in open stretches on the shore runs back for miles. No animal could possibly be seen in it. A few months from now all this grass is burned right to the edge of the Nile. Crocodiles, which are usually seen at every bend in the river, are practically never in view at this season, for they lie up among the weeds. Then, too, the Nile is still very high, and all the sand banks on which the crocs usually sun themselves are covered with water. The best months are April and May, for then the water is at its lowest. After that it begins to rise, reaching the maximum in October.

We stopped at one or two little wood and mission sta­tions during the morning, but did not reach Renk until about 11:30 or 12:00 o’clock. John, Ed, and I went ashore to get pictures of any interesting sights there might be. The main part of the village is a quarter of a mile back from the Nile, so we hoofed it there in the boiling sun. There was absolutely nothing to see except a few native straw houses. There were no trees worth mentioning. Of all the places to live, this seemed the worst. Some beautiful crowned cranes and grey herons were quite near, so I went back to get my Bell & Howell from the Zafir. With the telephoto lens I think I got a good picture. Guma, as usual, followed us a few steps in the rear to answer any questions. He seems like quite a good sort.        

After lunch I went up on the top deck with John’s glasses to try to spot a croc or a hippo, but had no luck.

The Major, who is a very interesting chap, pointed out a tamarind tree to me. They are one of the most beautiful trees I’ve seen in Africa. The trees one sees over here are so different from our American ones. All along the banks we saw gorgeous white headed eagles posing majestically on the tops of the trees. To me they are quite the most interesting and beautiful of any of the birds I’ve seen so far. Little weaver birds by the millions circle around over the tops of the grass all day long.

I didn’t mention that at lunch the missionaries started in. I have been afraid, ever since we left Khartoum, that we would get an earful before we reached Rejaf. However, we more or less checked them and turned the conversation into other channels before it became too serious. Miss Babbitt, the dumb one, told us how Billy Sunday had converted her at a lecture in Scranton, Pennsylvania. And that she made up her mind to come out and do the Lord’s work. Billy Sunday, she says, saved many souls in Scranton. She told Ed that Bill Sunday had introduced her to the Lord and, after looking at her rather unattractive face, John whispered to me that Bil1y Sunday would probably get a good swift kick for doing it. (John didn’t want me to put this in my diary but it is too good to omit.) Just about at this point a couple of crowned cranes flew past and afforded a change of conver­sation. Just as Wilkinson said, these missionaries are all right as long as they don’t try to convert you, and even if they don’t do any good over here in Africa it keeps them out of trouble at home.

I’ve started a new book called “Wanderings of an Elephant Hunter” by a man named Bell. It looks as if it were going to be rather good. After tea I went up on deck and saw a most beautiful sunset. All previous records in this line were shattered as the sun, amid a riot of hundreds of different shades of gorgeous colors, disappeared below the horizon. Hardly had it gone out of sight before the sky in the west gleamed a pale red reflected from miles of grass fires a mile or ore inland. As it grew darker, a whole line of them could be seen and the white smoke against the dark blue of the evening sky was too beautiful for words.  

The chief topic of discussion at dinner was the subject of quinine. Poor Ed has had a does of the fever I am afraid for he slept all day yesterday and all this morning. Even this afternoon I saw him dozing most of the time, simply bathed in perspiration. John game him some quinine and it happened to be in the sulfate form which isn’t as good for one as the bi-hydro-chlorate tablet. Unsuspecting, Ed downed it without a minute’s hesitation and I guess he has been feeling as rotten from the effects of the quinine as from the fever itself. In regard to quinine everyone, as with rifles, has his or her own theory. Some people say to take five grains before every meal; some say to take ten grains twice a week; and others say to take fifteen grains a week. For my part, I am going to follow Wilkinson’s system of never taking any until I feel a fever coming on. This business of filling one’s system with a lot of medicine is ridiculous, I think.

After dinner I felt very tired so wrote for a few minutes and then went to bed. These hot days make one awfully sleepy when the clock gets around to nine at night.

(P.S. I may have repeated some things here as I wrote half a dozen days at one sitting, as it were.)

On the Nile

Wednesday, November 18^th, 1925. 

One morning on board is the same as every other. We either read or write, trying every few minutes to find a cooler spot. Wilkinson brought me a lot of old victrola records of his. I had to laugh when the first one I pulled out was “Oh, You Beautiful Doll.” I’ve just finished read­ing Shay’s article in the National Geographic. It seems that we are continually having the same experiences that he had, plus a lot.

Today the scenery is changed slightly. The Nile remains as narrow as ever, but the trees are no longer right down on the edge of the banks. Instead, there are long fields of waving halfa grass. I spent hours looking for game; but if there were any animals feeding near the Nile, they were cer­tainly out of sight in the tall grass.

About four o’clock we arrived at a village called Kaka. As we were going to be here for a couple of hours, we all went ashore to see the place. Kaka is the spot where one sees the first of the Shilluks, one of the most primitive and uncivilized tribes of the African natives. They are really quite a sight. Most of the men are very tall, between six and seven feet, and are as skinny as a rail. Their legs are positively like poles, and one wonders how they can possibly support such big bodies. The women, on the other hand, are short and fat, and quite a contrast to the men. 

A number of them were stark naked –men, women, and chil­dren— while the majority were dressed in the most unique style. Over their black bodies, and draped over one shoulder in the Roman toga style, leaving the other bare, is a dark brown cloth which reaches to the knees. Their legs and arms are decorated with ivory and copper bracelets and white bands of animal fur. Around their necks they wear a variety of beads­ white, yellow, and blue. Their faces, like their bodies, are covered with a tattoo decoration. I noticed that most of them had a circle of round, tattooed dots, about one third the size of a dime, beginning at one ear and running across the forehead just over the eyebrows and continuing on to the other ear. Their cheeks bear all sorts of tribal marks, gashes and scars. But the best part of the whole costume is the hair. It is worn in several different styles that I am sure the French hair­dressers would give fortunes to see. They let their hair grow quite long and then soak it in a mixture of red clay and cow manure. With this plastic mass they can mold the hair into any desired shape. Some of them make two enormous basin shaped affairs, one back of each ear, the edges meeting about a foot over the head. When the clay hardens, this dressing becomes as hard as a rock. Others twist the hair into little pea shaped masses, over which they sprinkle red dirt. Still others mold it into a high point reaching straight up into the air, sticking feathers of all sorts and anything else that is handy into it for decoration. Among the other ornaments that they wear are brass rings which pierce their ears, nose, or lower lips. Such a conglomeration of junk you’ve never seen. Each one carries at least two long spears wherever he goes.

We wandered back in to their village. The houses are round and built almost entirely of straw except for a little clay near the ground to serve as a foundation. These houses are surrounded by fences of straw, matting about five feet high. The village was decidedly in poor shape. Weeds were growing everywhere. Donkeys, goats, chickens, and all sorts of animals grazed about in the yards and streets – if one can call them streets. They raise a considerable amount of cotton which was the only growing thing that I could see out­side of the miles of halfa grass and the useless weeds. On the tops of some of the houses – or rather huts – a cone-like straw roof was decorated with a broken ostrich egg. Those without eggs had substituted empty pop bottles that the river boats had left behind.

Their most customary and typical pose is standing on one leg with the other bent at the knee like a crane. They all seem to do this and yet for the life of me I couldn’t get a picture of one in this position. It is most difficult to get photographs. They are very bashful and afraid of the camera.

We were under way once more by six o’ clock and I took a bath and changed my clothes before dinner.

The missionaries always talk of their work “in the field” so when I saw Wilkinson going into dinner he remarked, “Well, I’m ready to go in the field, how about you?” The storm broke tonight! The whole conversation was about missionary societies. John was trying to get me into a jam by telling Miss Babbitt, who was as serious as she could be, that I needed to be con­verted, etc. These two dumbbells think that they can go out in, the wilderness and read the gospel, as difficult as it is for us to understand, to a bunch of uncivilized blacks who haven’t enough sense to come in out of the rain, and who don’t know a word of the English language. Those that have intelligence enough to understand a little can’t figure out why, if the Christian religion is all right, the Catholic mission stations should forbid their people to speak with the people of the Protestant missions. Both, the natives say, are Christians teaching the same thing. Which is right? Perhaps neither, they surmise. 

After dinner, Wilkinson and I beat Ed and Mr. Crowfoot, who has the bad habit of always overbidding his hand at bridge. Wilkinson or I doubled nearly every time and while they won two rubbers we were 900 points to the good at the end of the evening. We stopped at the Melut just before we turned in. Golly! One certainly feels snuffed at night after these hot days. 

On the Nile – Kodok

Thursday, November 19^th, 1925.

John set up his movie camera this morning before break­fast, hoping to get a few pictures of the hundreds of cranes, pelicans and herons. After a half hour of patient waiting for a good group, he gave up and came down to eat. Hardly had he sat down at the table before one flock after another seemed to rise out of the halfa grass and circle around the boat. That’s the way it is when you are looking for them, there is not one to be seen, and when it is too dark to take a movie they rise by the millions in front of you and spoil the beautiful colors of the sunset.

I spent all morning writing on my diary, and looking for crocs. I’m just dying to try my 450. The scenery is ex­actly the same as yesterday.

Just before lunch, we arrived at Kodok. This is the place where the Shilluks gathered last year to dance for the Duke of York when he went through this district. We were met at the shore by the usual group of natives, whose chief occupation seems to be standing around and looking. The main part of the village is quarter of a mile from the Nile. We walked back there, hoping to get some native spear heads and to make some movies. We really had a most amusing time with the pictures. The Shilluks, as I said before, are very bashful, and flee from a camera as if it were a gun. We offered some piastas to one to let us take his picture; he didn’t stop to look at us, but was off before you could snap your fingers. I saw that we would have to be pretty quick and clever in order to get any pictures at all, and that our only chance was to catch them unawares. John and Ed walked around one side of a hut talking loudly, and John fooling with his camera, while I hid myself behind a tree in the rear. As soon as they saw John, they all eased around to the back of the house, and I took movies of the whole outfit.

To get some close-ups, we started bickering with them through Guma our cook as interpreter about the price of some spear heads. In this way we got close to them and I walked a short distance off, turned around quickly and took more pictures. As a result, we got some good spear heads at about half the original price they asked plus a lot of good pic­tures. It was a most successful trip. On the way back to the Zafir, I saw three native women walking in single file carrying big pitchers of water over their heads. It was the best thing I had seen yet. I hastily got my Bell & Howell set and was just getting them nicely in the picture when a crazy Syrian doctor on the boat stuck his face right in the way, and kept saying: “Are you taking my picture?” I could have killed him. However, there was nothing to do, as the boat was ready to leave, and the women had passed.

Another amusing thing is the way the natives salute John and me. You see we both have English military helmets and, as all the officials in the tropics wear plain whites, they think we are high officials. There are no tourists in this section so that every town or village we visit we spend about half the time saluting. Whenever we pass a shop every­ one stands up at attention. It certainly makes one feel im­portant. I suppose Guma, following right in back of us with his long white Arabic dress, adds a sort of dignity to the procession. You have to salute back as they all hold their salute until you answer it. We feel like the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York.

It was sweltering at lunch but we felt better after drinking some lukewarm lemonade and eating some cold meat. After lunch we developed a little of our exposed film to see how things were coming. Mine showed a great improvement. You have to stop your camera down a great deal here in Africa for the light is so bright. I take most of my pictures at 11, 16 or 32. Hardly had we finished when two native women on one of the barges started fighting. The thing turned into a hair pulling contest with a group of men crowded around them in a circle, watching the fun. A third woman finally stepped in and ended it.

The rest of the afternoon I spent cleaning my gun, taking the spear heads off the shafts, looking at flocks of lesser egrets, and writing a few letters. Tea and watching the sun­ set filled in the spare minutes. I took a nap before dinner and turned in right afterwards as I was dead tired.

Right now, Friday noon, the perspiration is just dripping off me. 115º in the shade isn’t cool, you know.

On the Nile – to Malakal,

Friday, November 20^th, 1925.

I haven’t failed to wake up once when the steam whistles blew. John and Ed seem to slumber peaceably on but I almost fall out of bed when the darn thing goes off at two A.M. or so. When I awoke this morning, we were tied up at Malakal. John and I went ashore before breakfast to have a look around. It is quite a place, being one of the largest villages in the Sudan, – but that isn’t saying much. There is a hospital and a few brick houses belonging to English officials. Outside of these few buildings, there is nothing but native mud and straw huts. Probably the most amusing sight was the meat mar­ket. Here were a number of natives bartering for bits of beef, etc. One fellow had the skin of a cow on the ground inside of which was wrapped an assortment of pieces of meat like the liver, heart and gizzard. Every now and then he would haul out one part and hold it up. If no offers were forthcoming back it went again into the skin of the cow. You never saw such a dirty looking place.

After a short walk, we returned to the Zafir for breakfast. It wasn’t long before we were ashore once more with our cameras. We made some rather good pictures in spite of the bashfulness of the natives. We have gotten to the point where we haven’t any scruples against going right up to an individual and snap­ping the Kodak in his face. It takes nerve, especially when the native has a couple of very sharp spears in his hand. But it is the only way one can get pictures. If they see you com­ing, the picture taking affair becomes a regular game of hide and seek. John got a couple of kids when they weren’t looking and when they heard the snap of the Kodak they ran like deer. After some bickering around, we bought two Shilluk knives. We have been trying to get them for days so when we saw a couple of beautiful ones this morning we purchased them.

The Major, Stubbs and four Syrians got off at Malakal as did a crowd of natives. We also dropped two of the barges which make it faster going. We weren’t due to leave until five P. M. but, as the cargo was all loaded and every thing, ready by ten A.M., we got ready to leave. A very funny thing happened and of course neither John nor I had our cameras ready. Just at the last minute one fellow tried to get a donkey on board one of the barges. As the boat was ten feet from shore the animal had to walk across a wooden gangplank about two feet wide. You can imagine what the donkey did under such conditions. The whistle was blowing and an Arab was tugging at the rope around the donk’s neck in an effort to get him aboard. The donkey, for his part, was sitting down on his hind legs with his front two straight out in front of him as a brace. It certainly was an amusing affair. After the poor Arab couldn’t get the donkey to move a few of the sailors got a hold of it and carried it aboard. The whole thing was over before I had time to get my Bell & Howell.

The first class passenger list has been more than cut in half by those who got off this morning at Malakal. Besides Ed, John and self, there are only the two missionaries and Crowfoot, the Department of Education fellow. After lunch we heard that the mail boat going downstream would pass us about six o’clock so everyone spent the afternoon writing. I suc­ceeded in catching up on my diary which I think quite an accomplishment – accomplishment is hardly the word for this mis­erable attempt at a description of our trip can scarcely be called that. I should say “quite a task” due to the millions of seroot flies which almost bit me to death.

Shortly before we passed the post boat, we stopped at a little village where the whistle of the Zafir was terrifying enough to send a group of female spectators scurrying through the grass as if the devil himself were after them. They came back a few minutes later laughing as heartily as they could as if the incident were the biggest joke they had ever known.

We were certainly lucky to get the Zafir for our trip up the Nile for the other mail steamer isn’t anywhere near as nice. Besides sending off our letters, we talked to a chap who has just come through the Belgium Congo and who advised us to go that way to Lake Albert instead of making the Rejaf Nimule safari. If possible we are going to take the route he advised. I think we can get visas and sleeping sickness permits for the Congo in Mongella. We can’t really decide until we get to Rejaf and see how things are. As Brocklehurst said, “Plans are useless things in this country. One day a road is good enough to take a ten ton truck over but after one day’s rain you can’t even walk over it for two months.”

It was very hot today but with sundown a good breeze came up. We reached tonga about nine o’clock. After dinner, we play­ed a little bridge before going to bed.

On the Nile,

Saturday, November 21^st, 1925.

The first thing I heard this morning was a jabber of Arabic voices loud enough to wake a dead man. It sounded as if an army of them had assembled on the lower deck. The loud tone of the chorus of voices was enough to indicate that some sort of trouble, meeting, or riot was about to break out. Wilkinson, who woke up just about the same time, put on his bathrobe and went below to settle things. Im­mediately everything quieted down. It seems that he arrived on the scene just in time to see the firemen standing on one side with shovels and iron pokers awaiting the attack of the sailors on the opposite side who were armed with knives and short pieces of wood. As is nearly always the case when an Englishman steps into a native situation of this sort, the whole thing ended in a surprisingly short time. Wilkinson picked out four men whom he ordered to his cabin. He fined each one of them four days’ pay and said if there was the least sign of any further disturbance that he would hand them over to the Governor of Mongella who would either give them a good beating or put them in prison. One fellow, a little braver than the rest, started to protest. Wilkinson told him twice to shut up and when the fireman still continued to babble out something he poked him one in the stomach which sent him flying. The native slunk away. This may seem the wrong way to treat them but I’m sure it isn’t. The natives respect you and obey much better if you don’t get too friendly with them. As I have written a dozen times already, the English certainly know how to handle them. The average American takes an awful beating by being too sympathetic, etc. and as soon as the na­tives get on to him they gyp and ream him until he becomes a regular fish.

This morning very early, we entered the Sudd. To anyone who has been up the Nile this far, no description is necessary for the three or four days travel through it must make an im­pression one can never forget. I have seen it for just one day and I know it as well as if I’d lived in it for ten years. The Nile has narrowed down to a hundred yards or so and meanders around through the Sudd like a snake. The turns are so sharp in places that the steamer has to back several times to make them. The Sudd itself consists of a solid mass of papyrus about twelve or fifteen feet high and covering hundreds and hundreds of square miles. Standing on the top deck, one can just see over the top of this enormous green sheet which stretches in­to infinity in every direction. Mile after mile is exactly the same. Every now and then a piece breaks off and floats downstream often blocking the river entirely for weeks until it can be clear­ed away.

It is impossible to walk in the Sudd for it isn’t solid ground but a sort of marsh into which one would sink for five feet or so in mud, water and a tangle of weeds. The papyrus plant has a large bushy looking head having needles not unlike our balsam only considerably longer. For a few minutes it is rather a fascinating scene but it soon becomes a dreadfully monotonous thing. Hour after hour one sees exactly the same sight.

However, I started the most difficult task of the whole trip- balancing our expense accounts. I spent the entire morning and afternoon doing nothing but adding, subtracting and multiplying. Just try to change American dollars into francs, lire, Krones, pounds- English and Egyptian, pesetas, piasters, etc.! Tea and a bath were a decided relief from my work which, after today’s efforts, is about half completed.

Crowfoot, Miss Easton and myself are the only survivors so far. Wilkinson, Miss Babbitt, Ed and John have all been under the weather from time to time. Poor Ed is worse off than any of the others. I’m afraid this hot weather is more than he can stand. I guess my preliminary training in Florida put me in the proper shape for I love these scorching days. 

Nothing of particular interest happened today. Lunch, tea and dinner passed an as usual we sat down to play bridge about nine o’clock. John and I took on Crowfoot and Wilkinson and were darn lucky to break even by winning the last two rubbers for we had miserable hands the first part of the evening. 

Sudd and Account,

Sunday, November 22^nd, 1925. 

These two words, “Sudd” and “Account,” are all that are needed to describe what took place today until about noontime. We reached Hillet Neur about mid-day and, as we were going to remain there about an hour, Crowfoot, Ed, John and self decided to walk back a half mile through the Sudd to the village. Walking from the bank of the Nile inland had been made possible by a mud dock held together with stakes. It was a hot business, this hiking through the Sudd at high sun, but was well worth our efforts for the village we saw was quite unique. There were a dozen or more grass huts grouped together on a piece of cleared ground. Around them was constructed a crude wire fence, build, I presume, to keep the cattle out. Vultures by the dozens were seated on the fence poles and in the nearby brush waiting for any bits of food that might be thrown out. The native men and women were absolutely stark naked and the dirtiest looking outfit you ever saw. Some of them were of the Dinka tribe and others were Nuers. On the ground in the village, we saw long strips of hippo hide drying in the sun as well as pieces of hippo flesh which had turned into an awful looking black frizzled up mass. How they could ever eat it was beyond me. 

John and I took a few pictures and then went back to the steamer followed by Guma and our armed escort. Every time an English official goes ashore like we did, he is always accompanied by a soldier or policeman who carries a gun. We usually get the same sort of protection. The Nuers only eight months ago started a revolution which was quickly snuffed out. When we arrived back at the Zafir, we saw a crowd of natives crowding around and roaring with laughter. It seems that one had caught what is known as an electric fish and had handed it to some unsuspecting fellow who had received quite a shock. Another chap had a mullet net with which he caught loads of fish which, incidentally, we had for lunch and dinner. 

During the afternoon my work on the account was interrupted by Ed’s calling me to see a croc but I arrived too late to see it. Shortly afterwards, John and Wilkinson, who were standing on the top deck, saw three hippos in a little sort of bay about two hundred yards distant in the Sudd. They were the first I had seen so I was quite excited. From a distance, they look about half the size of a barrel in the water as they swim about. Every now and then, they submerge, rising after a short interval to wiggle their pink ear to shake out the water. The bright color of their ears and nostrils is plainly visible. As John said, “Business seemed to be picking up,” but, as it was nearly dark by this time, we had to abandon hoping to see any more similar sights until tomorrow.

Really, Crowfoot is a scream. He is one Englishman with a wonderful sense of humor and the way he kids poor Miss Babbitt along is too funny for words. You see, Miss Babbitt is the type who is rabid on the subject of religion. Billy Sunday converted her and she, so she says, has come out to teach the gospel to the savages. She is the ultra-fundamentalist and will have the bible as it stands word for word or not at all. Of course, smoking, drinking and playing cards are unheard of evils. Crowfoot takes a great delight in shocking her and is always talking about the Mormons, etc. He makes some rather two-sided remark and then winks at me. Golly, I can hardly keep from laughing out loud. Tonight he and Ed were talking about remedies for Ed’s illness. Crowfoot said he guessed that faith was the only thing left for Ed to try so Ed said, “All right, I’ll give it a chance.” About five minutes later Ed leaned across the table and shook hands with Mr. Crowfoot who said, “You’re looking much better already- congratulations.”

Ed is a Unitarian and Babbitt thinks that the Unitarians aren’t Christians because, as she says, “They deny the deity of God.” Ed got off a rather good argument that made her look like a fish out of water. Oh, these are jolly meals all right.

After dinner, we played the usual three or four rubbers of bridge and John and I took a regular beating tonight. Babbitt went to take some aspirin after her argument at dinner. Poor soul! I guess she needs more than that. She looks, John says, “Like the wrath of God.” Crowfoot said, “No, she won’t last out here any length of time- she’s half dead already.”

The worst and most upsetting thing of the day was Ed’s discovery that ₤12 were missing. He believes that someone stole them but I personally think he left said amount in his white suit when he sent it to be washed. It is too bad but perhaps it will teach him to be more careful in the future. 

On the Nile, Sudd—Shambe

Monday, November 23^rd, 1925.

The third day of the Sudd! When I came down to my cabin this morning from the mosquito house to play a record or two, I found them badly bent. It seems that the temperature in the room was so hot that they had become as flexible as if they were made out of rubber. In Florida the records left on deck in the sun always get that way but I never heard of such a thing happening when they were inside one’s room in the shade.

This morning I spent finishing up the account and have it all in shape at last.

At lunch, Crowfoot pulled off a good one. Wilkinson asked him how he came out at bridge last night and he replied, “Excellently, you see, the Lord was my shepherd last night.” Babbitt turned all colors of the rainbow and muttered something about the holy gospel. After lunch, Crowfoot said he didn’t believe the missionaries cared a great deal about him. He is in wonderful form after having two or three whiskies and sodas. Nothing daunts him then and the rest of us split our sides laughing.

It is quite impossible to list the birds that one sees when you see them for you wouldn’t be able to do anything else. The Sudan, and especially the upper parts of the Nile, is alive with birds. Among the thousands that we have seen during the past three or four days are Goliath Heron, Jabiru, Bishop Stork, Bolsheuck, Hornbills, Spoonbills, Wagtails, and countless numbers of Marabou. 

This afternoon, just as we were coming into Shambe, a big crocodile appeared along the bank. By the time I got my 450 he was in the water with only his head visible. The distance was considerable and through my sights, he looked like a tiny speck so I wasn’t surprised to see the water splash beyond him after I had shot. I missed him by six inches or so- shooting too high. 

At Shambe we all were glad to get out and stretch ourselves. Three days of Sudd is enough for anyone and we were all fed up with it. Dry ground seemed mighty nice for a change. We went to the rest house to see the drawings of Millet which he made on the plaster wall when he stopped there. There are perfectly wonderful. Not having any chalk, he, with the aid of a knife, chipped out pieces of the white plaster and then the blackened surface behind the plaster made the pictures stand out. There are three in all- one of an elephant, one of a lion and one of buffaloes and giraffes. The latter two are the best but all of them are really quite remarkable.

We walked about the native village of thirty or more grass huts but here wasn’t anything new or of particular interest. On returning to the river we watched some natives fishing with a mullet net. They throw it just like the old Florida fishermen and seem to be quite successful for we saw them fill several baskets.

The District Commissioner and another English chap came aboard for dinner. We left Shambe about nine P.M. and Ed, John, Crowfoot and I played bridge until eleven. Poor Wilkinson is sick as can be. 

On the Nile

Tuesday, November 24^th, 1925. 

John and I had agreed last night to take turns on watch today for we are in a wonderful elephant country and when I awoke this morning about six I found him all dressed and on the job. The sun hadn’t come up yet but by the time I got dressed we had already passed several elephants. It certainly was a marvelous sight. Just before breakfast, we saw a half dozen or more within fifty feet of the river. Of course, they were almost entirely hidden in the tall elephant grass and Sudd. All we could see were the very tops of their backs and their ears. Every now and then you would see one raise his trunk straight up four or five feet above the top of the grass. Often, this is all of the elephant that you can see. Believe me, it was quite a thrill. I don’t know when I was ever so excited. 

I sat up on top deck while John ate breakfast but didn’t see any more. There were hundreds of beautiful scarlet colored bee eaters and little yellow birds. Oh, Africa is the only country in the world for real animals and birds! The Sudd is supposed to end at Shambe, but as a matter of fact it stretches on south for another day and a half journey by river. Elephant country, however, begins right after one leaves Shambe for the Sudd no longer is the same sort of marsh but becomes much firmer, there being a real mud foundation. The papyrus was the same monotonous looking stuff but our interests were far from papyrus all during the morning. Right after breakfast, we began to see hippo and we continued to see two or three at every bend or wide place in the river for the entire rest of the day. They are ex­tremely hard to take pictures of because they rise to the surface only about once every minute and a half to blow and take in air, then they immediately sink again, never to rise in the same place. Photographing them is merely a matter of luck – you try to guess where they will come up for air. Unless you have the camera right ready in focus, you will only get a ripple of water for a picture. John and I both got some good movies I think. It was in the midst of this occupation that we discovered a herd of elephants about 200 yards off in the Sudd. There must have been fifty or more and it was a glorious sight especially as they came out into some short­er grass. Just as they got wind of us and trotted off, making an excellent picture, the smoke from the funnel blew right across in front of the moving picture cameras. However, I took some anyway. We watched the elephants for some time. On the back of nearly everyone was perched snow white birds called “lesser egrets” or “tick birds.” This bird is very useful to the elephant who has bad eyesight. The tick birds eat the ticks off the elephants’ backs and, in turn for the food provided by the elephant, warn him of any approaching thing by flying off his back. It was most interesting to see these white spots rising about the elephants as we drew closer to them.

At lunch both Ed and Wilkinson were absent. Ed is so funny! He tries to diet but gets so hungry he can’t stand it. Then he eats a big meal and as a result, as John would say, “heaves the biscuits.” He doesn’t seem to profit by experience. When he misses lunch he fills up on biscuits at tea time. 

After lunch, I spent an hour or so going over my 450- Cleaning it until it looked spick and span. I had no sooner finished it when Wilkinson called to me and I went up on deck to see a ten foot croc lying peaceably on shore waiting to catch a native in the water. He started to amble into the river as we approached but he wasn’t quick enough for a shot from my gun turned him over. He seemed to hesitate for a minute and then slid off into the water where I expect he died. We watched for him to come up but a turn in the river soon hid the spot where he disappeared from view.

Along about five o’clock I was down in my cabin when John yelled to me that a lot of elephants were in sight. I dashed up on deck and saw a herd of twenty or more only a short distance from the river. Some were raising their trunks, some flapping their ears, and others were stalking about in the tall grass. It was the sort of sight that one sees once in a lifetime for big herds of elephants are difficult to get close to. And, of course, we had the worst luck in the world. John’s camera, which had stood ready for action all day, jammed at the crucial moment while only ten feet were left on the film I had in my camera. I realized this so didn’t take any until we got as close as we would ever get. I shot the ten feet and then put in another film as fast as I could but when I was ready they were much further off. As a result, John got no pictures at all and I got very few. It was so darn aggravating for we never will get such a wonderful opportunity again. Poor John was so discouraged. It seems that everything went wrong for him today. He tried to develop some film earlier in the afternoon but the hypo had spoiled.

During the day we passed several little Dinka villages. The Dinkas, Shilluks and Nuers are quite similar in most respects, differing from one another very slightly in dress and customs. Still there are certain characteristics by which one is able to distinguish the members of the different tribes. Practically every Dinka village or household has a platform raised about ten feet above the ground and supported by four or more poles. One can always see several natives on top of these platforms. They are nearly always small boys who duty it is to watch the crops and drive off the birds. The lower platforms, usually covered with a grass roof and which can often be seen, are used to sleep in or else as a place to store the grain. 

The Dinkas are an interesting group. They are a pastoral people whose main occupation is raising cattle. The women do what work there is to be done in the cultivation of crops and tending to the domestic side of life, while the men, aside from the cattle raising, do all the fishing and hunting. Unlike the Shilluks, who are quite well organized under one king, the Dinkas and Neurs are spread over miles and miles. Instead of grouping together in villages, they live rather apart from each other. For instance, there is a line about fifty mile’s long nine miles inland from the Nile where one can travel for several days with­out ever being out of sight of Dinka huts. They build about two hundred yards apart and each family has its two or three grass shelters.

They are all very uncivilized, wearing no clothes at all except the married women who have a small piece of animal hide tied around their waist, and a number of them appear almost white for they, after washing themselves, roll in the white ashes of the burnt cow manure. This keeps the mosquitoes off. They also use it for tooth powder and, judging from the whiteness of their teeth, it isn’t a bad idea.

Wilkinson, Ed., and Miss Babbitt were all absent from dinner again. Poor Wilkinson and Ed are certainly badly hit. I don’t know what we are going to do. Ed doesn’t’ seem to get any better and he never could stand the week’s trek. Even if he is carried it would be very dangerous for his resistance is so low he would probably get sleeping sickness, malaria, or both.

I noticed before I went to bed how far the North Star is getting down on the horizon. I don’t think it is more than 90º high. Nothing of particular interest happened at dinner or during the evening.

On the Nile – Bor,

Wednesday, November 25^th, 1925.

            This morning when I awoke we were safely tied up at Bor. John, the caterer and myself took a walk about the place before breakfast and were amazed to find it so neat and tidy. The D.C. who is posted here has only been here six weeks but all the roads are swept and nowhere does one see bits of paper, garbage or other refuse strewn about in true Arab style. The place certainly is in wonderful shape.

After leaving Bor, we entered a slightly more wooded section. Forests began to appear along one bank and birds by the thousands dotted their limbs. The white egrets are certainly a beautiful sight as they sweep past the boat in regular clouds. During the morning we saw a number of hippos, a croc or two, and a herd of elephants, but the latter were so far in the distance that they weren’t worth photographing. 

Shortly before we reached Maleck, I saw a man spearing fish in the marsh. He would sneak up for about fifty yards and raising his spear, he would throw it thirty or more feet ahead of him. On to the spear is tied a rope by which he hauls the spear back when he misses. 

At Maleck, a Church of England mission station, we picked up Arch Deacon Shaw. He is a most interesting chap about fifty years of age who has spent thirty years of his life doing mission work. I have had several talks with him about the Dinka and other tribes and find that he is the real authority on a good many of these Sudan natives. Recently he came through the Kampala to Mongella in four days but I expect the recent rains have ruined the roads.

There was a regular mob of natives at Maleck waiting to sell bananas or sticks. Wilkinson’s boy is a mighty smart little Arab and we saw him bickering with these great big natives seven feet high. He would make an offer and when they would say “no” he threw their stuff back at them. He is only about four and a half feet high so it was a most amusing sight.

All the actual trading is done in the last thirty seconds before the boat leaves when prices are cut in half or the stuff given away. Two little kids had some pieces of wood that the natives use to brush their teeth with. Our firemen made some bids and offered them some money. This was refused. Then one fellow brought out two empty tin cans, half rusted to pieces. He started to give both of them to one native kid when another fireman made as if it were far too much- one tin can certainly ought to be enough. The little kid took the tin can and surrendered his toothbrush sticks as if he had made a great bargain. Ten minutes later there were fifty or more with toothbrush sticks ready to trade them for tin cans.

Ed and Wilkinson are both feeling as badly as ever. We will get the doctor at Mongella to look them over.

Nothing of particular interest happened during the afternoon. I read some more of the “Life of Mussolini.” (You would be interested in this, Father.) It is by Margherita Sarfatti, published by Thornton Butterworth, Ltd., 15 Bedford Street, London. Shaw was most inter­esting, and as he was giving a little talk about the various African tribes, I was only, too glad to hear him.

Just before dinner, I went to see Wilk, who was in the mosquito house. The Arch Deacon had given him the following prescription as a cure for dysentery: 40 tablespoonful of Epsom Salts to a beer bottle full of water. Can you imagine it? Not four teaspoonfuls, but 40 tablespoonfuls of the stuff! John and I about died laughing. “It is enough to kill a horse,” John said.

After dinner, there being no fourth for bridge (Thank goodness!) went to bed early.           ­

On the Nile—Mongalla

Thursday- Thanksgiving, November 26^th, 1925. 

We saw several crocs this morning, but they all seemed to slip into the river before I could get my 450 out. If I stand ready for one, of course none appear.

We arrived at a mission station called Simsima dur­ing the forenoon, and the Arch Deacon, Crowfoot, John and I took a walk around the village. Several amusing things happened. Crowfoot saw a Dinka woman who had married one of the Bari tribe. She was ashamed to admit it so thought she could fool Crowfoot by saying in Arabic that she could not speak Dinka. Crowfoot kidded her along until she let slip some Dinka expression, then he accused her of being a Dinka woman, and they both had a big laugh. We saw sev­eral boys pounding grain, which is a woman’s job. Shaw told us they were Dinka boys who had come into the Bari country to earn money and that they would never disgrace themselves like that in their own country if they had to starve to death.

For lunch, we had turkey, but it was cold and not par­ticularly good. I thought how much I should like to be at home for Thanksgiving dinner.

Ed and Wilk seemed to be worse, so when we reached Mongalla at three o’clock, we sent for the doctor. The Acting Governor General of Mongalla, Major Brock, was down to meet the Zafir. He advised us to safari between Rejaf and Nimule, for all the roads are impassable. The rainy season was supposed to have ended six weeks ago, but it has rained every afternoon for the last two weeks, and the roads have turned into regular rivers.

The doctor said that Ed and Wilkinson had dysentery and that both would have to get off and stay at the hos­pital there. John and I thought of staying with Ed, but there would be no sense in doing that, for Ed is in good hands and has the company of Wilk. He will have to be there for ten days or two weeks, and can catch up with us at Nairobi, when he is well. We hated to leave Ed, but there didn’t seem to be anything else to do. It really would not do a bit of good for John and I to stay over and wait for Ed to get well. So Ed packed up his stuff, and he, Wilk, and Doctor Mackenzie went to the latter’s house in a Ford truck. The doctor is going to have Ed and Wilk stay at his own house.

The Governor can’t give us a visa for the Congo, so even if the Aba road were open, we wouldn’t be able to go that way.

John and I took a turn about Mongalla. There isn’t much to see, a small zoo containing a dozen and a half hartebeests, and a few other common African animals. They are merely fenced in a field of a couple of acres or so. Mackenzie joined us for a tour of the local cemetery, four graves.

It seems that the British have more difficulty with the real border savages along the Abyssinia fron­tier than one ever hears about. There were rumors of native uprisings in the northern Sudan, but no one here seems to take much stock in them.

We saw a rather pathetic sight this afternoon. A native woman was clutching a little three year old child who had just died of the fever. She didn’t seem to realize it, but was yelling and singing in a hysterical manner. 

John and I stopped at Mackenzie’s house to say good­bye to Ed and Wilk for the Zafir goes on to, Rejaf in the morning at five A.M.. The trip has to be made in the daylight on account of treacherous rocks and rapids, so will spend the night tied up at Mongalla.

There were only John, Miss Easton, and myself for dinner, as Babbitt is sick. The doctor wanted her to stay at the hospital in Mongalla, but she decided to go on in spite of her ailments. The caterer is also sick. After dinner we turned in early.

One thing that amuses me is the interpretation the English put on the word show. Whenever there is a meet­ing, they say: “Oh yes, a bit of a bad show that.” It seems that everything is a “good show” or a “bad show.”

Mongalla to Rejaf

Friday, November 27^th, 1925. 

We left Mongalla at five A. M. so by the time we had break­fast the Zafir was well under way. It poured all morning much to the disgust of John and myself who can well picture the rivers of mud that we will have to wade through. The Governor of Mongalla having told us that we would probably do more swim­ming than walking doesn’t add much to our prospects.

The country beyond Mongalla is rather more interesting. It is quite a bit hillier and in the distance one sees long low blue lines of mountains. The Nile branches into numerous little streams. Rapids appear and the Zafir swings first to one bank then to the other. A number of times we ran on to sand banks and had to back off them. I saw several crocodiles but they all were pretty small. At Juba, another Church of England mission station, we were amused to see a crowd of natives, who had flocked down to the landing to sell their bunches of bananas, scatter like a bunch of sheep when the rain came down in torrents.

One reason, incidentally, why there is so much trouble be­tween the Protestant and Catholic missions is due to the fact that the Catholics tell the natives that it was the Protestants who crucified Christ.        

After lunch, Rejaf Hill was in plain sight. It is a queer looking thing with a few boulders at the very top that look sort of like a tin can on top of a cone. The afternoon was spent as­ assorting our luggage – packing things into compact loads for the porters to carry, and writing last letters for the return mail.

We arrived at Rejaf about four o’clock where we were met by a couple of male missionaries and the Marmur. I expected to see a white man so was rather surprised when a native dressed in a soldier’s uniform introduced himself as the Marmur. He had two cables for me from Father about the Yale-Princeton and Harvard games. I certainly was disappointed as I expected Yale to crash through this year with all the honors.

Our porters are all ready but the Marmur advised us not to try to start before tomorrow afternoon. We went up to a store, owned by a Greek called Constantatos, where we found only about half the tinned food we expected to. He had no potatoes, milk nor coffee. This was rather disappointing news but we will just have to make the best of it. A crazy nut by the name of Mataxas, another Greek merchant who seems to have cleaned up down here, tried to tell us that we could get to Nairobi in four days. After laughing that off, we bought his bicycle from him to help us along over the Nimule road.

At dinner, which we had on board the Zafir, were several dumb missionaries as guests. We spent the night on the boat and went to bed early. Rejaf isn’t much to look at but I can’t help feeling sort of thrilled about getting here for it means the be­ginning of our safari across wildest Africa.

Rejaf—Start Safari

Saturday, November 28^th, 1925. 

The whole of this morning we spent buying supplies, organizing our packs, and sending cables. There seemed to be a million things to get at the last minute. I saw the Marmur and settled up for the porters and road fee. I had to get a custom certificate for my 450 as well as a sleeping sickness certificate for Ed. After some difficulty, I arranged for Usif, the new personal boy, to go through to Nemuli with me. He is to make the beds, get water, and that sort of thing. It was just one thing after another until by one o’clock I was ready to drop.

Just before lunch we met an awfully nice chap who works, on the Nemuli road. His name is Jennings. We invited him to lunch with us, our last meal on the good old Zafir.          

Our porters were supposed to be ready at two o’clock but at that hour, neither they nor the Marmur could be found. There was general confusion for about an hour and a half, at the end of which time we were ready to start. An Irishman at the boat landing was raising a row because he couldn’t get porters enough to unload his cement; some­one else was paying the men double to carry his cotton; and I was doing my best to get our outfit ready. Such a squabbling in Arabic, Mongalla, Swahili, and English you never heard.

Finally, I got the Marmur, and made him get our men. They all trooped aboard to get their loads. As was to be expected, there was a scene. Each man tried to get the lightest load, and invariably grabbed the smallest package. The one who got my box of ammunition certainly was fooled for while it is the smallest of the lot, it is by far the heaviest. The camp chairs, which are really very light, were the last things to be taken. No package must weigh over 40 pounds. It is a wonder that these fellows can carry a thing. Their legs are no bigger at the thigh than at the knee and they haven’t any strength at all. About ten of them get around to lift a board that the average man could lift. To put it crudely, they are a gutless crew. Mentally they are but five or six years old, not a bit more. If you give them a rag or a bit of old string, they treasure it as though it were a gold piece.

Well, by 3:30 we were all climbing into the ferry to cross the river. What a sight we were! Our fifteen porters, cook, and boy took up the entire boat. John and I climbed aboard the stern, and waving goodbye to the caterer Jones on the bank, set out on our safari.

I must say I was glad to get started. There had been so much bickering around that it was a relief to know we were at last under way. We reached the oppo­site shore after a fifteen minute trip, and started right out for Kirba, a rest house about four miles away, where we are to spend the first night.

John and I decided to take turns on the bicycle. It was getting late so we hurried the porters along in order to get across the Kit before dark. I rode the bicycle for the first fifteen minutes, then left it beside the road for John, who eventually got it and caught up to me just a little while after I had reached the river. We waited for our porters, who had no difficulty in wading across, as the water was only two feet deep although it was a hundred yards wide. All the loads got across without mishap, thank goodness! Grabham said: “The man with the bedding invariably stumbles and drops his load in midstream,” but we were lucky. 

Kirba, where we spent the night, was only two or three hundred yards on the other side of the Kit. The rest house itself is made of mud walls about six feet high, divided into three rooms, and covered with a grass roof. There is supposed to be a table and chairs at each rest house, which, of course, were missing. In addi­tion to the main house, there is a small hut for the por­ters, and a kitchen.

Our first trouble was evident when we opened the food box, and discovered that the top of the kerosene bottle had gotten loose, and the kerosene was spilled allover the sugar we had brought. I decided to send one of the boys back to Rejaf for more. I asked him if he could ride a bicy1e. He said, “Yes.” I guess he thought it looked easy, but you should have seen him. He was as awkward as a calf, and when he tried to balance himself, bicycle and all fell in a heap. If he had taken the bi­cycle, he wouldn’t have reached the Kit River, so we sent him off on foot with a note for Jones.

We had dinner just after dark, and a wonderful meal it was. The moon came up so bright and nice that the lanterns were dispensed with. It was too beautiful for words, and I must say I felt great as I snuggled under my mosquito net into bed.

   I almost forgot to mention the water. You never in your life saw such stuff. It is the color of milk, and is revolting looking. But there was no choice. We were very thirsty, so had Guma boil it for us. It tasted as bad as it looked. Its only good feature was that it was wet. During the carrying of water, one of the wives of the sentinel brought in a jug which cracked and broke. The sentinel wanted some recompense, and not knowing how to ask for it, told Guma that he would cry because his jug was busted. A shilling dried up his tears in a hurry.

Safari, Rejaf to Nimule,

Sunday, November 29^th, 1925.

We had tea about 5:30 A. M. and were on the way before sunrise. The scenery was nothing to rave about. The land was flat and the tall elephant grass near the road out off all possible view. John and I alternated with the bicycle and we reached the rest house at Nyonki about eight o’clock. Here we had a substantial breakfast and incidentally discovered that it is a poor plan to let the porters stop once they start for we had the devil of a time getting them going again. They all made bread from their dura after they arrived so by the time we left for the next rest house the sun was well up and it was hotter than blazes.

After a long hike under the terrific heat, we arrived at Gabur rest house where we decided to make camp. There were two big rest houses and some smaller mud huts: We had passed several road gangs on our morning’s walk and on arriving discovered that one of the big rest houses was used by the road workers. We occupied the other. After our porters arrived we had lunch and took a nap. Hardly had we finished shaving and taken a hot bath before the road gang began to arrive. They kept coming for an hour until every inch of the rest houses was covered with their stuff. Then a few came over under the shade of ours but I walked up and made a movement as if I was going to bust them one and they fled like a bunch of sheep. Every day I become more and more convinced that the only way of treating these natives is with force – that is the only way to make them respect you. For a minute or so I had a worried feeling. Here were John and I – the only two white men within twenty miles in a crowd of over a hundred and fifty black savages who weren’t even civilized enough to wear any clothes and a number of whom had their teeth filed in true can­nibal style. I tell you, it was an experience as well as a thrill.

The victrola caused great amusement and a bunch of the natives stood around in dumb amazement. I noticed one kept walking up and down before me as if he wanted something but didn’t know how to ask for it. Then he pointed to his back and I saw what appeared to be a dreadful wound into which he had stuffed cotton to keep it from bleeding. He wanted some of the white man’s medicine. It looked so ghastly that I consented to dress it for him and sent him around to the other side of the rest house where he couldn’t attract attention.

You never in your life saw such a terrible looking sight. Under the cotton he had pasted the cut with red clay. The wound was in the form of a rough circle about twice the size of a large egg and was about an inch and a half deep. The whole thing was full of pus. I thought I would faint in the middle of fixing it so got up and went in the rest house to get a few deep breaths of air. I cleaned it out as best I could with boiled water and then bathed it in iodine and put on a dressing. But that didn’t end the doctor business for when I had finished this fellow there were a dozen or more gathered around sticking out arms and legs at me. Each one had two or more terrible looking festered wounds. I worked until dark and when I had finished some ten or more were running around camp with bandages on some parts of their bodies. There were a dozen patients in line when I stopped but stop I had to for it was so dark I couldn’t see and my medicine supply was becoming depleted. I felt rather bum when I sat down to eat. But I made up my mind on one score during the evening- I’m through with this doctoring busi­ness.

After dinner we watched the porters pile brush around the kitchen to keep the hyenas out. I took this as a cue to put my 450 in shape for action if need be.

Safari, Rejaf to Nimule,

Monday, November 30^th, 1925.

I hardly got any sleep last night for the darn road gang sat around their fires making a dreadful racket until late in the night. Our leaving Gabur this morning was therefore delayed until about five forty-five. When I came out of the rest house about five-fifteen, there was already a line of natives almost a block long waiting for some doctoring. I told them everything was “mafished” which means finished in Arabic. John told me last night I was simple to even bother with them at all but their wounds were so awful I just couldn’t help fixing some of them. I kept enough medicine, however, to take care of any little accidents that might happen to either of us.

The country is more hilly today but it was a long tiresome walk to Shindiner rest house where John and I stopped for break­fast. The main rest house there has been burned down so we crawl­ed in a little mud hut to wait for Guma. Any protection from the sun is certainly welcome in this district. Our porters came in about an hour after we did but we sent them right on without even a rest. We told the policeman last night that they were to eat before leaving camp and that they weren’t to stop until they reached Kinillu where we are to spend the night. They grumbled a little but kept on going.

We arrived at Kinillu about one-thirty and were snuffed out. We covered over twenty miles today and it was hot walking. The bicycle isn’t holding up too well and has to be pumped up about every fifteen minutes. Our water bottles are always empty when we reach camp and we have a guessing contest as to when the por­ters will show up in order to keep our minds off our dreadful thirst.

After lunch we had our usual shave and bath. The natives have a very funny custom. They take a drink of water and, before spitting it out, take a puff at a pipe and then spit out the water and blow the smoke out at the same time. I watched a bunch of them doing it this afternoon and have noticed that practically all of them smoke this way after a meal.

The women over here do an awful lot of work. Their never ending job is fetching water. From the time a girl is three until she is eighty she can be seen every day going back and forth be­tween the river and her house carrying a jar of water on her head.

Nothing else of interest happened. We watched the grass fires after dinner, and the moon rise; played the vic and turned in. The victrola is certainly a life saver when one feels blue. John and I have discussed everyone in L. F. backwards and forwards.

Safari, Rejaf to Nimule

Tuesday, December 1^st, 1925.

It was just about midnight when John woke me up and said he had a terrible headache. I had visions of his getting the fever or something and felt none too easy even a couple of hours later when he said that he was feeling better. Ten grains of aspirin seemed to be the stuff that cured him. I had no sooner fallen asleep than I was awakened again by a gnawing sound and, going to the food boxes, found several mice playing tag. The boys had neglected to put a couple of the loads on rocks and the red ants were having a great time too. I fixed everything and went back to bed. Speaking of mice, one ran out of the rest house yesterday and a porter who was coming along killed it by stepping on it with his bare feet. Gosh, it made the shivers go up and down my back. I hate mice and rats!

Four-thirty found us out of bed and by five-fifteen we were on the road. The sunrise was as beautiful as I’ve ever seen and it was just the kind of a morning that makes one feel that it is a joy to be alive. The grass was so high that it was impossible to see much scenery. We had our first taste of what a nuisance the flies are. They swarmed around us by the billions. Our backs and hats were black with them and I got more than one good bite on the legs. We reached Regu at seven-fifteen and John was not in any too good spirits. He was fed up with the whole thing and I must admit that the flies and heat are certainly aggravating. If you walk behind your porters, the flies aren’t so bad but the porters move so darn slowly it drives you crazy. Then, too, they keep up a sort of confounding whistling that drives you mad after half an hour. If you walk a little ahead of them they roar with laughter as all the tsetse flies land on you. Oh, it is a great game. John and I, by taking turns on the bicycle, always beat them into camp by a couple of hours.

Before we continued on our trip, we changed into long trou­sers so that the flies wouldn’t eat us alive. Shorts are no good on this road. Over our helmets we put mosquito nets to keep the flies off our faces and necks. Thus equipped, with a fly whisk to carry, we felt in shape to meet them. On and on we went – up and down hill, across water holes and through paths. Some of the marshes had to be waded and when we reached the opposite side our shoes and socks were soaked in mud and slime. As Babbitt would say, all we could do was “hope and pray for the best.” The coun­try was much more mountainous and interesting today. But the heat and flies offset the added features of the walk. The bicycle is shot. I pumped and pumped but the back tire was flatter than ever. After pushing it for several hours I thought I was about played out. I passed through one native village and felt like the Pied Piper, when fifty or more kids followed me for half a mile shouting and yelling. Several miles further along the road I found John under the shade of a tree. Both of us were famished. We poured the remaining few drops of water, in the canvas water bottle, down, our throats and struggled on.

We arrived at Gumbiri completely exhausted only to find the place deserted – no sentinel, no porters, nor anybody. Gumbiri is the place where porters are changed. The sleeping sickness regulations prohibit any natives going through from Rejaf to Nimule. By the time our fellows got into camp at 2:30 a sentinel had shown up, so we sent him and the policeman off to the local chief with our sleeping sickness permits and a letter asking for our new porters to be sent to us at once.

During the afternoon John made a trade. He gave one of the porters an old, worn out red tie for some elephant hair bracelets. You should have seen the stir the tie caused. They thought it was the greatest thing they ever saw, and the owner was as proud as he could be.

I’m afraid our new porters won’t get here tonight. Often one has to wait several days for them. I must confess, after twenty-three miles today and almost as many yesterday, I am about ready to take a day’s rest. We took movies this afternoon, and had our usual bath and shave. No porters had shown up by six o’ clock, so we sent another porter after the policeman to hurry them up. If they get in early tonight, we will push on in the morning.

Safari, Rejaf to Nimule

Wednesday, December 2^nd, 1925.

Eleven hours’ sleep last night and as Grabham would say, “It was badly wanted.” Our new porters hadn’t arrived when we woke up so had a late breakfast – 6:45 A.M. The old ones had already started back for Rejaf. This was a case, of the early bird not getting the worm for their haste in leaving Gumbiri made them each miss the five piaster tip I was going to give them.           

By nine 0′ clock, one of the policemen, who had been out all night rounding up our porters, came in with seven of them and said that the others wouldn’t be able to get to Gumbiri for a couple of hours more. After a short consultation, John and I decided to take the seven porters and Usif and start on, for it is hotter from noon on than it is from nine to one o’clock. Hotter is hardly the word. I can think of nothing that adequately describes the heat of the sun in this vicinity. We only had fifteen miles to go and I thought that we could hurry along and reach camp by one o’clock. Then we would have the whole afternoon to get settled, bathe and cook dinner while it was still light. But I underestimated the heat. Never make a late start like nine o’clock. Before I had gone half an hour I was dead. The rays of the sun were so strong that I felt as if they were pushing me right through the road. The bicycle was absolutely useless as the back tire was as flat as could be. Riding it through sand was impossible so John and I took turns pushing it.

It got hotter and hotter and the tsetse flies swarmed around us by the thousands. I’m beginning to think Shay didn’t say half enough about this country. Shortly after we started, we crossed the Uma River and – thank goodness! – it was only about a foot deep. The rivers in this country are an absolutely unknown quantity. Jennings, the chap we met the day we started, told us that in several places where there was a dried up river bed he had built bridges six feet high only to come back a week later and find them five feet under the surface of a river forty feet wide and seven feet deep. Fortunately, the rivers drop as quickly as they rise and all one has to do, if the river is too deep to cross, is to hang around for a few hours until it goes down.

All the way this morning I thought how nice and cold it must be at home. I would have given anything for a glass of ice tea. Then I thought of skating and all. Gosh, it was too much! After two hours’ tramping through sand and grass six feet high under a sun so scorching that it almost melted our sun helmets, we decid­ed to stop under the shade of a tree and take a fifteen minute rest. Our throats were simply parched and my tongue felt like a piece of shoe leather. The water in the canvas water bottle was lukewarm but it tasted delicious. More than once I have come near drinking this milky looking water before it was boiled but so far I have played safe and let it alone.

Fifteen minutes later we moved on. The country is quite mountainous now and we see long ridges rising all around us. The Adalla Mountains we have now left behind us, and while still imposing looking they are surrounded by an indistinct blue haze that means distance. The grass is no longer so mo­notonous – scrub trees and even large bushy trees can be seen rising out of it.

Along the road, we saw piles of different kinds of native grain spread out to dry in the sun. Everywhere flew gorgeous colored little birds. Africa is so interesting in that respect. I thought what a paradise this place would be for an insect col­lector. There are green, black, red, yellow, blue, and grey lizards from three to twelve inches in length. Such a variety is almost inconceivable.          

At last we reached Kirrippi. I was more dead than alive. I sank on the mud floor where I remained for half an hour. All the white ants or mice in the world couldn’t have made me move. The front room of the rest house was practically open all the way around for three of its walls were only two and a half feet high. This was a welcome surprise for it meant the night would be much cooler with such good ventilation. In fact, John and I decided that it was quite the nicest of any of the rest houses that we had struck. Our porters dragged in about two-thirty and, after a cold lunch, we took our baths and wrote a little before dinner.

There are six things on a trip of this sort that are abso­lutely essential for one’s health and comfort. They are as follows: A deck chair with a canvas back and seat, a canvas bathtub and water bucket, a fly whisk, mosquito boots, a good bed, and a mosquito net. If you attempt a safari without any one of these six things you might as well order your flowers before you start.

A glorious moon came up after dinner and we watched it until seven forty-five, our bed time. The sky was a brilliant red from the miles of grass fires the natives start at this season in order to clear out the old grass for the new. Earlier in the afternoon it had burned close to the rest house and John and I were a little uneasy for a time. I jumped the fence around the rest house, only about four feet eight, and the natives gather­ed around in amazement. Such a display of energy was unheard of and they pointed me out all the afternoon.

Our poor feet are played out and bed seemed the best thing in the world.

Safari, Rejaf to Nimule

Thursday, December 3^rd, 1925.

About one o’clock last night I was awakened by a muffled sort of grunting– almost half a bark and half a cough. It was the first lion I had heard but I realized in an instant what it was. I woke up John and the two of us listened to it for fifteen minutes. The lion seemed to be about fifty or a hundred yards away in the brush in back of the rest house. Perhaps he was closer, I couldn’t tell – but I know he wasn’t any further. My 450 stood ready at the foot of my bed but I had no use for it for the lion soon moved along and before many minutes had passed we were both sound asleep once more.

As a result of the night’s disturbance, we overslept in the morning and it was six o’clock before we were through breakfast and on our way. The bicycle was absolutely useless so we had one of the porters push it along. It was a rather nice walk to what we thought was the Lurvirals rest house. We followed a two foot path -a short cut – most of the way through high grass. But it was glorious. Before sunup, there is some­thing so wonderful about the air. By eight-thirty, we reached the rest house that we thought was Lurvirals. We got a na­tive to brush out the grass and mud on the floor and debated whether to call it an easy day and make camp or to push on to Nimule, which we figured was another three or four hours’ walk. We were still rejoicing an hour later when our porters came in. It had been a tough walk but with the end in sight we felt in high spirits.            ­When the porters came in I was surprised to see that they evidently expected us to push on. I questioned them through Guma who said that the Assua River, which is only a quarter of a mile from the Lurvirals rest house, was still a six or seven hour walk. I called them liars and went about a mile down the road by myself to see. For half an hour I gazed at the chart we had, made observations of the surrounding hills and then went back to the rest house feeling, not only wiser, but sadder. Instead of being at Lurvirals rest house, we were at Kirrippi where I thought we had been last night. Lurvirals was still sixteen miles away and last night’s rest house was evidently not on the chart. To push on was the only thing to do so by ten o’clock we were again on the road. As Crowfoot would say, “The Lord was our shepherd,” during the early part of the morn­ing for the sun was covered by heavy white clouds. I only prayed that we would get to a rest house called Agu before the sun burst through the clouds.            

The scenery was infinitely nicer. We are right in the hills now and mountains four and five thousand feet high are around us. Two hours’ of walking brought us to a deserted tum­bled down rest house and, after a twenty minute sign language talk and picture drawing contest on the road, we decided to take advantage of the clouds and continue on to Agu. Really, it is remarkable how well one can get along without being able to speak the language. I’m sure I can make one of these na­tives understand what I mean much better than I can a French­man. Then, too, I am picking up Arabic. All one needs to know is water, how far, what time, a few numerals, fire, and one or two other expressions.

But the sun fooled us. Hardly had we gone half a mile before it blazed through the clouds, scorching down on the earth with increased fury. I felt myself become crisp like a piece of toast and the sun seemed to weigh me down. At last we saw what we thought was the rest house. It turned out to be a run down Catholic mission station called Loa. I went in and talked to Father Superior. He and another white man have been in this God-forsaken place for four years. I must say he looked the part – as withered and dried up looking a man as I’ve ever seen. He gave me a glass of water and lime juice which certainly was appreciated. Agu, he said, was only a mile further along. After thanking him for his kindness, I joined John who was waiting for me in the road several hundred yards away. For the next half hour we trudged along in silence. For my part, I was busy thinking of those two poor white men who had spent four years in a tumbled down shack in the hot­test part of Africa, only about 3º 30″ north of the equator, and they have come here to give up their lives to teach a bunch of wild, clotheless savages the life of Christ. It sort of makes a fellow stop and think – I know it did me.

Needless to say, the heat was terrific by this time and we were both dying of thirst but Agu was reached at last at about 1:30. We flopped down on the mud floor where we stayed for an hour before our porters showed up. Last of all, was old Guma literally dragging one foot after the other. I had to laugh when I thought of an old saying that Bob Stark used to quote, “Don’t cheer boys – the poor devils are dying.”

We found some papaw trees but the fruit wasn’t ripe. We had lunch at three o’clock and afterwards, in order to get some amusing pictures, I brought out my victrola. Well, I’ve never seen anything so funny. All the porters gathered around laughing their heads off and practically all of them knelt down and tried to look in to see where the noise was coming from. Noise is right for even Paul Vihiteman’s orchestra sounds like noise after “Charleston” has been played several thousand times with the same needle. I guess it was the first time, and prob­ably the last, that any of these “niggers” will hear Margaret Young sing “Doodle Doo Doo” and “Too Tired.”

Just about this time one of the deck chairs “flew out on us” and the most important piece of wood in the whole blooming affair busted. Master Carpenter Pirie, however, came to the rescue. During the afternoon we took a lot of movies and snap­ shots and, as I sat down to shave after my bath, the sun was just setting behind the mountains on the other side of the Nile. Guma soon came with the unpleasant news that there was no more water and that the sentry refused to get any as his wives weren’t there. Well, John sent for him and for the policeman and said if he didn’t have water at camp in twenty minutes that he would report him to the Governor General who would not only fire him but give him a good beating into the bargain. The threat was enough – the water arrived in time.

After dinner, we turned in early as usual for we are planning a good start in the morning. The bats, mice, lizards, etc., infest this place not to mention the moths, mosquitoes and flies. As John says, “Africa is the land of pests.” There are more queer beetles, ants and bugs here than I have ever seen. We always make a point of eating our food as quickly as possible for the insects don’t add any delicious flavor and one gets to dislike digesting flies and ants with his soup.

Safari- Arrive Nimule

Friday, December 4^th, 1925. 

We were up this morning at 3:45, had breakfast at 4:15 and were on the road by 4:45. We tramped along in the dark­ness for some time. I don’t know how I ever got out of bed at all this morning. My feet are so blistered I can hardly stand on them and my left ankle is swollen to about twice its normal size. The walk to the Assua River took about an hour and a half. In spite of our fatigue, John and I were both in good spirits and hurried along to get over as much of the road as possible before it got daylight. The famous southern cross was very plain this morning. There are two crosses, one a great deal larger than the other. The real cross is the smaller of the two and is made up of four quite bright stars.

The road crosses the Assua River just at its junction with the Atrappi River from where the combined streams flow down to the Nile some five or ten miles distant. I don’t know when I have seen a more beautiful sight than the Assua River. We were warned of our approach to it by a number of ducks and geese which flew past us a half mile or so from the river. At this time of the year the river is fairly low and one can wade across it rather easily for it isn’t more than three or four feet deep. On both banks we saw hundreds of Nile geese so close that we walked up within fifty feet of them before they got up – and when they did, they merely circled around to the other side of the river. The sun was just coming up as we reached the river and with the tall palms and a brilliantly colored sky it was a magnificent sight.

Our porters dragged in, as usual, an hour behind us. But I can hardly blame them this morning for if they are half as weary as I am I pity them. Fortunately, there was an old tub of a boat and a couple of natives so that we didn’t have to get wet, but ferried over in style with all our luggage. John spent some time trying to get a picture of the geese and just as he was almost ready they all got up. As a result, he took it out on Guma and the porters and there was a lively fifteen minute scene. Of course, the porters are dumb. They have the intelligence of five or six year olds but one must expect that. If they were any brighter they would not be carrying fifty pound loads over a twenty mile walk every day for fifteen cents.

We had one porter follow us with two water bags and the bi­cycle which, as I mentioned before, is useless. It was about twelve miles further to Nimule and by the time we had gotten porters, baggage and all across the river it was half past seven. John and I were both so tired we could scarcely move and with a twelve mile hike ahead of us things weren’t looking up. The worst part of it was that the road was up and down hill all the way. We trudged along for an hour and a half without saying more than a word or two. Old bicycle Pete, as John called him, we had left behind us. Ten minutes later he appeared around a bend in the road and, on seeing us, started to run as if he had been running all the way. Every time after that we halted at a place where we could see back for half a mile. In this way we gave him a good workout.

Each step we took was agony. I don’t know when I have ever had such a walk. The heat was terrific and the flies, if not as bad as several days ago, were dreadfully annoying. Our shoes were just about worn out and the muscles in our legs felt as if they were tied in knots. Hour after hour and mile after mile dragged by. I thought we would never get there. We were just wondering whether we could make it or not when we passed by the Kiampsi Rills and started down the other side. A long, low, flat stretch of swampy land appeared before us and I knew that Nimule was somewhere down there. It was encouraging. If we both hadn’t been so exhausted, I’m sure we would have en­joyed this morning’s walk more for it was through beautiful coun­try surrounded by 1ong ranges of mountains.

I thought of that song about the last long mile as we drag­ged ourselves into sight of Nimule. Before the British took over Uganda, Nimule used to be quite a place but on account of the sleeping sickness regulations it has been reduced to practically nothing. We stopped at the first house we saw and, as luck would have it, it was the home of the doctor and Mamur -­the only white man in Nimule. He wasn’t in but his “nigger” boys got us some water and one set out to fetch him for us. He arrived in due time, a little short man with a black moustache, wheeling an old fashioned bicycle that in truth was just about as tall as he was. He was certainly mighty nice to us and in­vited us to lunch with him. This, particularly, was greatly appreciated as we figured on our supplies just to reach Nimule where we expected we could purchase some food to last us until the boat arrived. A great mistake, this. The store in Nimule, a native one, had only some canned salmon that was, heaven knows how old, and some vinegar. Not another thing! No po­tatoes, eggs, chicken, or vegetables of any sort. They had some lanterns but no kerosene. We didn’t buy a blessed thing. The rest of Nimule consisted of some twenty or more native huts and a rest house. The doctor, the Syrian who invited us to lunch, had built a hospital where he had some thirty or forty sleeping sickness patients;

Our porters and Guma arrived some hours after we did and left our things at the rest house. Lunch at the doctor’s was delicious and afterwards John and I went down to the rest house and cleaned up a bit. The Mamur sent us down some bananas and papaws which was certainly mighty nice of him. Our boat is supposed to be two days late and is expected on Monday the seventh. A two day wait doesn’t seem like a bad plan to us for we are both dead.

We have come from Rejaf to Nimule, one hundred and eight miles, in six days lacking five hours. That is an average of eighteen miles a day over a rough track, under a scorching sun and through a locality where the tsetse flies live by the billions. Eighteen miles in a day isn’t such a bad walk but just set out to walk that distance through a country like this for six consecutive days, after having spent two solid weeks on a boat where each day you didn’t walk more than a hundred yards. 

Having no kerosene we had dinner before it was dark. Dinner consisted of a chicken which one of the policemen found for us, boiled rice, sweet potatoes and bananas. For­tunately, for us, we got to bed shortly after sundown for the mosquitoes infest Nimule in countless numbers. All night we heard a regular roaring riot of them. They buzzed around our mosquito nets by the millions. I had to chuckle to my­self for not a one could get at us. I felt just like teasing them. But they weren’t the only nuisance. Before the night was over, the rats, mice, lizards, bats, swallows and hun­dreds of beetles and other insects had a circus with our lug­gage. Every time I woke up, it would be to chase off some six inch lizard from the mosquito net while the mice had a regular Olympic contest in our food boxes.

Nimule

Saturday, December 5^th, 1925.

Twelve hours’ sleep last night! Man, oh man! It seemed good but my feet and ankles still feel as if they had taken a terrific beating. After chasing out the goats that had come in the rest house during the night, we had breakfast and de­cided to make this a washday. We had no sooner started in than the Mamur came up from the telegraph office and said that the Livingstone, a tiny little boat, would probably reach Nim­ule this morning and that we could take it to Butiaba instead of waiting until Monday for the Samuel Baker, a larger boat and the one which runs on the regular fortnightly service. He wasn’t sure if the Livingstone would come up this far or not. The telegraph connections are very uncertain so John and I de­cided to send a wire together. We sent it to Mr. Pirie asking him to relay it to Father. 

In the midst of all our packing and rearranging our luggage, the whistle of the Livingstone blew and the Mamur told us we had better go down with him and see how things were. John stayed behind to get our stuff packed while I borrowed a bicycle and followed the Mamur down to the steamer landing two miles away. Incidentally, I almost broke my neck on the way for the fool bicycle didn’t have a coaster brake. After a fifteen minute ride through banana groves, I reached the end of the road and saw the Livingstone fifty yards out from shore. The Mamur was already aboard so I took off my shoes and stock­ings and waded out to the boat knee deep in mud.

The Samuel Baker isn’t coming up at all this trip and the little Livingstone had been sent in her place. The Mamur at Rejaf told us the boat was two days late and we almost spent an extra day on the safari in which case we would have had a fourteen days’ wait at Nimule. The only rule to follow in Africa is to get to your place of connection as fast as pos­sible and then do your waiting. The Livingstone was to leave in two hours and in spite of its terrible appearance, we had no other choice but to take it. The funny part of the whole bus­iness was that this morning when Guma started washing the clothes, I told John he might as well pack up our luggage for I had a premonition that we weren’t going to spend another night in Nimule. He is always kidding me about my premonitions and, when I rode back to the rest house with the news to get ready, he thought I was kidding him.

Taking a dozen porters, we tramped down to the boat land­ing (I’m laughing) and were carried aboard by a couple of na­tives. A Captain Maxted had come up to Nimule on the Living­stone and he told us that it wasn’t such a bad trip but, per­sonally, it looked pretty tough to me. The worst news was that there was no catering service which meant that our food would have to carry us over to Butiaba – two days more. I guess we will live on eggs and chickens for that is all one can get around this part of the country.

There is a forward deck on the Livingstone with a roof about five feet high so that you are always cracking your skull on it. The only cabin isn’t so bad and John and I occupy that. The rest of the boat is taken up with a steam engine and boilers and a crew of about fifteen “niggers.” There is no white engineer nor captain aboard, and the boat certainly looks like a mess. It is perfectly filthy with just cakes of native dirt all over it. Fate seems to want us to go through all of Shay’s experiences for the Livingstone is the same tub that he was on and we have the same cabin. Only the engineer, of whom he writes, is no longer here.

The Mamur helped us settle accounts with Guma and Usif, both of whom wanted about twice what that we intended to give them. These Arabs and natives certainly get one’s goat. After causing a big scene, they had the nerve to ask me for a letter of recommendation. I truly said that Guilla was only a fair cook and that the trip was hard for him. John was quite disgusted with both of them. The boat was already under way before Guma and Usif climbed off.

Well – we are off on another leg of our journey. The Bahi El Jebel, as the Nile up this far is called, is much more attractive and tropical looking than further north. I arranged with one of the natives, who speaks English, to give us a boy to do our cooking to Butiaba and so after arranging our deck chairs and storing away our luggage we had lunch.

At Dufile, where we stopped to load on wood which is the fuel used, I bought a chicken for a piaster – five cents. There being no white official aboard, everything is run in true “nigger” style and the time it takes them to load the boat is infuriating.

All afternoon we steamed up the Nile through beautiful coun­try with long mountain ranges along the banks. It is infinitely prettier than the Nile further north. We made ourselves quite comfortable in our deck chairs and turned in early. The Living­stone didn’t reach Port Liri, another fuel station, until after nine o’clock. We tied up here for the night. Once more our mos­quito nets were worth ten times their weight in gold.

On the boat, Nimule to Butiaba

Sunday, December 6^th, 1925.

About three o’clock this morning I was awakened by the noise of the Livingstone’s engines. The moon had come out from behind a mass of clouds and, as it was now bright enough to see the rocks and bends in the river, we were soon under way, leaving Liri in the distance.

During the morning, we stopped at several little stations to load on wood and cargo. The darn little Livingstone is so crowded now that one has to be a regular monkey to get from the stern to the forward cabin. John and I spend most of our time in our deck chairs on the tiny raised forward deck. It is a most miserable affair and I have almost dashed my brains out several times on the ridiculously low ceiling.

Our supplies were exhausted before we reached Nimule so we have only been existing for the last few days. I bought a chicken at a little station for a piaster, five cents American money. We had it for lunch along with some native sweet pota­toes that weren’t so bad. They are a sort of cross between our southern sweet potatoes and Irish potatoes.

Rhino Camp, which we reached this morning, is the entrance into the Congo by which way all supplies for the Moto gold mines are shipped. It isn’t much of a place but we went ashore and met the only Englishman there- a chap who does transport work to the mines. He gave us a bit of sugar and some good news. It seems that we can motor from Masindi to Kampala and save al­most a week time in getting to Nairobi. It is the most difficult thing in the world to get information over here. You can’t for the life of you find out whether there is a road between one place and another or whether it is suitable for a car to drive over until you get there and see for yourself.

At Mutir, a little dump where we stopped to load more fuel, we met the Samuel Baker, the boat which we were supposed to have taken. It was the height of luxury with mosquito house, cater­ing, and all that sort of thing. John and I felt like a couple of bums when we pulled up next to the Baker. We were dirty and unshaven and the Livingstone was crowded with filthy cow hides. The Livingstone, while endurable before seeing the Samuel Baker, became out of the question now so we went aboard the larger boat to get a ginger beer and pick up a couple of loaves of bread. The steward gave us, not only the bread, but some jam and ginger­ale which was greatly appreciated. A fine chap from the Uganda railroad gave us all the information about getting to Nairobi. We are to motor from Butiaba to Masindi, spend the night there and motor down to Kampala, the capitol of the Uganda, the follow­ing day. From Kampala we drive to Jinja and then catch the “Clement Hill” there for Kisumu. It certainly is a great plan and we were overjoyed to think that we might get to Nairobi a whole week sooner than we expected.

Nairobi seems like a goal now. We have sort of a feeling that it is home. Personally, I think we are both rather fed up with this sort of traveling. For over a month we have been going up the Nile. It seems endless and Nairobi and news from home will be heaven.

This district and the Congo has been infested by the rinder-pest and 95% of the cattle in the Congo have died as a result while The Rhino Camp locality has suffered a 75% loss.

We wasted several hours through absolute foolishness. The na­tives drive a person insane. One great, big, strapping fellow over six feet two, who was helping load the Livingstone with fuel, would pick up a stick about two feet long and two inches in diameter. This he considered a load. I pointed him out to John and we laughed. He thought it very amusing himself and each time he picked up a smaller piece. The whole boat could have been loaded in fifteen minutes but these lazy “niggers” took about three hours. The Indian engineer was as lax as the natives. There is no excuse for the natives in this locality not working for they are much larger physically than the Su­danese blacks. They are really husky fellows.

After dinner John and I talked for a couple of hours mak­ing plans for the future and discussing people and things at home. We both agreed that the Northwestern station about five ten P.M. would always be a wonderful sight. There was a good breeze blowing when we went up on deck to sleep. We are run­ning into what looks like a bad tropical storm.

Lake Albert, Butiaba – Masindi

Monday, December 7^th, 1925.

What a confusion there was last night. We were due in Panyamur at six last evening and were supposed to tie up there for the night. But as we were behind time we didn’t get there until eleven and in the face of a storm and no lights at all we were obliged to run into the weeds and toss over the anchor.

We left Panyamur at ten A. M. for no reason at all. We should have started from there at seven but, due to the con­founded laziness of the natives, hour after hour slipped by.

After getting aground and catching one of the ropes in the pro­peller, we finally got under way.

Lake Albert is one of the most beautiful lakes that I have ever seen. It is approximately a hundred miles long and twenty to twenty-five miles wide. All around it rise ranges of high mountains. Those on the Congo side are fourteen and fifteen thousand feet high, while the ones on the Uganda side are some two thousand feet above the surface of the lake. Our course was diagonally across it to the center of the east side where Butiaba is situated. It seemed like a short run when we first entered the lake from the Nile because of the mountains in the background but it was three o’clock before we finally docked at Butiaba.

The morning we spent writing and sorting out our luggage, trying to discard as much as we could do without. The lake was a wonderful sky blue color. Being a little windy, the Living­stone tossed about in it like a cork, going ahead about two feet and then being pushed back one by the wind. Before getting to Butiaba we sold some of our camping utensils to a native for a pound. They were worth more but the bother of taking them to Nairobi is too great. As it is, we have a kit of ten pieces.

Butiaba lies on a low peninsula that runs out from the foot of the hills on the Uganda side. It is a flat, marshy sort of place only two or three feet above the level of the lake. This lowland runs back for about a mile and then strikes rather steep hills. Butiaba isn’t much of a place, no stores nor anything like that. The custom official was sick with the fever but came down to meet the boat. He seemed like a very nice chap if not much to look at, being dreadfully scarred from smallpox. Black water fever makes Butiaba a very unhealthy place. He told me that I had to pay a twenty percent import duty on my rifle. I could take it through Uganda and Kenya under seal for nothing but if the seals were broken, that is if I decided to use it, I would have to pay triple duty. I had intended to risk it until I heard this but it seemed wiser to pay the duty and be done with it. I told him I only paid £30 instead of £45 for the gun and he knocked off a bit more so I got through with only paying £5 duty on both the gun and 300 rounds of ammunition.

There was no car at Butiaba but a government truck was go­ing over to Masindi so, when we were offered a chance to go in that, we took it. One thing that struck me as rather simple was that the officials at Butiaba would accept British five pound notes but refused one pound notes. With all our luggage loaded on the rear of the truck and a boy on top of it all to watch it, John and I climbed on to the front seat with the driver. We soon discovered that the Albion truck had no springs whatsoever, solid tires and no cushion on the front seat. What was even worse, there was a governor on it which prevented its going more than twelve miles an hour.

The trip to Masindi, in spite of the truck, was perfectly wonderful. Oh, the scenery was glorious! We soon left the flat, marshy ground that Butiaba is situated on and before long had climbed to the top of the hills two thousand feet above Lake Al­bert, which stretched out like a beautiful blue sheet below us. Lake Albert must have been an enormous lake once for the hills around it look as if in ages past they had been the banks of a tremendous body of water. The little pool that is left seems like the shrunken remains – a shadow of what it once must have been. The view of the mountains on the Congo side was superb and I hated to leave such a sight behind me.

The road to Masindi was most interesting. While Lake Albert is two thousand feet above sea level, Masindi is five so, for the most part, it was up hill through mountainous country. And, oh, what a relief from the Sudan! What a contrast! I thought of what the Egyptians say, “Allah laughed when he made the Sudan.” For the first time I saw Africa as I had pictured it. The hills were covered with high grass but they were thickly wooded. Jungles appeared on both sides of the road. Palm trees were everywhere and masses and masses of vines were interwoven among the trees so that it looked like Florida hammock. And talk about your big trees! These African ones rise a hundred or more feet and their branches cover almost an acre. From each branch hang vines and air plant. The whole scene, along sections of the road, is one solid wall of foliage.

We passed a number of banana and coffee plantations. Every­thing about Uganda looks prosperous and growing. The natives are more civilized and all wear clothes. The roads are excellent and the ground is cultivated and well kept. We stopped to take a pic­ture of one large coffee plantation.

It is forty-seven miles from Butiaba to Masindi and it took us from four until eight-thirty to get there. The last two hours were very cold and I found myself shivering in spite of the fact that we are only a couple of degrees north of the equator. The bugs were terrific. We were covered with them as there was windshield and the air was saturated with them.

Masindi town is a joke. There are only a dozen scattered houses. We went at once to a store belonging to an Indian mer­chant to try to get a car in which to motor to Kampala tomorrow. He wasn’t in so, after sending a boy to fetch him, we went to the so-called hotel. It consisted of two one story plaster shacks with only a couple of candles burning to keep one from saying it looked entirely deserted. After scouting around a bit, we saw a man and a woman eating at a table by candle light. John ven­tured, “Where can I find the proprietor?” A short, sassy look­ing little woman snapped back, “I am she. I suppose you want beds and dinner. How can you expect anything dropping in on me this time of night?” Well, she took me completely off my feet. This was a fine kind of a reception for two hungry, tired out boys. We hadn’t had any lunch at all and our food for the last couple of days had been rather limited. A forty-seven mile drive in a truck, whose maximum speed was twelve miles per, doesn’t improve one’s disposition. However, we were too tired to get angry. We apo1ogized and sympathized with her for twenty minutes and then she offered us what dinner she could scrape to­gether. What a place! Of all the dirty, filthy holes, this inn took first prize. Our room was about ten by ten with two native beds in it covered by two dreadfully soiled and oily looking mosquito nets. A table was the only other piece of furniture ­no rug, window shade or chairs. The white plastered walls were covered with hundreds of ants, insects and cobwebs.

Dinner consisted of some Irish potatoes and chicken – what we have been living on for the past three or four days. The dinner table was a sight. There being no screens on the windows, the tablecloth was one mass of crawling bugs and moths fluttered about the candle by the hundreds. Our tea was full of ants and the brown looking drinking water contained a dozen drowned flies. Gosh, what a meal! But, in spite of it all, we downed it as fast as we could we were so hungry – and it tasted good.         

The man runs a transport service to Kampala. He offered to take us over the 184 miles for 350 shillings – about $86. He said it would take about fourteen hours as some of it is tough going. Just then, the Indian appeared and offered to do it for 300 shillings. Then the Englishman came down to 300 – $75. There was no soap below $75 so we decided to go with the English­man in his one ton Ford lorry. He seems like a rather nice chap but the woman who runs the inn, in spite of becoming very much more friendly towards us, reminds me of a cat. She has green, snappy looking eyes and her face was as white as a sheet. She has been out here for some years and I guess is pretty sick. The man has a dreadful cough. I recognized it as T.B. at once. Well, we talked a bit and then turned in.

We are to start at seven in the morning. We would like to leave earlier but situations make it impossible. We couldn’t bother to look for fleas or ticks in our beds – we were too tired. I was glad to crawl into any sort of a bunk. John says his mother would have sat up all night rather than go in such a dirty room.

Kampala

Tuesday, December 8^th, 1925.

I awoke at 6:30 A. M. and, after a bit of tea and some biscuits, we packed up our stuff and loaded it on to the Ford lorry. Burnell, the English fellow who owned it, soon showed up and we left Masindi about 7:30. As the front seat was none too large, John sat on one side of him and I sat on the other. The road was in excellent shape – as good a dirt one as anyone would wish for. The first sixteen miles we tore over and then we hit some poorer going. The scenery was much the same as yesterday and, being in a far more comfortable car, we enjoyed, it a great deal more. The hills remind me a lot of the Adiron­dacks around Bay Pond only they are covered with long grass and the trees are entirely different. One sees bushy trees whose tops are as flat as a pancake. It looks as if someone had cut them that shape for they are so regular. Coffee, rubber, ba­nana and cotton plantations were all along the way and made it most interesting.

We stopped for a little breakfast of tea and canned fish about ten o’clock. Scarcely more than twenty or thirty feet away in the foliage, a bunch of monkeys of a rather rare species called Colobus were having a great time swinging about. They were perfectly beautiful monkeys with black and white hair and a long tail. A ring of white circled around their faces and made them look like old men while a big patch of it on their backs made them easy to see. In spite of that, they kept re­markably well concealed and I had the deuce of a time getting a picture of them. Finally, they came out on a rather bare limb and I got some movies of them jumping from one branch to another. I know that they won’t turn out well due to adverse light, etc. But I was darn lucky to get any pictures of them at all. After breakfast, we pushed on, all the time through wonderful country. We stopped a few times to take pictures. Some of the jungles are fascinating to say the least. Big, long vines hang down seventy-five or a hundred feet and there is just one dense mass of interwoven branches. I’ve never seen any more beautiful country in my life.

The boys in Uganda are impossible. The mission stations have ruined them and every time a boy is beaten he runs to the D. C. The whole lot of them need a good thrashing. The Sudan officials know how to keep them in right order. Lunch consisted of bread, tea and some poor canned sausage, which, while not ex­actly satisfying, tasted not half bad. The road runs through Hoima and from there southeast through Kigoma and then down to Kampala.

I hadn’t minded Burnell’s driving at first but, as hour after hour passed, it began to get on my nerves. He certainly didn’t know anything about a Ford and on the hills I was for­ever trying to keep myself from saying, “For goodness sake, give the car a chance.” Then, too, he was afraid of breaking the springs so we just crawled over the bad parts. After dark, it became dreadfully cold and it seemed that we would never get to Kampala. Finally, about 8:30, we saw the lights of the city in the distance. Burnell didn’t know the way in to the town but, after some scouting around, we reached the hotel which is a rather nice show with accommodations for about sixty guests. It seemed like the Drake to us. As luck would have it, the place was full but we managed to get a couple of beds in the dormitory, a little shack next to the hotel. Dinner tasted mighty good and bed seemed even better. Burnell arrang­ed for a car to drive us over to Jinja in the morning. It is fifty-four miles but as the road is good it will only take a couple of hours.

Kampala to Jinja

Wednesday, December 9^th, 1925.

It was eight-thirty before we had finished breakfast, paid our hotel bill, and were ready to start for Jinja in the Dodge touring car that we had hired. It seemed like a Rolls Royce to me as we tore along the road. Jinja is fifty-four miles from Kampala but it only took us an hour and forty-five minutes to make the distance. The scenery in Uganda certain­ly puts the Sudan to shame. Coffee, rubber, banana and cotton plantations continue to occupy the greatest part of the road­side.

We crossed a rather high ridge and there below us wound the Nile. Jinja consists of a small settlement of quite at­tractive little houses. It was a beautiful sight. Instead of desert, heat and sand, or the terrific Sudd, one finds in the Uganda, an abundance of tropical vegetation, flowers, grass and palms. It seems like regular heaven. The road ended at the west bank of the Nile where we were obliged to wait for a ferry to take us over to Jinja Pier. We hesitated whether to take a native canoe or to wait for the ferry. The latter plan was decided upon as the safer method of transportation both for ourselves and luggage.

The threatening storm broke just as the ferry landed so that our luggage was piled under the canvas roof before it had become completely water-soaked. Of course, my sun helmet fell in the Nile which John thought a big joke. Luck seems to be against us for we have been planning for a week on the nice hot bath we would get when we finally got into a good cabin on board the-Clement Hill. Wouldn’t you know it – every cabin was taken! The chief steward cheerfully added that we could sleep on deck. John looked pretty black but what else was there to do? We dumped all our luggage in one place and watched the boat sail. The Clement Hill is really a first class boat with accommodations for about fifty first class passengers. It is very nicely fitted out and is, I imagine, a great deal like our lake steamers.

After lunch, which was wretched, we took a hot bath and got inside some clean clothes. My, but it felt nice to get into presentable things again. Lake Victoria is perfectly beautiful and Jinja is as attractive as it can be. The northern end of the lake is full of islands, half covered with trees. But it is a very dangerous lake for navigation as it is full of floating islands besides being very shallow. Large, rocky islands are not uncommon. All afternoon we cruised among these beautiful islands. Toward sundown, we were on the equator but the three thousand feet that the lake is above sea level accounted for the cool breeze that came up as soon as it was dark. Going at night is too dan­gerous, so we tied up, or rather anchored, and waited for sunrise.

Never have I been on such a nice boat that served such mis­erable food. Ye Gods! It was awful! Not a bit of taste to it and everything was soaked in grease. We met an awful nice Eng­lish chap by the name of Ward and talked to him all afternoon and evening. The Lord Chief Justice of the Uganda is on board and thinks that he is right in there so when John and I swiped his little corner to dump all our luggage he didn’t seem too pleased.

Say, talk about bugs! You haven’t seen any until you come on Lake Victoria. After sundown the lake flies attacked us. They don’t bite but they came upon us by the billions. The deck was one mass of them and the white sides of the boat were turned into a black color. We kept below deck until time to go to bed and then John and I realized the true meaning of what the stew­ard had said this morning, “You can sleep on deck if you like.” Our beds were covered with bugs – sheets, pillows, everything. To brush them away was useless, for only twice as many would drop down on you from the ceiling, so I threw myself down on top of the whole mess and went to sleep.

Kisumu

Thursday, December 10^th, 1925.

When I awoke this morning, I found that my bed was a regular slaughter house and that the sheets were covered with thousands of crushed flies. The sight was enough to render further sleep out of the question. We were soon steaming along Kavironda Gulf toward Kisumu. I spent the morning up on my diary.

By twelve o’clock we had docked at Kisumu and discovered that the mail train was due to leave at 1:45 P. M. so we decid­ed to have lunch on board the Clement Hill. We took a stroll around Kisumu and found a much bigger town than we had expected to see. After lunch, we had just time enough to get all our things into our compartment before we were off. The train has no sleepers nor bedding but the compartments are quite comfort­able and as we had our own blankets and sheets we didn’t mind the prospects of a night aboard in the least.

From Kisumu, three thousand feet above sea level, the rail­road winds up onto the escarpment, a long, high range or plateau. All afternoon we were climbing higher and higher. The scenery was magnificent, as we went through one beautiful valley into another. I must say it was perfectly fascinating. John and I spent the afternoon talking about things and people at home. Our friend Ward joined us for a few minutes’ ride from one sta­tion to the next but, as he only had a second class ticket, the conductor wouldn’t let him ride in our coach. The old Scotch fellow was on the train and, beyond all doubt, he is one of the most comical men I have ever seen. I think he is a bit off. I think I wrote about him in my diary yesterday. When I first saw him this morning he was drinking a brandy and soda. Before break­fast, he had five and said that that was a Scotchman’s breakfast.

Well, this afternoon he was in Ward’s compartment and when we left Kisumu he took along a dozen bottles of beer. By five o’clock, so Ward says, the Scotchman told him he was going to take a little snooze and was soon off in a drunken slumber.

We stopped at a little town long enough to get tea and I thought of Father and his wonderful Santa Fe meals. Give me a diner any day. Up and up we went until by dinner time we were nine thousand feet above sea level. We stopped at a little place to eat and believe me we had a fine meal – the best that I have had for a long time. Fresh bread, butter, and milk certainly are wonderful. Ward and another fellow from Nairobi were in the same compartment with this Scotch fellow and, as there were only two berths, Ward told him that the place we stopped for dinner was a wonderful resort to spend a week or two- and, by golly, the chap got out. I never laughed so hard in my life. Every time you mentioned a place he would say, “Oh, yes, Nairobi, a beastly place.” Gosh, he certainly was a prize.

After dinner, John and I arranged our berths. It was very cold and even though we were on the equator we shivered while we undressed- and most of the night as well. 

Nairobi

Friday, December 11^th, 1925. 

When I awoke this morning, we were riding through beauti­ful country – nice high and tropical trees. Believe me, I felt a real thrill as I realized that we were very close to Nairobi where I had always wanted to go more than any other place in the world. As we drew near to the city it became more and more beau­tiful. There were magnificent gardens, flowers and tropical trees, vines and all the rest that goes with it.

Nairobi at first sight was infinitely larger than I had imag­ined it would be.

The train had just pulled up to the station and John and I were crawling out with our many pieces of luggage when a tall man with dark hair and dressed in shorts and a safari shirt walked up to us and asked us if we were part of the Clydesdale party. We said that we were and he introduced himself as Waller. He told us the surprising hews that Lucy was out on a safari and that he had turned us over to Safariland, Limited. John and I realized at once that this meant a considerable increase in expenses. Waller, it seems, is the white hunter that Safariland engaged for us and he was rather surprised to hear that we weren’t expecting to spend three months on safari.

Well, we went up to the New Stanley Hotel which, while from the outside is quite a decent appearing building, cannot boast of much of an interior. They said that there were no rooms left and Waller wisely remarked that the rooms for the Marquis of Clydesdale were, he was sure, reserved. They at once opened their eyes and with many apologies said that they could undoubtedly get us a room somewhere in the hotel. Waller stayed for breakfast with us and then, after depositing our luggage in our room, we all trooped over to Safariland. There we met Colonel Wetham who explained the whole situation. Lucy is obviously to blame. The whole arrange­ments were certainly most poorly made and I can’t help feeling that they could have been much better planned. In the first place, Sam Prior, Jr. wrote Lucy, which letter Lucy still possesses, saying that four of us were coming for a three months safari in October and asking Lucy if he would take us out. Lucy evidently bases all his calculations on this letter and when we did not come in October, or rather when we wired him that we were unable to get to Nairobi until December, it was too late, for in the meantime, after Sam’s letter of last April and John’s wire to him some time in July or August, he had booked another party for December, January and Feb­ruary. Lucy, therefore, turned us over to Safariland. But the crazy part of it was that he never advised us of this when we were in Cairo in October. We then wired him asking him about the safari and received the following reply “Safari ready” and signed “Lucy.” He failed to mention that he was unable to go with us or that he had turned us over to Safariland, both of which facts he, of course, knew. So that when we arrived here in Nairobi we were utterly amaz­ed to find no Lucy.

On the other hand, Safariland, at Lucy’s orders, had gone ahead and outfitted a safari for three months and bought supplies and equipment for four people. The safari is now out at Embu waiting for us. It has been there since December 1. The situa­tion is obvious. Of course, we don’t have to go on the safari at all. We made no arrangements with Safariland and if Lucy turned us over to Safariland without any consent on our part it is their business and not ours. But there is a great shortage of porters in Nairobi and the ones engaged for us had to be brought up from half the distance to Mombasa. If we don’t take this safari it may be three weeks or more before we could arrange another. In the meantime, half our time allotted for Kenya Colony would be gone. John and I talked it over and decided that there was no other choice than to go ahead on this safari. Colonel Wetham knocked us both off our feet with his estimate of 1200£, or $6000, for a six weeks’ safari. It seemed outrageous. He then went into all details. Safariland themselves charge 100£ a safari for outfitting. Everything else you get at cost price. Your tents, porters’ fees, food, white hunter’s salary, etc., are charged directly against your account. The only additional expense of making your arrange­ments through Safariland is that you pay them 100£ for buying all your outfits and looking after your trophies. In other words, the running of the whole safari is up to them. It is a long story and I am afraid my attempt at explanation isn’t very clear but the above is the gist of the whole business.

After talking things over with Colonel Wetham and Waller, it was decided that a second white hunter was essential for it would only be a small additional expense and would double our chances in the way of game. Then we went over to Waller’s house for tea where it was decided to postpone our starting for Embu. Until Monday morning as we had a hundred “shauris” to fix up and had to have safari shirts and one thing and, another.

Roth, Bic, and Hut Enders all arrived in Nairobi on the noon train and we met them at the New Stanley. They are going on a two months’ safari and. are being outfitted by the rival firm of Shaw and Hunter. Their safari is to cost them 2500£ apiece or $7500 in all. As three are going it is, of course, less, proportionately, than for two. Ed could join us with only a slight additional ex­pense. You see, the Kenya Colony license is $500 apiece. That means $1000 for John and myself before we even start the safari. This $1000 is, of course, added in Colonel Wetham’s estimate of $6000 which, he admits, is probably higher than the actual cost of the safari will be in the end.

The afternoon and evening were spent in visiting with Roth, Bic, and Nut and in making a number of purchases, etc. Our friend Ward from Uganda is around the hotel and we had dinner with him. 

Nairobi

Saturday, December 12^th, 1925.

John and I talked things over last night and decided definitely to go on the safari that Safariland has arranged, only we made it quite clear to Wetham that all expenses were to be kept down as much as possible and that all extras were to be cut out. Waller showed up at 9:30 A. M. and went with us around Nairobi on our shopping tour. We had to have films and one thing and another. We called on Epstein and got our mail which was certainly great. We went back to the hotel and eagerly read it all. We weren’t able to get it yesterday. There was no word from Ed. Of course, he doesn’t expect us to reach Nairobi until the eighteenth.     

Everyone in Nairobi seems to be wild for Ed to box a fellow, named Harris so I left a long note for Ed with all the dope sug­gesting that if he reached Nairobi late in December he might fight Harris on the first of January and then come out and join us on safari.          

We had lunch with Roth, Bic, Nut, and the Cotter brothers who are the white hunters for their safari. I must say Waller impresses me a great deal more than these Cotter boys and I think we were darn lucky in a way to get so fine a fellow. After hearing about Lucy I am glad that he isn’t going with us. From all I hear, he isn’t what Sam evidently cracked him up to be.

We spent most of the afternoon getting our things unpacked and sorted out, as well as meeting a fellow called Thompson and talking to a number of different people. Mr. Klein came to dinner as the guest of Roth, Bic, and Nut and we were all in­vited to join in. He is Akeley’s and Clark’s friend and I pre­sume is sort of in business with them.

Nairobi

Sunday, December 13^th, 1925.

One of the first events of the day was Mr. Lucy calling to see us. Well, he didn’t have much to say. He based all his plans on Sam’s letter and seems never to have received John’s letter or cables. In reply to the question why he hadn’t let us know he couldn’t take us on safari, he made some lame excuse. It was all a big mess and I was glad when it was over. Of course, nothing was really accomplished. Later on we met Waller and drove out to his brother’s house which is a most attractive little place all covered with flowers. He is crazy about bird dogs, especially pointers, and showed us all of his cups, etc. His dogs are much bigger than the American painters and are splendid looking animals. He and John held an animated conversation about dogs which lasted for a couple of hours while the rest of us sat around and drank real imported German Pilsner that was certainly very fine.

We had lunch at the hotel with Roth, Bic and Nut and proceed­ed to do more writing until four 0′ clock when we went to Waller’s for tea. We went out to Epstein’s for dinner. Some very amusing things might be written about the dinner but they are perhaps better not mentioned. Didn’t get to bed until eleven P.M.

Hunting Trip in Kenya Colony – Embu

Monday, December 14^th, 1925.

John and I were up at seven o’clock this morning and packed our stuff into as convenient loads as we could make. After breakfast, we said goodbye to Roth, Bic and Nut.  We had intended leaving Nairobi about nine but there was a lot to be done at the last minute. We had our hair cut pretty short as we will be out on safari for six weeks or more. It seems advisable for me to get a small gun as there are no shells in Nairobi for my 30-30 and my 375 Manlicker would rip pretty big holes in small game, so I purchased a 256 Manlicker which is a very nice little rifle with an excellent punch. We bought some biscuits and tarts for lunch, left instructions for Ed, arranged about holding our lug­gage and. shipping our movie films. All this takes time so that it was eleven o’clock before we were ready to go. Mrs. Waller and Lucy were down to see us off as we climbed into a five pas­senger Dodge, chuck full of bags and guns and three of Waller’s dogs: Nellie, Bubbles, and Jill. The little Ford lorry, which had gone ahead, was also jammed to the top with equipment. Stanton left last night to put camp at Embu in order for us.

It was pouring rain when we left, and wise old Colonel Wetham was out to give us last words of advice about how dangerous wound­ed buffalo are when I know darn well that he has never been on a safari in his whole life. The road was bad at first but improved as we got out of the rain. It is well over one hundred miles from Nairobi to Embu in the direction of Mount Kenya where our safari is waiting for us. The road is chiefly of red clay which isn’t bad in the dry season.

About forty miles out we reached a place called Thika where we stopped at the Blue Post Inn for a bottle of beer. There are beautiful falls there so I strolled down to the river bank and took a few feet of film. We decided to push on and get more of the road behind us before we had lunch. We reached Fort Hall about 2:30 after having traveled over a terribly rough road. John and Waller who were in the back seat said that the cushion on which they had sat was absolutely without any sort of springs. Our lunch consisted of sandwiches and beer which tasted mighty good. John decided to try the front seat of the Ford lorry in preference to another hectic ride in the back of the Dodge.

If the scenery improved as we got into the hilly country around Embu, the road got worse but we finally hove in sight of a number of native huts which constitutes the main part of Embu. The surrounding country is very hilly but in spite of the fact that the local people call the Embu district wooded, it looked pretty bare to me. The only trees are scrub and are rather sprinkled over the plains. It certainly didn’t look much like a forest to me.

At Embu we were met by Stanton and went right on through the village to our camp a mile further north.

Camp looked great! It was located right on the top of a rise so that we could look out over the miles of country to the south and east that we are going to hunt over. At our backs rose the majestic Mount Kenya, some seventeen thousand feet above sea level, lying directly on the equator. It is snow capped the year round. Our camp is just about on the equator too but, as it is 8000 feet high, the nights are far from hot and muggy and a good warm fire was a welcome sight.

As I drove up to camp, all our porters were out to meet me. We are really quite a village by ourselves. There are two large green canvas tents, with flies, equipped with two beds, canvas bathtub and wash basin, a table, two deck chairs, and a sort of round canvas place in back to chuck our luggage in. They are certainly very fine. John and I decided to take one together and left the second large tent for Waller. Stan­ton has a small tent, and a third large tent we shipped back to Nairobi along with an extra case of whiskey and some other things we won’t need. Jowasi, our personal boy, is dressed in long, white robes with a red B.P.O.E. hat, and certainly is attentive. He lays out your clothes, does all your washing, takesoff your boots, hands you your clean socks, makes your bed, brings you tea about a hundred times a day, etc. He cer­tainly is a fine boy and, what is more, he speaks English. We decided to wait until tomorrow to unpack our guns, get our gun bearers and get settled. We had a little tea and got out our bedding and a few essentials. Fowle, the chap who drove the Ford lorry, stayed to dinner with us and decided to spend the night in camp, going back to Embu in the morning. He and John ran across some colobus monkeys on the road here but did­ not hit any with Fowle’s 202.

We had dinner at seven and mighty good one it was. We went to bed about ten P.M., our guns by our beds. Believe me, whether we are on the equator or not, a couple of heavy blankets were absolutely necessary.

When I got in bed, I lay awake for quite a while thinking how darn lucky I was. Here I am about to enjoy a big game hunt in Africa that has always been one of my life ambitions.

I never thought that it would ever be any more than a dream and it probably never would have been if I didn’t have the best Father in the world. I can tell you right now, I know that I am going to have the best time of my life and you can be sure I will appreciate every minute of the trip as well as the great generosity of Father who has made this trip possible for me. If I could only write how happy, excited and enthusiastic I am as I look out over the hills here at Embu with all of the hunt­ing in Kenya right ahead of me. I am sure there are many inter­esting and thrilling minutes in store for me.

Embu (B.E.A.)

Tuesday, December 15^th, 1925. 

Jowasi brought John and me our tea at six A.M. and we hopped out of bed to get started on rearranging our luggage, unpacking our guns, etc., for the safari. Breakfast was at eight o’clock and the crazy old D.C., by the name of Lamb, came in to pester us about moving some of our tents so that he could lay out plans for some more native huts. 

After breakfast, Waller gave us our gunbearers and I was fortunate enough to get Makau who is not only chief gunbearer but also chief skinner. John got Husein, an excellent and very reliable gunbearer, while Waller has Mumo, his own gunbearer who he has had for years and years. We unpacked all the guns, wiped off the oil, and the gunbearers got busy cleaning them up. My battery consists of a 450 number 2 Jeffery Express, a 375 Manlicker, a 256 Manlicker, and a 12 gauge Parker shotgun. John and I each have an ammunition box where we keep our own shells and each of our gunbearers is responsible for our guns. When we had become more or less settled we strolled down to the D.C. house and obtained permission to try out our new guns on his target range. We both did some lousy shooting but decided that our 375’s are the best shooting gun of the lot. Waller says that it is a good thing not to shoot well at a target for some men he has taken out can hit a half dollar nine times out of ten at fifty yards while they miss a buffalo at the same distance by feet. But John says if we shoot as badly at game as we did at targets this morning that all the game in Africa will be safe. 

On returning from shooting we had the regular eleven o’clock tea and lunch was at twelve-thirty. We all took a nap after eating and decided to start out at three P.M. to try our luck. Waller is, of course, the older and more experienced of the two white hunters. We tossed for him and John won. We are to take turns with him. For example, John has him the first three days and I have him the next three days. 

Stanton and I set out toward Mount Kenya while John and Waller went down to the lower hills. We walk in single file. First is the guide, second Stanton’s gunbearer, third Stanton, fourth myself, fifth Makau my gunbearer with my heave rifle, sixth my second gunbearer with my 375 and then a half a dozen or more porters including a skinner. Before we had gone half a mile Stanton counted noses and came out with the cheerful news that there were exactly thirteen of us altogether. 

We made a wide circle through rather rough going country but didn’t see a thing so we came back to the main road and went down through Embu and crossed the Rupingazi river to the high plains beyond. We walked and walked. Up hill and down hill until I was dead tired. I think this high altitude is apt to make one tired quickly. By six o’clock, we hadn’t seen a thing but birds. Guinea fowl, green pigeons, and blue pigeons mocked us from every tree as we had left the shotgun behind.  At six o’clock we stopped for a bit of hot tea out of the ther­mos bottle and decided to start back for camp. We had hardly gone a quarter of a mile before we suddenly came upon all old rhinoceros cow and her calf. We were only sixty yards from her when we first saw her. Before you could say “Jack Robinson” everyone of the porters had cleared out and were making for the nearest trees in case the old rhinoceros got our scent and charged us. I was left with Stanton, his gunbearer and Makau who put my 450 in my hands before I realized what it was all about. A good gunbearer like Makau is the most priceless thing in all Africa. He will never desert you but is always waiting to hand you your lighter gun to fire while reloading your heavy rifle. But the wind was blowing from the rhinoceros toward us so she never got our scent. As you know, the rhinoceros’ eye­sight is a joke. They can’ t see you at all further than fifty yards away and rely altogether on their sense of hearing and smelling. She offered me a beautiful broadside shot but I didn’t shoot her as the calf was quite young, and the cow’s horns rather small. You are only allowed one rhinoceros so I decided to wait for a better one. If she had charged us we would probably have had to shoot her so we edged off to one side without disturbing her at all.

It was quite dark now so I took my own 375, a thing that is a pretty good habit to form, for one never knows what is waiting behind the next bush in Africa after dark. It was a beautiful night and I thoroughly enjoyed the walk back to camp. John and Waller were in when we arrived. They had only seen a waterbuck cow, a bushbuck and a red duiker, so Waller decided that we would break camp in the morning and start on down the Rupingazi. The game seems to be lower down.

I took a hot bath and you can be sure I had appetite for dinner. Waller recruited a dozen or so extra porters to get us down to our next camp. They will be dismissed then, for the loads after we leave there will be lighter. One thing that requires so many boys to carry stuff is the food for the porters. Each one has to have two pounds a day of “poosho”, a sort of grain out of which they make bread. To carry a week’s supply for even sixty boys requires fourteen porters.

Turned in after dinner.

Embu to Rupingazi Camp

Wednesday, December 16^th, 1925. 

Morning tea at six o’clock. Before I had hardly finished dressing the porters were tearing down the tent. Waller cer­tainly has them all on the move. We ate breakfast at seven o’clock and then I got out my Bell & Howell and took some pic­tures of the porters getting under way. All the loads are stretched out in a long line and one porter stands back of each load. A big husky askari went along testing each load – lightening one here, adding more to another there, etc. When finally all was ready, a whistle was blown and ninety-five porters reached over, all at once, and picked up their loads. At once the procession started off in the direction of Embu. Here I stopped for a minute or two to take a few feet of the native market and then continued on with the porters. They were all singing at the top of their lungs and I thought to myself that they prob­ably wouldn’t come into camp in the same spirit after a ten mile hike. 

It was a three and a half hour walk to Rupingazi camp. On he way we crossed over a little river and were surprised to see Bubbles suddenly dive off the log bridge into the water five feet below. It was the first time I ever remember seeing a dog dive. It was hot walking. For the first part it was over the road, but we soon cut out cross country. We were trudging along when Waller noticed a kongoni lying on an ant hill. Stanton and I slunk off into some bushes and tried to stalk it but the kon­goni evidently got our wind and cleared out. A few minutes later, John and Waller, who had pushed on, saw a herd of fifteen impalla, but they were too shy and moved off before John was able to get a shot at them. The trail now was through hilly country- ­scrub trees and in some places there were fairly thick forests. We were walking along a considerable distance ahead of the por­ters when John suddenly stopped and pointed ahead. Scarcely had he halted before we heard a scrambling in the bush on our right and out rushed three buffalo, a bull, cow and calf. As they were in tall grass and the country was covered with scrub, we didn’t get a shot at them. It was certainly surprising to get up so close to them without their getting our wind. Believe me, I cer­tainly got a big thrill out of it even if I didn’t get a shot at them.

We were just talking about the buffalo and how many differ­ent species we had seen while we were in Africa when suddenly Waller gave a cry and jumped backwards. I was directly behind him and you can be sure that I lost no time in getting out of the way. He had stepped right on a big snake and the reptile had started to twist about his leg before he felt it. There was a general confusion but the snake escaped in the long grass be­fore we could find it.

Some distance on we caught another glimpse of the three buffalo we had scared out of the bushes but they were way out of range. 

At the Rupingazi river we found, to our delight, that the porters, who had gone ahead to build our new camp, had made an excellent bridge and, crossing over, we had only to climb a slight rise before we were at Rupingazi camp. A dining hut had been made similar to the one at Embu and we sat down to rest while waiting for the porters to catch up. As we came into camp there were several waterbucks only about a hundred yards from camp but they soon cleared out when they caught sight of us. The boys soon arrived and in less than an hour everything was in splendid shape – tents up, beds made, etc.

It is wonderful how much can be done by seventy-five or eighty boys in an hour, when they feel like working.

It wasn’t long before we heard a queer noise, which Waller said was made by guinea fowl, and being in need of meat John and I took the shotgun and went out to kill a couple. John shot one perched in the top of a tree and then, it being my turn, I went ahead kicking the grass. We soon scared up another which I hit while it was flying over the river into which it dropped. We had scarcely stopped to fish it out before a third got up. I hadn’t reloaded and like a fool pulled the first barrel in­stead of the second and quite naturally the exploded cartridge refused to fire a second time so the bird flew safely out of range.

After lunch, we were just deciding who was to go where when one of the boys saw a herd of buffalo on a hill about a mile from camp. There must have been fifty or more moving along as they grazed. Waller and John decided to go after them while Stanton and I were to cross the Rupingazi and keep on the east side of it.

The first thing we saw was a herd of about a dozen impala but all were does. We got up quite close to them by careful stalking and decided to leave them alone although we were close enough to kill any one of them. We then saw a herd of waterbuck cows and decided to stalk them in hopes that a bull would be somewhere near them. We spent about half an hour of careful maneuvering to get close to them when Makau came up to us and said that a whole herd of buffalo had passed within a hundred yards of where we had left the porters. This was certainly tough luck for, by the time we had gone back to our boys, the buffalo had gotten wind of us and were trotting rapidly away in the distance. It was a thrilling sight to see seventy-five or a hundred of the black warriors, as Waller calls them, moving off. We stalked them from below wind, but it was useless.

It was getting dark so we made for camp. 0n the way back we saw loads of partridge but didn’t have the shotgun. John and. Waller were in when we arrived at camp but, like us, neither of them had fired a shot. John and I each took a hot bath and had dinner. We sat around talking until about ten P.M. when we went to bed.

Rupingazi Camp

Thursday, December 17^th, 1925.

Jowasi called John and me about four o’clock. After break­fast, we sat around for a short time until it was light enough to start out hunting. There isn’t any point in leaving too early, that is, before it is light, for one is apt to walk on to game within a couple of hundred yards of camp. It was about five-thirty when we started out. Stanton and I kept to the east side of the Rupingazi where we were yesterday afternoon while Waller and John went back up the hill where we had seen the buffalo yesterday.

About two or three miles upstream we ran into a herd of fifty or sixty buffalo. All conditions for stalking them were perfect. They were just on the other side of the Rupingazi, not more than ten feet from the bank. There was plenty of cover and the wind was blowing directly from them to us. But Stanton thought as they were ten feet over the agreed line, the river that we ought to leave them for Waller and John. Well, right here I realized that Stanton was no hunter. John and Waller had gone in an almost op­posite direction and even if we sent a boy back, as we did, to tell Waller where the buffalo were, the buffalo would undoubtedly have moved out in the meantime and it is likely that they would get Waller’s wind while he was looking for them. It was sheer luck that we came upon them with everything so favorable. We could easily have crept right up on them.   

I was certainly fed up when we pushed on. A mile or so fur­ther on we saw a nice waterbuck but didn’t shoot for fear of scar­ing out any buffalo that might be lurking around. We also saw several kongoni, impalla and a couple of warthogs. I hated to leave these animals behind without firing a shot but I realized that the noise would drive away the buffalo.

The excitement was intense when Makau spotted a lone buffalo. Stanton and I sneaked up to an ant hill on our hands and knees. We were able to get within seventy-five yards of the buffalo and cautiously peered over the top of our hiding place when we saw, to our disappointment, that it was a buffalo cow and her newly born calf. She was quite nervous, having evidently gotten a whiff of us. She was sniffing the air and realizing how dangerous a cow is when she has a young calf we hastily cleared out without causing her any trouble. 

As we were walking slowly along through the grass, one of the gun bearers gave a leap and yelled. A snake, I thought, but it turned out to be an iguana. It was about four feet long. We chased it up a tree where I took some movies of it. I didn’t kill it as I didn’t think it was any good. Since then I have heard that their skin makes fine shoes and bags. I’ve regretted several times since that I didn’t shoot it. We moved on and saw scores of impala, kongoni and waterbucks, as well as a little red duiker that darted through the grass like a flash. A rhinoceros came snorting out of a bush and rushed madly about but the horn was very short so we didn’t bother with him.

By this time no more buffalo had made their appearance so I decided to take a crack at the next thing that turned up. It happened to be a kongoni about three hundred yards away and of course I missed. A few minutes later I got a shot at a waterbuck about the same distance off and missed a second time. We follow­ed the herd for several miles and when they finally stopped I put up the three hundred yard sight and, aiming at the one Stanton said was a buck, I fired. The whole mob dashed away and I cursed myself for missing again. Stanton and I were making a circle when Makau came up and said that we had killed a waterbuck. Evidently it dropped right where it was standing for neither Stanton nor myself saw it fall. Yes, there it was. Dead as a doornail with the shot right through the shoulder and heart. I certainly was happy. The horns were small (I have since thrown them out) but I thought, at the time, they were simply enormous.

Stanton and I stopped to rest while the skinners got busy. Hardly had they finished their job when one of the guides came up to announce that he had located a herd of buffalo lying up for the day. After a half hour walk, we saw the buffalo way off in the distance under some trees. There were most likely about fifty although we couldn’t see well for most of them were lying down. Then began an hour and a half stalk. Stanton, Makau and I crept through the grass like cats. My arms and legs were bleeding from the many thorns and needles when we at last reached the scrub tree we were making for. I was simply exhausted after a two hundred crawl on my stomach, which culminated the hand and knee preliminary. One buffalo always acts as sentinel and, although he could not see us, he must have caught our scent in a little whirl of wind for when I looked up a couple of seconds later, the whole herd was clearing out. Our tedious stalk was all in vain.

We sat down under a tree for an hour to rest and have some lunch and then pushed back towards camp. We saw lots of impala but couldn’t get close enough for a shot. A kongoni posed on top of an ant hill two hundred and fifty yards away. I let him have it, and brought him down. After skinning him we continued on. Just before reaching camp I saw a little reedbuck doe running like the wind. I fired a shot at it and, much to my surprise, kicked up the dirt next to it, just missing by inches and off it trotted unhurt. 

We had been out over eleven hours nearly all of which time we had been walking so I felt pretty snuffed. We saw loads of partridges but, of course, the shotgun was in camp. I took a hot bath and after dinner bed seemed wonderful. I guess I slept the rest of the weary for I never heard a sound until Jowasi brought me my morning tea about four-thirty A.M.

John had not had any luck yesterday so we decided to change arrangements for tomorrow. Stanton and I are to hunt both sides of the river upstream and Waller and John will hunt both sides downstream.

Rupingazi Camp

Friday, December 18^th, 1925.

Making a fairly early start this morning, Stanton and I crossed the Rupingazi and followed it upstream. The herd of buffalo we saw yesterday morning was the main objective but, of course, they were nowhere to be found. About five miles up the river at a salt lick, we saw a peach of a waterbuck and I decided to have a shot at it. After taking careful aim, I pulled the trigger but never a sound – the cartridge misfired. I threw it out of the chamber and pumped another into place but the water­buck was already on the move.

We crossed the river and followed along the top of a ridge. Honestly the game was everywhere, just like in the zoo. We saw six or eight more waterbucks along the river as well as a whole herd of baboons and brown monkeys. There must have been a couple of hundred of them, all trotting along beside the waterbucks. We also ran into several warthogs and saw flocks of green pigeons and lesser bustards. A little grey duiker hopped out of the bush and disappeared into the long grass. They move like a streak of lightning and one’s chance of hitting one, even with a shotgun, is remote indeed. But we didn’t shoot at any of these species, reserving our efforts for buffalo which failed to appear in spite of our walking miles and miles.

About ten A.M. we stopped for a rest after almost five hours of steady walking. We had hardly finished our tea before the two guides came up. One had spotted some eland a couple of miles off while another had seen two rhinoceros, so we went carefully for­ward. Rhinoceros can’t see you at a distance of more than sixty yards but they have a wonderful sense of hearing and smelling. There were two of them, both cows. One had a pretty fair horn- at least I thought so at the time. The smaller one, while almost full grown, was the calf of the big one. We stalked them until we were within fifty yards, at which point the rhinoceros began to get nervous, turning around several times. Taking my heavy gun, I took a crack at the bigger one and hit it behind the shoulder but a little too far back. At once the rhinoceros started for us. Stanton almost did a crazy thing by running to the left of the ant hill, the same way the rhinoceros was coming, but he saw his mistake soon enough and dashed back towards me just in time. As the rhino­ceros came around the ant hill towards us I fired again and, hitting it in the head, turned it almost completely around. This gave both of us time to make a retreat to a safer position to await results. From our new place, we both fired a couple of more shots into the rhinoceros. My last one hit its spine and down he came, his four feet sticking straight up in the air.

During all this bombardment the second rhinoceros, the one not wounded, kept dashing about the other one and once it was down re­fused to leave. She would run off about twenty yards and then come dashing back. After about fifteen minutes the second rhinoceros was still walking in circles about the supposed dead one. Suddenly it rose slowly to its feet. I certainly was surprised for I was sure it was snuffed out.. I quickly put another shot into it and when it rolled over on its side I knew it was out for the count. But the second rhinoceros still refused to go. We got all the porters up, making a long line, and they rushed towards the rhino­ceros yelling at the top of their lungs. The rhinoceros turned on them and charged. Up the trees scrambled the niggers as fast as they could. The nearby trees were soon filled so that others coming up would pull those in the tree out by catching hold of their heels in order to make room for themselves. I had my Bell & Howell out and was taking pictures of the whole thing. It was most amusing and if the pictures turn out well I will be very happy.   

It was fully an hour before we could drive the second rhino­ceros away from the dead one but away it finally trotted. Then began the skinning which took quite a while. In the meantime, Stanton and I looked around for a good place to build a boma. A rhinoceros is an enormous beast. I never realized before how big they are. The horn was pretty small but the body was tremendous. I kept the horn, head skin, and a couple of slabs of the hide, which makes awfully nice table tops.

We decided to build our boma up in a tree about fifty yards away. A boma in a tree is called a “crow’s nest” and while it is much safer than a boma on the ground it is harder to shoot from. We left a number of boys to build the boma while we went back to camp to tell Waller the news. It took us an hour and a half to reach the Rupingazi but found both John and Waller there. John had shot a big eland bull and had quite an exciting experience when he and the bull both trying to dodge one another, almost collided. Stanton and I had some tea and then, packing up our blankets and getting some dinner, started back for the rhinoceros’ kill.

Arriving at the spot, we were just in time to see the finish­ing touches being added to our crow’s nest. It consisted of a number of branches stretched across between two stout limbs of the tree about twelve or fifteen feet above the ground. Over the branches was spread about a foot of grass so that when our blan­kets were stretched out over the grass it was quite a comfortable place. We ate our dinner and then arranged our guns, shells, etc. We tried out the flashlight and loaded the rifles. The bait was about ten feet out from the edge of the tree and was staked down.

By this time, it was getting dark so we stopped talking and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. In a boma one must be as quiet as a mouse. If you turn over or make the least rustle, you may spoil all your chances. The difficult part of boma work is this, if you could see the lion it wouldn’t be so hard to keep quiet but a lion doesn’t come up to the bait and then stand off about ten feet from it to listen. Instead, he comes up within a hundred yards of it and stops. If he is suspicious, he may listen for an hour. You, of course, have no idea he is anywhere near you. Then when he is satisfied that all is safe, he comes right up to the bait and starts feeding at once. It is this maneuver of wait­ing unseen a hundred yards from you that is nerve racking, for you hate to make a sound for fear one might be around somewhere in the bush. To whisper is fatal so we arranged a system of squeezes to make each other understand about flashing the light.

We had scarcely settled down before we heard something mov­ing in the brush and up came a little jackal and started his evening’s feed. Then two or three hyenas moved up to the bait. I was getting a big thrill out of watching them eat, ripping off big pieces of the rhinoceros carcass, when suddenly the whole outfit paused and bolted like a flash. And then I saw in the short grass a white form sneaking up slowly toward the bait. There wasn’t a sound but on it came, right up to the rhinoceros. My heart was in my mouth and I felt a hammering in my left side. I started to breathe as if I had run a mile and, for the life of me, I couldn’t calm myself down. The lion grabbed the rhinoceros and yanked off a big piece. It was directly behind the kill and lying down as if to crouch out of sight but from our crow’s nest I could see it plainly. As it chewed, it kept up a low growl. Then suddenly it leapt about ten feet and disappeared in the grass. I realized it must have heard me breathing and was so mad at my­self I could scarcely think. But I was mistaken. Hardly had it disappeared before another came up in the same manner as the first and then it was that I realized that the second one was the lion, the first one a lioness. The lion had a big, yellow mane.

What followed was really no fault of mine and if Stanton had had any sense I would have easily shot the lion. But I didn’t know anything about shooting lions. Waller was disgusted when I told him the next day what Stanton had advised me to do. Leaning towards me he whispered, “Get ready to shoot and the minute I switch the light on fire, for the lion won’t wait.” I got my rifle and spent about two full minutes trying to sight it. You never will realize how difficult it is to shoot at night until you try it. Absolutely, you can’t see the sights. I tied a piece of white rag around the end but, for the life of me, I couldn’t see the sights. All I could do was point the rifle in the general direction of the lion. Then Stanton flashed on the light. But he did not place the light so that any of the rays hit the sights, so that I was as badly off as before. Following his advice, I fired almost at once. A streak of fire about two feet long flared out of the end of the barrel followed by a ter­rific roar and then all was quiet. Stanton, like an ass, had switched off the light. When he turned it on again there was no dead lion. He then flashed it around and I caught the reflection of the light in the lion’s eyes a hundred and fifty yards away. I fired again and went hopelessly high.

Since all this happened I have learned a lot about boma shoot­ing. To begin with, there is no hurry. You should let the lion feed for half an hour or so until he grows bolder and stands up, thus giving you a bigger target to shoot at. Secondly, when the light is flashed in his face he will, nine times out of ten, remain motionless as every wild animal does when a light; is flashed in his eyes at night. There is no need to hurry your shot. You have plenty of time to take careful aim. Thirdly, if you shoot and even miss and the light is still kept on the lion, the chances are that he still won’t move and will offer you a second or even third shot. But once the light is turned off or switched away from his eyes, he will disappear like a shot. Outside of a cheetah, a lion is the fastest thing in Africa for the distance of a hundred yards, and that is saying something after watching a couple of leopards.      

Stanton told me everything wrong. To shoot before the lion stood up, to shoot quickly when the light was flashed on. On top of it all he didn’t aim the light on my sights and, to cap the climax, he switched it out when I shot. All this I learned from Waller who said he was certain I would have got the lion if he had been along.

Although I was awake all the rest of the night except an hour or so after four o’ clock, the lions never came up to the boma again although we heard them roaring and grunting in the brush. But, believe me, I had a thrill I never felt before. To hear a lion growl and rip off pieces of rhinoceros only fif­teen or twenty feet away from you and to realize that he is perfectly free to do anything he wishes, makes your gooseflesh rise. Several hyenas came up to the rhinoceros but we didn’t want to shoot any for fear of driving off the lions that might be near.

Rupingazi Camp

Saturday, December 19^th, 1925.

Makau and about a dozen porters arrived at the boma about six o’clock and we climbed out of our little nest in the tree to see, if by any chance, I had hit the lion. But, although we looked for some time, we could not find any blood spoor. After a cup of tea we started back to camp. I felt pretty tired out and discouraged. About a mile from the Rupingazi we ran into a herd of impala. The impala is an antelope of the open part of South Africa, three feet tall, dark red, fading into clear white below, and with spreading, lyrate horns in the male. They were a long way off, about 350 yards, but I decided to take a shot at one of the bucks. Imagine my surprise when I hit him. It was only a body wound near the stomach so he hobbled off with Stanton and myself in hot pursuit. It was a worse wound than we thought, for after running a few yards, he went down. At close range I put him out of misery with a shot through the neck. We had hardly finished skinning him when we saw a lot more impala. As the one I had killed had only fair horns, we looked over the herd through the glasses and picked out a big buck. But they caught our wind and dashed off. Finally, after considerable stalking, I got a 300 yard shot. The buck was standing with a, whole crowd of does and young impala. My shot went high and I saw the buck dash off. We walked up to where the herd had been standing and there was a little young buck stone dead with a bullet through his heart. Evidently my shot going high hit this buck who was standing in the background. The horns were no good so I did not bother to bring them into camp. But we needed meat and, as this young buck would make splendid eating, we sent the whole body in.

On the way into camp we saw some kongoni. The kongoni, or hartebeest, is another native African antelope, grayish brown in color, with yellow spots on the buttocks, and black markings on the face. Hartebeest is a general term for a certain kind of African antelope, but kongoni is the native term used in East Africa. Stanton wanted to try his rifle sights so he plugged away and brought one down. Waller and John spoke of getting an­other kill so that they could sit up over it tonight and as kongoni is excellent bait we covered the body with branches to hide it from the vultures and went on into camp.           

When we finally arrived, after so many interruptions, John and Waller were both in camp, John having shot a beautiful water buck. We had lunch and discussed the plans for tonight. Boys were sent out to drag half the rhinoceros to another place where Waller had a second boma made, while the kongoni was cut in two, half being dragged to each boma. I was pretty tired so went to sleep after lunch for a couple of hours. About four o’clock, we started back to our boma. This morning we decided it advisable, instead of using the same boma, to construct a ground boma about a hundred yards from the tree in which we spent last night. When we got up to the place where I killed the rhinoceros, the porters had just finished our new boma. It was made out of thorn branches placed around the base of a six or eight foot thorn scrub. A sort of pit about three feet deep was dug right under the tree and in this was piled grass. Then the thorn bushes were placed around this. Two holes about a foot square were made in the wall of the branches for us to shoot through. The bait staked down outside was only about ten feet from the boma windows. When we had finished dinner and arranged our blankets, Makau jammed in a thorn branch which was to be the door. It wasn’t until then that I realized how dangerous the boma really was. We were safe enough from lions and that sort of thing but what about a rhinoceros? He wouldn’t mind the thorns a bit and if he got our wind and came crashing down on us, what could we do? We were like monkeys in a cage and in a pit at that. He could have snuffed both of us out in no time for we had no way to escape. The windows were too small to squeeze through and we couldn’t get the thorn door out for it had been jammed in from the outside. Overhead there was nothing but a mass of more thorn bushes.

Stanton and I were just discussing this rather delicate sub­ject when we heard an old rhinoceros snorting about a hundred yards away. My heart was in my mouth for a few minutes. It was most likely the second one we had seen yesterday. I can tell you I was mighty relieved when it trotted off up windward.

The jackals and hyenas weren’t long in arriving and the hyenas came in especially large numbers. They can make about ten different noises and were so close I could almost reach out of the window and grab hold of them. But no lions came, and I waited in vain. Sever­al times the wind swung around so that we got a good whiff of the bait which, after two days in the sun, was certainly ripe. The mos­quitoes almost ate me alive and, to put the finishing touches to a horrible night, it began to rain about 3 A. M. Being in a sort of trench, we got the full effects of the rain. When daylight came and we were released from our prison, I was soaking wet, tired and disgusted. We made a bee line for camp.

Rupingazi Camp

Sunday, December 20^th, 1925. 

We got back to camp this morning about eight 0′ clock, dead tired and soaked to the skin. I had a hot bath and breakfast tasted wonderful. Believe me, two nights in a boma in succession is hard work.

There seems to have been quite a riot here last night. Stanton and I were at one kill while John and Waller were at another boma. When John and Waller came back early this morning they found one of the askaris drunk. Upon investigation and a little detective work on Waller’s part, he found that the head man was the chief trouble maker.. He and one of the askaris had started the trouble by bringing a lot of beer and stealing a couple of bottles of our whiskey. The head man claimed that he was innocent until Waller went to his tent and found the liquor. The result was that the askari and head man were sent off at once to Nairobi with a letter of recommendation, as Waller put it. A very reli­able fellow was made the new head man and one of the old porters who knew something about shooting was advanced to the rank of askari. Both seem like excellent porters and are very pleased over their advancement.

We decided to make this Sunday a day of complete rest and so it was. I took a hot bath and had a shave and got busy writ­ing on my dairy which has been, of late, sadly neglected.

Rupingazi Camp

Monday, December 21^st, 1925. 

We left camp about five o’clock after our tea and breakfast. Waller and I went to the ridge in back of the camp and passed up several chances at impala, waterbuck, and kongoni in order not to disturb the buffalo if they were anywhere in the vicinity. Buffalo, unlike a good many African animals, quickly change their course when there is any shooting within miles. They are undoubtedly the most dangerous of all the species in Africa and have killed more men than lions and elephants put together. I must admit that I get a sort of thrill every time I see buffalo. They are by far the most interesting thing to hunt for they are as quick as a leopard, as fast and cunning as a lion, and their eyesight is as good as that of an impala. In short, they are the par excellence of all of Africa’s many animals in my humble opinion.

Waller and I trudged along in the early morning light more of less soaked to the waist by the dew on the grass. About seven-thirty we sat down on the top of a ridge overlooking an expansive valley. We drank a little tea and were discussing the prospects of the day when Makau, my gunbearer, came over to us and said “’M’Bogo” and pointed down the valley. There, in the distance, we saw a hundred or more black objects half walking half trotting into the scrub. My heart leapt into my mouth. It was the most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen. Of course, I was all for starting out right after them but Waller, who knows his business to the letter, suggested that we wait a bit and watch them. They kept on steadily and more and more appeared. The herd must have contained between 150 and 200. They climbed the ridge opposite us and wandered along on top of it. Mumo, Waller and I, with the aid of the field glasses, picked out the biggest bull of the lot. He was so old that his hair had been worn off and he was several shades lighter than any of the rest of the herd. It was eight-fifteen exactly when we spotted them and about nine A.M. before they passed out of sight. Then, with the wind right, we started out to stalk them. We crossed the valley, climbed the opposite ridge and cut diagonally across their spoor in order to leave them a little on the right so that we would have them directly before us as far as the wind was concerned. We crept along for half an hour or more expecting to come upon them huddled together in the scrub, where they usually lie down to rest during the heat of the day. But luck was against us. We made a semi circle when there was no signs of their spoor and discovered that they had settled down sooner than we expected and that, although out of sight, they would be sure to get our scent in a minute or two. Before we had time to withdraw, Mumo pointed out seventy-five or more at a mad gallop across the plains full a mile away. That is typical of buffalo, they seem to hear, smell and see better than any other animal I’ve ever come up against. They are clever beyond words. They never lie town without posting a few sentries. To step on a twig while stalking them, to sneeze or cough, would ruin a two or three hours’ job of creeping on one’s stomach at a snail-like pace. 

When I saw the herd clearing out and in full flight I must say I was disgusted. But it was quite evident that they hadn’t all cleared; some were still in the scrub. That was our only chance to get them and while a bit dangerous we decided to hunt them out before they followed the others. At a half run, ducking braches and hopping over logs, we went down wind and swung in below them. In a few minutes I found myself just about out of breath, rifle in hand, sneaking up behind a little tree to get a view of some buffalo a hundred and fifty yards away. Makau was right behind me and, taking my 375 Manlicker from me, he handed me my 450. The buffalo were evidently on the move. The scrub was so thick we couldn’t see the herd but only a very few individual buffalo. We were just about surrounded by them I guess. Mumo dropped to the ground and I rested my heave rifle on his back. The bull I was sighting moved behind a tree. There he goes, I thought, my last chance. Before I realized it another big bull moved into sight. He saw us as we sat motionless on the ground behind a tree a 125 yards away. I never will forget that sight. He was the same old, white bull that we had picked out from the opposite ridge as the best of the lot. He raised his head, with a majestic pair of horns, into the air to catch our scent. He stared at us as if he weren’t quite sure what we were. Before he had time to decide I took a fine sight and let her go. The next instant I thought the devil had broken loose. A hundred buffalo in thick scrub started a stampede. In a flash, I picked out a good tree in case of necessity. Makau grabbed my 450 to reload, handing me the 375 at the same time. Waller stood ready for a charge and I jumped up in line with him. But the herd cleared instead of charging. The noise of the tremendous beasts crashing through the brush is indescribable. I tell you right now, I had a big thrill. One never knows what buffalo will do. I looked on all sides for a single bull that might charge us. I praised the day I bought the 450. It was worth its weight in gold to me at that moment. For a minute in the excitement of the buffalo clearing out, I forgot the bull I had fired at but, when the others had safely moved out, we ran ahead. There lay the enormous old warrior under a tree, almost stone dead. To be on the safe side, Waller had me send a 375 through his neck but hardly before the bullet had struck he let out a long groan which, Waller said, meant that it was all over. Oh, he is a beauty! It was eleven A.M. when I shot him, after two and three-fourths hours’ stalking. He is so old that he is almost white. His horns, while not much over the average in spread, are wonderful for they have a very unusual and graceful downward curve while the ends are beautifully rounded and both horns very close together and symmetrical. I was so excited I could hardly think. Waller was pleased to death and declared that I had one of the finest heads that he had ever seen. One look at Mumo and Makau was enough to tell how they felt for they were smiles all over. All fifteen of the boys congratulated me and after a hand shaking contest, we took some pictures, and the skinning began. The shot, if I do say so, was almost perfect. I admit it was more luck than skill and its accuracy was due largely to Mumo’s shoulder which was as steady as a rock. The one shot from the 450 entered just back of the shoulder and went right through the heart and lungs. What a wallop that 450 has! It takes sometimes a dozen shots from a 475 to even down one while the 450 bullet laid him out cold. We paced off the distance. It was exactly 115 yards.

Just about this time, Waller said, “What would you give for that last bottle of beer that we have in camp?” I thought to myself, about five dollars but, before I said it, he pulled it out of a sack. Good heavens, it tasted too wonderful for words after our hot and exciting hunt.

An hour later we started back to camp with the head, hide and feet. The tail Waller was swinging around like a fly whisk. John and Stanton were in camp when we arrived and told us of their good luck in getting a rhinoceros and large impala. Waller did not say a word but swung the tail through the air. It only took John an instant to realize what we had shot. He insists that I keep just a jump ahead of him every day but it is hardly true for he has, to date, an eland that I haven’t, and nearly all his specimens are better than mine. His rhinoceros has about a seventeen inch horn while mine has only a twelve or fourteen inch one. His impala head is a beauty. We were both pretty well satisfied with today’s shoot. 

John and Stanton had already made a boma over their rhinoceros kill and were off about four o’clock to spend the night in it. Waller and I decided to stroll up the Rupingazi and try to find a better waterbuck and impala than I have shot but had no luck. We returned about six-thirty when “sun downers” were in order. A “sun downer” is an excellent thing here in Africa for it keeps off the fever and cold after one comes in soaked to the skin. 

Waller claims our good luck in getting the buffalo today is due to the fact that he puts on his undershirt inside out and, while about to change it, remembered that if once it is put on wrong side to, it is good luck to leave it as it is and bad luck to change it. I claimed that we were lucky because we didn’t do any hunting yesterday and because I carried seven shells in my pickets all day. So there you are!

After a hot bath we had dinner and I turned in by eight forty-five to make up some sleep lost in the two nights in boma.

Rupingazi Camp

Tuesday, December 22^nd, 1925. 

The escari reported at four-thirty this morning that no shots had been heard during the night from the direction in which the boma had been built so Waller and I decided that John and Stanton must have had tough luck.

We left camp just as it was getting light about five-fifteen. Hardly had we gone a hundred yards before we saw a beautiful waterbuck standing looking at us about 600 yards away. There was no chance to stalk it as it was in the open and a darn kongoni, catching sight of us, hopped off toward the waterbuck thus frightening it and both were soon out of sight. We next saw a large herd of fifty or more impala and stalked them for half an hour, only to find, to our utter disappointment, that there was not one buck in the whole crowd. We moved on in disgust and halted on a ridge to have some tea and to see how things looked.

Fifteen minutes later we were crossing the swamp when Waller stopped me and pointed out a large warthog about 200 yards away. I took a look at him through the glasses and his tusks looked pretty fine so I sneaked up about fifty yards nearer to him, keeping an ant hill ahead of me for cover. He didn’t see us but came straight on. I waited and when he caught our scent he was broadside to us about 140 yards off. He looked a pretty small target but I was lying on my stomach and, with my sun helmet as a rest, sent a 375 bullet through his shoulder. The hog flopped over on the spot. The shot, I think, must have gone through the heart for he only kicked a minute or two and was mounting as it is quite a good specimen. I told Makau that he only was to see that it was skinned properly. 

We moved on across the swamp hoping to pick up some eland or buffalo spoor. Mumo suddenly said “kurro” (waterbuck). We easily dropped to the ground and saw two fair sized bucks walking uneasily toward us. Waller said, at once, that something was disturbing them and to get ready to shoot if they came within 200 yards. I was just sighting them when “bang” I heard a shot about half a mile away. Waller was pretty darn mad. Not at me, but at these crazy people who fired at the waterbucks fully 800 yards away. We sat on the ground hoping that the other hunters would pass us without seeing us but one of their porters caught sight of us and came over to Waller who sent him back with the message to please keep at least three miles away from our camp on the Rupingazi. Through the glasses, I recognized Bic and Roth with Nick Cotter as white hunter. Knowing that Cotter and Waller are not any too friendly, I decided it best to move off without seeing Roth and Bic for I knew that they didn’t know I was in the other party.

We stopped for a little tea while Waller cussed out Cotter for coming up in this vicinity when he knew darn well that we were camped here. I can’t blame Waller, for it was pretty dirty trick not to stick to his own camp district. We came up within 200 yards of an oribi doe and buck. As they are rather scarce I was keen to get the buck but we had tough luck. The doe stopped full in the open offering a splendid shot while the buck was completely hidden behind a tree. The next second they were off at a mad run, leaping lightly and daintily through the air, covering twenty of thirty feet at one hop. These were the first oribi that I had seen.

An hour later Mumo caught sight of a herd of eland half a mile away in tall grass. We followed a river bottom at a dead run for ten minutes and then crawled on our stomachs for twenty minutes. We were getting along fine until a big cow caught sight of us and stood looking at us. This meant one definite thing. If we attempted to approach closer to the herd she would give the alarm to the whole crowd. My only change was a long shot. Mumo picked out a big body on the left. You see, they were in the scrub and their horns were hidden from sight. Out of a herd of about ten, we could only make out the outline of four animals. I rested my 375 on Mumo’s shoulder and, taking a fairly coarse sight as the eland were over 200 yards off, I fired. The cow I hit staggered and appeared to flop over. I thought that she was done for. The rest of the herd cleared in no time and I saw one beautiful buck dash off. I went up, expecting to find a badly wounded animal for I realized that my shot was a little low and too far back to be fatal, but it hit so hard I felt sure that she would soon be mine. Nothing doing! There was not a sight of her anywhere. She had cleared out with the rest. We searched around the trampled grass for half an hour before Mumo picked up the track of the wounded cow. We followed the blood trail for three miles and the, seeing the blood had stopped flowing, we gave it up as a useless chase. She had been shot pretty far back in the stomach and, while she would undoubtedly die, we would never find her for she could run fifteen miles if need be. I offered a five bob reward to anyone who could fine her. One fellow tried but returned to camp several hours later saying it was a hopeless search.

Waller and I set off for camp and ran into a little reedbuck. Of course, it was a doe so I didn’t shoot it. At camp we found Roth, Big and Nick Cotter waiting for us. They had learned that it was we whom they had passed and decided to come down to our camp for lunch. Honestly, you ought to see Bic and Roth. They look like a couple of bums if I ever saw any. Their hair is almost completely shaved off their heads and neither had shaved for six days. They thought our camp pretty nice. I’ve learned one thing about camping that one can only learn by experience. There is nothing in this big, healthy sort of camping where all you need is a blanket, a frying pan and some salt. The more one camps the more sensible one gets and realized that the only way to enjoy outdoor life is in a comfortable way- in a good tent where one can get a satisfying night’s sleep and a hot bath. Roth and Bic are new to this sort of thing and think it is the real stuff to rough it. I went through it in the Adirondacks and on the “Lucy” in Florida.

We gave them a real good meal of eland steak, mashed potatoes, beans and stewed apples and I know that they appreciated it from the way they ate. They left soon after lunch and John and I did some planning about boma work. It is John’s rhinoceros and quite naturally he wants to sit up again tonight, especially as a leopard came to the kill last night but was off before John could sight it with his rifle. Waller and Mumo have had a great deal of experience in boma shooting so I told John to take Waller with him tonight even if it was my turn to have Waller as my white hunter for the next three days. He and John started about four o’clock for the boma while Stanton and I decided to try to bag a few guinea fowl. When you are looking for other game you are constantly disturbed by guinea fowl and partridges, but when you look for them as we didn’t afternoon you never see a one. We walked for miles and only saw a herd of impala. As we were stalking them, a crazy kongoni dashed up and set the whole herd off on a run. I hate these darn hartebeests. They are always spoiling good shooting.

Stanton and I returned after sundown and got a hot back and early dinner. I spent the evening writing on my diary. I just heard several shots from the direction of john’s boma and the howling of a hyena or two. I expect he has a lion or a leopard as he wouldn’t shoot at anything else and I know that Waller and Mumo can’t be beaten in the boma line. Well, here’s wishing him the best!

Rupingazi Camp

Wednesday, December 23^rd, 1925. 

We were up unusually early this morning and were through breakfast by four forty-five. As a result we had to sit around camp for almost half an hour for it to get light enough to start. The askari who was on duty all night reported that he had heard no shots so I guess Waller and John didn’t get anything. It was just getting light when Stanton and I started out on the north side of the Rupingazi. We climbed the ridge and walked for several hours without seeing anything but darned old kongoni. About seven o’clock, we spotted a good sized waterbuck about half a mile away. His horns looked unusually large so we went down to the river and carefully stalked him for about an hour. Suddenly we heard a crash near the river bank and a waterbuck splashed through to the other side. I though “there goes our shot at a waterbuck, up the flu,” but Makau, who was going most of the stalking, signaled to us to come up to where he was perched on a large ant hill. There we saw about five or six cows and a couple of small bucks. Then Makau spotted the big buck fighting with a smaller one. It was a nice shot of about a hundred yards and I took careful aim. One shot from the 375 dropped him right in his tracks. It caught him just back of the shoulder, went through the lungs and grazed the heart. He was dead before we got up to him. The horns were particularly nice, being about as long as the pair that John has but much thicker at the base. I was very pleased with them. I told Makau how I wanted it skinned and Stanton and I sat down and had a little tea while the porters worked on the waterbuck. We sent it on back to camp but as it was still early decided to try and pick up a better impala specimen.

We had hardly gone half a mile before we picked up eland tracks. Makau nosed out the trail for us and we were soon hot after their spoor. We jumped a little red duiker while searching for the eland but didn’t get a shot at it. Suddenly I heard a noise to my right and there, less than twenty feet away, I saw the grey back of a huge animal. I thought for a moment that it was a buffalo but the next instant the head of a rhinoceros appeared. Before I realized what it was all about, Makau had put the 450 in my hands. The rhinoceros cleared almost at once although Stanton and I both stood ready in case of a charge. The old bull routed out three others and for fifteen minutes rhinoceros were rushing around through the thicket on all sides and blowing for al they were worth. It was an exciting minute or two but they soon cleared without further trouble of the necessity of shooting any of them. The horns were unusually small. We followed them to the ridge where we watched them disappear in the distance. The nigger guide reported that he had spotted two eland and would take us there at once, which we were quite ready to agree to.

We reached the place where the nigger escari had sighted the eland and right he was for there in the distance we saw a big cow looking at us. The darn fool guide had brought us too close before pointing out the eland so that they saw us and we had a terrific time stalking them. There were no trees or ant hills and the grass was short so that for two hours I worked my way forward an inch at a time flat on my stomach. The rifle I pushed ahead of me as I went. The skin on my arms and legs was ripped and cut by the millions of thorns and stickers, for which Africa is famous, until I looked like a wounded animal myself. Finally we reached the small ant hill which at the start of the our crawl looked a mile away. Lying down behind it and poking our noses carefully over the top, we picked out seven elands- all cows. The fourth on the left had the largest horns. They were all looking in our direction but, as yet, had not been able to make us out. I was just sighting the big cow when she moved a few feet forward behind a big tree. I waited for her but waited in vain. The next instant the whole crowd trotted off. I let fire with my 450 but the first shot misfired and I missed with the second barrel. The distance was several hundred yards an the animals were moving. Then I noticed the last cow was slightly limping although quite able to keep up with the others. I recognized the cow I had wounded yesterday. I would like to have put her out of her misery but she was too far off. We galloped after them hoping to see them on the next ridge but after a two hundred yard race saw them disappear over a little rise half a mile away. We never got up to them again.

We reached the Rupingazi which I tried to jump. My foot slipped on the opposite bank and I got soaked to the waist. But even that was better than being dumped in head first as I most likely should have been if I had consented to let some of the fool niggers try to carry me across.

Stanton and I did double quick back to camp for about an eight mile walk. I stalked some impala for twenty minutes or so but didn’t get a shot. We reached camp at 1:30 after having covered well over fifteen miles.

John and Waller were just thinking of going out, but as it was John’s turn with Stanton the two of them went out to try their luck at buffalo. One of the scouts had sighted a herd of twenty of more. Waller and I went out about three o’clock to see what we could do. We saw a herd of impala does, kongoni, and a few warthogs. Suddenly Makau spotted an enormous waterbuck with record breaking horns lying on top of a bare ant hill. He was fully six hundred yards off so our stalk was a difficult one. For the second time today I did the crawling act for over an hour. But it pays to stalk carefully for Mumo and I sneaked through the weeds like a couple of snakes until we were within a hundred yards of the waterbuck, who by this time had come down from his ant hill and was peacefully feeding. My first shot just hit the back of his neck but too high to be of much good. He shook his head a bit and climbed the ant hill to see where his enemies were. He was almost hidden from view this time. My second shot was a complete miss. The buck trotted of a hundred yards further and stopped to listen again. This time I was lucky. It was by far the hardest shot of the three as he was much further off and did not offer a broadside shot. Fortun­ately, I hit him square in the neck and he dropped stone cold. The horns were beautiful, beating anything we had in camp by two or three inches. Waller and I celebrated by having a cup of tea and then decided to go back to camp.

John and Stanton had not had any luck. More tea, a shave and bath fixed us ‘up. Waller and I saw a couple of guinea fowl while walking into camp and amused Makau and Mumo by throw­ing rocks at them as we did not have a shotgun. I thought of taking a movie of the scene and entitling it “Big Game Hunting in Africa.”     

We all turned in as soon as dinner was finished. Gosh, how tired one gets! We walked over twenty miles today and when I got in bed I was asleep before I knew it.

Rupingazi Camp

Thursday, December 24^th, 1925.

We started hunting too early yesterday, as it was really too dark to see any game when we left camp, so this morning. it was almost six o’clock when we wished each other good luck. John and Stanton went back to try their luck with the buffalo while Waller and I kept to the north side of the Rupingazi and headed off toward Malinduku Mountain. We saw the usual number of kongoni, who seem to be out to warn all the other animals in Africa of your presence. About nine out of every ten shots are spoiled by them. We ran across a couple of warthogs, but did not shoot them for fear of driving other possible game out of the district.

Soon we sighted a large herd of impala. They were all does with the exception of, one big ram that beat anything in camp. We spent a good half hour stalking them before we got behind a big ant hill. The impala were still 250 or 300 yards off. I had a fifteen minute job picking out the ram through the field glasses and thirty minutes more waiting for him to come into the open. Then I made a darn lucky shot and hit him just back of the shoulder with the 375. He dropped where he was standing, but tried to struggle off as we came up. The horns were great, much larger than we had, butwouldn’t you know it? — one was several inches shorter than the other, having been broken off in a fight. This makes the head useless so far as mounting it is concerned. We kept the meat for camp, and I sent the feet in for gun racks, but the rest was no good.

After a bit of tea, we moved on. Nothing showed up but kongoni, warthogs, impala in the distance, and several female waterbucks. We ate lunch about 10:30, and had hardly started out hunting before we ran across a little kongoni, only a few hours old. The little thing hopped along as wise as any old buck. 

By this time we were up to Malinduku, and Makau spotted a couple of eland in the thick brush almost at the very top of the mountain. A good breeze helped us in stalking them, but even though we got quite close, I didn’t get a chance for a shot. The eland spotted us and cleared out over the top of the ridge. We followed, hoping to get another chance at them. Just over the rise we saw them disappearing across the plain several miles away.

I was feeling a little discouraged, as we had rather poor luck, when Mumo came up and said that a big, old buffalo bull was somewhere in the thick brush. Now if there is one thing I want, it is a real old, lone buffalo bull. They are about the hardest and cleverest things in Africa to get. When they are quite old, they get kicked out of the herd, and go to search out a place to spend their last days. With old age comes greater knowledge and cunning. This old fellow of Malinduku lives on the mountain where he stays under cover during the day, feeds on the grassy slopes during the night; also waters at one of the rivers at the base of the mountain at night. The only chance one has of getting him into the open during the day is to make him just a wee bit uneasy by a cough or a sneeze. If you attempt to drive him out of a brushy place, he will just sit tight, having enough sense to know that his health will be­ better if he stays put. They can see like hawks, and have a wonderful sense of hearing and smelling. I believe we spent five hours trying to find this fellow. Makau found where he fed last night, and even this morning’s spoor, but not a sight of him did we get. The thick brush is absolutely impossible for a human being to get through, and even if one could manage to crawl through it, who wants to meet Africa’s most dangerous animal in a thicket where a rifle is as useless as an airplane? And these old, lone bulls are ten times as ferocious as the younger devils. Mumo, Makau and Waller nosed about for hours, but he was too clever for any of them. As we left Malinduku behind, I looked back and thought how the old fellow was proba­bly watching us from some cover, and laughing to himself. Mumo and Waller both swear he has the biggest track they have ever seen, and his horns are probably world records. Believe me, buffalo hunting is my sport. It is the most interesting and exciting thing I’ve ever done. It has sitting in a boma all night for lion wiped off the map for real sport. One gets to admire these old buffalo bulls. I’d give most anything to have been able to rout this old fellow out.

On the way back to camp, we saw more kongoni and waterbucks, and a little red male duiker flashed past us in the tall grass, but with a shotgun one would have to be a real professional to hit him.

We saw an old rhino in the distance poking around in some brush, so went around to the lee side, as it were, to see what sort of horns he had. The old rhino is really a joke unless he scents you and charges. Otherwise you can get within 50 yards of him without his seeing you. From the cover of an ant hill we saw that this was an old bull with a good pair of horns. An unusual thing was that the second horn was almost as long as the first. The front horn, which we later measured, was l6 3/4 inches, and that is pretty fair for this district. You are allowed only one rhino, and as my first was rather small, Waller said I could shoot this one on his license. I took careful aim with my 450 and hit him in the neck. The old fellow sank down right where he stood with never a murmur. He died almost instantly. That is the way I like to see them die. I hate to wound an animal so that he is in agony for a couple of hours while I am chasing him for five miles or more, as we did the old eland cow. Just for safety, I put a 375 cartridge back of his right ear to make sure that he was dead. I gave the skin, or hide, to Mumo and Makau, and kept only the skull, head skin, tail and feet. I was greatly pleased with the rhino, as its head is enormous, and the horns, while not so very long, are quite thick, and are good specimens. Another nice thing about it is that the rhino fell right near a thicket which will serve as a won­derful boma.

It was too late when I got the rhino to boma it tonight, so will wait until tomorrow night.

We got back to camp a little after six 0′ clock, having been out for over twelve hours straight, and believe me, we did some walking all over the top and around the base of Malinduku. I told Waller to be sure to leave the old man of Malinduku alone until I could come back to Africa some time to get him.

At camp, we found John and Stanton waiting for us, but they hadn’t had any luck. John says his shooting was poor today, and that he saw nine different species. It was Christmas Eve, and Waller said he couldn’t understand drinking lime juice on Christmas Eve, so I joined him for a sundowner.

After dinner we gossiped a bit, and turned in about nine o’clock, but had no sooner gotten to sleep than I was wakened by a fearful racket. There was a sort of chanting noise and several savage yells. My Lord! I thought, this must be a sort of native uprising or something. The noise increased in volume and intensity. There was a confusion of shouts, singing, and yelling, and several “Wa – wa – wa” sounds, like our Indians make. Golly! I thought if someone from home could hear this riot, it would certainly send the shivers up and down his back. A big bonfire was burning, and I saw 90 or more nigger savages prancing around in a sort of snake dance shouting at the top of their lungs; “Bumb-bimb,” sounded the deep voices of some of them; while, in contrast, there was a high pitched, rather shrill noise like whistles. Four of them carried my rhino head on big poles. These headed the procession around the fire in a big circle. Believe me! As I poked my head out of the tent, I felt none too easy. You can laugh all you want as you sit at home near a big grate fire and read this, but just picture yourself huddled in a little camp bed, 150 miles out of Nairobi in the blue, with hyenas and lions roaring around a camp fire. That alone makes you reach for your rifle, but when you add the noise of 90 wild niggers shouting their native war music as they prance around a bonfire, you wish you had a couple of 500’s with you.

Waller came into our tent to say that all the dancing was on account of the Bwana (Master) having shot a big rhino. I thought it my duty then to go out and watch the festivities.

Well, you never saw such a show. The thing that strikes you most about it is the marvelous rhythm. It certainly is flaw­less. I never heard such music. They form a circle, and grasping each other around the waist, stamp and chant for all they are worth. In the middle of this howling mob are four our five men (usually in couples), who go through a regular gymnastic performance, ducking about the circle. One old fellow was particularly amusing. He had decorated his head, and legs with grass, and ‘made a long, grass tail, which flopped about as he leaped around the ring. He was the chief delight. The dance increased in fury and excitement. Couple by couple they became too much excited to remain so inactive, and joined the dancers ‘in the center. It is a sort of thing you have to get warmed up to. Personally, I felt sort of like joining them myself after listening to them for half an hour. There is something fascinating about the rhythm, which is so perfect that it just gets you. The dan­cers get absolutely mad. They turn into regular wild ani­mals. One certainly is convinced that Darwin is right.

Mumo was watching with as much amazement as we were. What we saw was a Wataita dance, which is absolutely unique to the Nairobi boys, who are mostly from the Wakamba and Kikuyu tribes. The head man told Waller that he didn’t understand the dance, but if there had been Nairobi boys for porters, we would have been lifted up and carried all around the camp. I was, for one, most thankful that these Wataita lads didn’t know this little trick.

After an hour’s dance, we thanked them, and said we wanted to sleep. There was the usual cry for baksheesh, to which we answered that it would turn up in good time. This satisfied them, and with a shout they all left us in peace. It certainly was a most unusual and unique sight, and I am glad to have witnessed a real savage dance. Waller says if we get a Simba (lion), the dance will be about ten times as exciting.

We all turned in after the porters left, and my twenty mile hunting trip caused me no insomnia. You can be sure of that.

Rupingazi Camp

Saturday, December 26^th, 1925.

Waller and I both woke up about six and had a little tea before trying to get our of our boma. Mumo had given up all hope at five A.M. and was completely covered up by a big blanket. Hardly had we gotten out and stretched ourselves before Makau and the other boys showed up. We started right off for camp, where we learned that John hadn’t had any luck yesterday afternoon and had started out early this morning with his gunbearer to get the record impala head he spotted a couple of days ago. Waller, Stanton and I had breakfast and then they started for Embu to give the postoffice and the D.C. the devil. I stayed behind and decided to take it easy this morning and to catch up a little on my diary.

I had morning tea at eleven by myself and then took a nap until lunch. About 2:30 Makau and I started out along the ridge on the west side of the Rupingazi to try to get an eland, buffalo of good impala head. We more or less poked along in the thick brush until we reached Malinduku Mountain without seeing anything but a couple of warthogs and a few herds of kongoni. The win was bad a and I realized that on our return to camp we should have all the breeze directly behind us and we wouldn’t see a thing. Consequently, and the boys needed some mean, I shot a fair sized kongoni and had a bit of tea while the boys skinned it. We had hardly gone a quarter of a mile further toward the river before we saw an enormous old kongoni lying on top of an ant hill. I took a look at him through the glasses and was just thinking I would shoot what looked like a record heard what I saw a herd of impala though the bushes beyond. They hadn’t seen us and as they were coming our way and the ind was right, we decided to wait a few minutes and watch developments. Makau and I slipped into some scrub and before I realized it both the herd of impala and the large kongoni were within a hundred and fifty yards. Like a fool, I shot a medium sized impala buck and let the kongoni go. I realized as soon as I had fired that I had made a mistake. Even if the kongoni is so common, the one I saw was enormous and might have been a record herd.

On the way back to camp we saw a bushbuck doe and a couple of other pieces like waterbuck and impala but didn’t do any more shooting. John hadn’t had any luck and was at camp when we got back. Stanton and Waller had also retuned from Embu, so we had an early dinner. Tomorrow we are going to move camp further down the Rupingazi.

Leaving Rupingazi Camp

Sunday, December 27^th, 1925.

By eight o’clock we were all packed up and ready to move. John hasn’t shot a buffalo yet and Waller decided that their best chance was back at Embu, for the further down the river we got the more scarce were the buffalo. Stanton and I, it was planned, were to go ahead to the next camp. The boys went down several days ago to build a grass dining hut, kitchen and storeroom. 

One thing was exceedingly funny. Mumo, Waller’s gunbearer, who is quite a card, I found standing before a large crowd of boys reading to them off a piece of paper. He was saying, “The cook is to carry five loads, while the gunbearers are not to carry a thing, etc.” I walked up behind him and saw that he was holding an old piece of my diary that I had thrown out. Of course, it was upside down. But to see him read this paper and then give orders was too funny for words. But it turned out to be only half as amusing as Stanton’s suggestion that we try to ride his motor bicycle. I rode about fifty feet and decided that walking was much better.

The walk to the new camp wasn’t half bad and much shorter than I expected it was. We passed all sorts of buffalo tracks and with any sort of luck we ought to have some good sport. By two o’clock camp was all made and we were eating lunch. ­

We thought it a good plan to sort of scout around this afternoon to see how the country lay and where we were likely to find the best hunting.

We saw all sorts of waterbuck and they were about the only thing I wasn’t looking for, as I already have two fine speci­mens, all that I am allowed to shoot. They seemed to realize this fact for they weren’t a bit afraid of us and rather played tag with us the whole afternoon. I got up fairly close to some bucks and took what I think ought to be some fine movies. The sound of the Bell & Howell fascinated or charmed them for they never moved while I was taking the pictures but when I stopped for an instant they were off like a shot. I also took some movies of a couple of warthogs and some kongoni.

It seems that one always has better luck when he doesn’t shoot on Sunday so when I got back to camp, not having fired a shot, I didn’t feel disappointed in the least. Just as we got to camp we heard a shot across the river and realized that Cotter was not far away. We were rather peeved, as he said that he was going right down to the Tano.

This ended the day’s excitement. We both had a hot bath, tea and dinner and by eight-thirty, we were sound asleep.

Second Camp on Rupingazi

Monday, December 28^th, 1925

Well, today is the day of all days! I actually believe that I have had the best hunt of my life. It will take an awful lot ‘of sport to beat today’s fun. I am going to write a rather detailed account of it for I am sure I will always want to be able to remember it.

We started out from camp about five-thirty with the hope of getting an eland and, if luck would have it, a buffalo. For an hour or so there was no excitement, but a charge by a rhinoceros which lay hidden in some thick brush added a bit of zest to the hunt. There were about a dozen porters, two na­tive guides, my two gunbearers, Stanton’s gunbearers, besides Stanton and myself.

Right after the excitement Makau picked out two buffalo grazing in the middle of the, plains on the opposite side of the Nyamindi river. We made for a place about a mile distant where one of the guides said that we could cross. We found there a mad rushing stream about six or eight feet deep and about fifty feet wide. I believe I spent over an hour trying to find a crossing for the darn porters who sat huddled to­gether in a group looking like the last roses of summer. I got madder and madder for there they all sat without attempt­ing to find a way across while I climbed trees, looked for logs, and tried jumping from one stone to another. If it had only been a question of getting across myself, it would have been a different matter for I could have crossed, holding the guns over my head. But just try to get a dozen niggers who can’t swim to wade across a six foot deep stream that is sup­posed to be infested with crocodiles. At last I gave up in disgust and realized that the two buffalo would go on peace­fully grazing without any sight of me, at least for today.

After a sip of tea we hunted through some thick brush that was full of rhinoceros and passed up shots at impala, waterbuck, kongoni, and warthogs. We saw several little duikers but they were off before you had time to think and, as they are about the size of a rabbit and as fast as a deer, the chance of hitting one at 100 yards with a 375 while on a dead run is about one in a million.

I was just beginning to feel discouraged when Makau let out a soft whistle and I turned around just in time to get a glimpse of a grey, dirty looking body disappearing in the scrub. Makau, too, had only caught a glimpse of it, so we had to go up to where the animal stood before we realized that it was a lone, old buffalo bull. Of all the animals in Africa the buffalo has killed more men than any other. He is the most feared by the natives, more so than a lion. .And by far the most dangerous is an old bull who has been kicked out of the herd. But, aside from that, buffalo hunting is sport because a buffalo is wise, cunning and clever be­yond words. And an old buffalo bull is the king of all animals in my mind for real brains and courage.

Well, right then I said, “Here is my meat. Buffalo hunt­ing is my sport.” From the minute I first saw a buffalo in Africa I realized that they alone were the real thing.

We started right out tracking the old gentleman and follow­ed his spoor for about three miles. At this point he entered an almost impassable thicket. We tried to get one of the guides to go in and track him while we waited outside to shoot him as he came out. But one didn’t have to be clever to read “nothing doing” written all over his face. Finally we got him to go in by sending one of the gunbearers along with him for protection. We figured out at what point the old fellow ought to come out. Do you think he did? Not he. Against all hunting sense, he cut across wind and with scarcely a sound scrambled out of the thicket half a mile away. I just caught another glimpse of his back. But Makau saw his horns and turning around with a smile of contentment said, “Kabese sana, Bwana” which means “Wonderful be­yond compare, Master.” This put new life into me, and although I was dead tired after having tracked him for two hours, I was determined not to be beaten again as I had been at Malinduku. That is what makes buffalo hunting what it is. You have a darn good match for your wits. Anyone can sneak up on a herd of kongoni, and lying flat on one’s stomach to shoot one at 150 yards is no skill. But this buffalo shooting is different. You just try it and see. You’ll get the biggest thrill of your life, I assure you.        

Well, on we went for mile after mile. The old bull enter­ed another thicket and thought he would completely fool us by running around in circles – at least it looked like that was his idea – and slipping out on the opposite side in some thick grass. But Makau knows his stuff and we picked up his spoor on the other side. Through forests, swamps, over hills and through scrub we tracked him foot by foot. At last we found where he had entered a tremendous thicket half a mile wide and three miles long. For the first time it looked hopeless. The old devil was too wise to ‘stay in the open and he seemed to realize that we could never find him in this mess. I hardly know how to describe it. It was the sort of place that you have to bend at the knees and stoop at the waist to get through. Each branch has to be moved and you must lift each foot over fallen brush. Then, too, one has to go through this stuff without making a sound. To step on a twig or scrape one’s hat on a limb means that the buffalo will probably get up and move another five miles to an­other thicket. Obviously, we had left the porters miles behind to wait while Makau, Stanton and I did the actual stalking. For another hour we crept through this tangle, foot by foot, until I was almost dead of heat and thirst. My legs and back ached and my arms and bare legs were bleeding from the thorns. Every green twig in Africa has some sort of sticker or thorn. The lone bull’s trail entered a mass of other tracks. We sat down in the middle of the thicket to get a drink of water and a bit to eat. The boys had come up with stuff to eat, thank goodness!

How Makau ever tracked the old bull through the mass of other buffalo spoor will always be a mystery to me, but track it he did. We were getting close for I saw Makau was doubly careful. I wanted to shout, sing, anything, to break the monoton­ous strain felt at such long silence and careful stalking. Now we were on our hands and knees. God, how it hurt! Inch by inch we went ahead. I felt myself breathing faster. Was it ten feet away or a mile? I didn’t know but Makau seemed to sense its presence. Suddenly, he thrust the 450 into my hands pointing it at a black object seventy-five yards away in the brush. That is all I ever saw. Just a black patch of something that I would pass a hundred times without ever looking twice. A big, black stump, I thought, for no head, tailor legs were visible. But Makau knew what it was. Just as Makau pointed the gun at it the black object moved – it rose. I quickly lifted the rifle, aimed and fired. If I had been a second longer I should never have seen it again for it was already disappearing when I fired. I guess the old chap thought he had given us the slip for he was lying down. ‘He certainly would have escaped us entirely if it hadn’t been for Makau’s cat-like stalking and uncanny sight.            

I fired but what a disappointment the next few minutes. Stanton and Makau said “miss” and both looked disgusted. I couldn’t believe I had missed. I was sure, I heard the bullet hit. I rushed ahead to try to find some blood but there wasn’t a drop. For a hundred yards we followed him. I would have given a hundred dollars for a drop of blood. I looked at each twig, at each blade of grass. No luck! I then began cursing myself. Six or seven hours’ stalking and it was less than five seconds between the time Makau handed me the gun and I fired. Seven hours for five seconds and then a miss. Why didn’t I take longer? But no. for then I never would have had a shot at all. Stanton said, “This is useless, we will never get up to him again.” Too true, I thought. But I begged him to go on just another hundred yards, there was still hope, I thought. I was sure I had hit him. At the end of that hundred yards we sat down to have a drop of tea. I felt about as low as I ever felt. Then I heard Makau say “piga” (hit). Lordy Pete! I dropped my cup of tea. Yes, there was a drop of blood. I crept ahead like a bloodhound. Ten yards further on was a big pool of blood. My heart came into my mouth. “Hit badly, look at this blood,” I whispered to Stanton.          

Then I realized our danger. In the middle of this thicket where it was impossible to move a hundred yards in less than ten minutes we were in a very dangerous place. If the buffalo charged us we were in a bad way – and a badly wounded buffalo can cause some fun. Right then and there I relieved Makau of my 450. Thank heaven; I thought, for the day I bought this heavy gun. In a place like this a 450 is like a life preserver in the middle of the Atlantic. Makau wanted permission to go ahead with the 375 and locate him for he said the buffalo was so badly hit that he wouldn’t go far. The pool of blood was one place where he had stopped and waited for us but evidently he thought better of it and moved on. I followed close behind Makau with Stanton third. A hundred and fifty yards further there he stood. On seeing us, he raised his head and started to charge. For an instant, I started to run. Then I thought, “No, I am one of the few with a gun, I must protect the others, many of whom were, trying to scramble up trees. Just as I was about to fire, the old fellow caught sight of all the porters and stopped, turned and ran a few feet, then dropped down like a ton of bricks. Makau put a shot from the 375 through his neck for safety’s sake but he was done for. Believe me, that 450 has a kick. I’ve killed two buffalo now with only one shot apiece and one rhinoceros sank right in his tracks, stone dead, after one 450 hard nosed hit him.

I ran ahead. There was my beauty and for the first time I saw his horns. They were tremendous and such a beautiful old pair. I believe I felt happier than at any other minute of my life. Oh, if you could only have seen him lying there. I al­most died of joy. He was as old as the hills, being almost grey allover as all his hair had been worn off. His ears were ripped to threads as evidence of his many fights. Yes, he was an old warrior and a magnificent one at that. And the horns! We measured them, roughly, about a forty-seven inch spread while about thirteen inches at the base. Wait till Waller sees them, I thought, for the forty inch buffalo I shot he said was a wonder.

After taking pictures, skinning, and having a drink of tea, we started to creep through the thicket on our way back to camp. An hour after we got in the boys came in with the head shouting, dancing, and singing as loudly as you can imagine, and everyone was thanking me for the meat, etc. These porters get as excit­ed as you do yourself.

We decided to call it a day so, after a rest, tea and dinner, we went to bed. No news of John and Waller, as yet. As I crawl­ed into bed, dead tired, I realized that today was the best hunt of my life and I’m sure I never will have better sport.

Second Camp on Rupingazi

Tuesday, December 29^th, 1925.

One of the guides looked very wise this morning and said that he knew a place to cross the river where it was only knee deep. This sounded fine but I had my doubts. However, we decided to let him have a try at it. The darn fool led us back to practically the same place we were yesterday. So I told Makau to let the guide go across first and we could see how deep it was. He went in further and further till he got up to his neck. Stanton, Makau and I sat on the bank roaring and told him we thought that it was only knee deep. But I was de­termined to get across today so I took off all my clothes which I packed into my sun helmet. With this in one hand over my head, I swam across. I made two trips bringing my shoes and puttees over the second time. I managed, with Stanton’s help, to urge Makau and one or two, others to get across but the majority of the porters remained on the opposite bank much too frightened to move. We yelled, swore and cursed them until they all joined hands and waded across. I got a good movie of the crossing, incidentally.

After drying, dressing and getting things organized, we started out to look for game. The usual sight of water buck, kongoni and impala greeted us but there were no signs of eland. On the plain side of the river there is no shelter, only rocks, hills, and tall grass. The hills are so far apart that stalk­ing game is very difficult and there is really no cover at all. We walked along for several hours under the hot sun with no luck. I saw herds of zebra, my first sight of these, and a number of ostriches. As we were wandering along what jumped up right in front of us but a little steinbuck. These are very difficult to get. Fortunately, it only ran about fifty yards, stopped and looked at us. As, he faced us there was no target but his face which I realized a 375 soft nosed bullet would make a mess of, but there wasn’t time to put in a hard nosed.

I fired and hit but the little thing bounded off for a hundred yards more. He stopped again and I fired three shots. The third hit his hind quarters and he disappeared over a rise. I knew that he was badly wounded and felt sure that we would get him. But when we reached the rise there was no sight of him. During our search, we chased a little Jackal and a couple of hyenas out of their hiding places but couldn’t hit them. Stanton sat down for lunch but I -spent half an hour looking in a gully that I felt sure the little fellow would crawl off in­to to die. But, no luck. I felt as sorry for the little chap who was badly wounded as I did for myself who was very disap­pointed not to get such a desired trophy after it was right in my hands, so to speak.

After some tea and a sandwich I suggested we make one more search and, by golly, we found the little steinbuck under the shade of a little bush. He was stone dead and his whole lower jaw had been shot away while the whole hide on his right side had been ripped off by my second bullet. I felt like a murder­er but I did want one for a trophy. This sort of shooting cer­tainly isn’t sport and I don’t want any more than one steinbuck. I must, however, get another as the head skin of this one is so badly shattered that I never will be able to have him mounted. I kept the skull with its two little horns and the feet which will make nice trophies.

We sent one porter back to camp with the steinbuck and then pushed on toward Muthiro Mountain to try to find some eland. It was hotter than Hades by this time and walking up­ hill through the black cotton soil was tough work. We finally sank down from complete exhaustion under the one tree in sight. Makau then proceeded to spot a herd of eland about five miles off. They were disappearing behind a rise and were just visible through the field glasses. The wind was dead wrong and as it was rather late we decided foolishly to risk a chance at approaching them from the windward side instead of taking a ten mile walk as we would have had to do to get below them. As was to be expected, when we finally poked our heads over the rise the eland were in full flight fully 400 or 500 yards off. They paused for a second. I tried a shot with the 300 yard sight and fell short. I shot twice more and hit a big eland bull but the shot must have just ticked him for he never stopped. His white tail going up after I shot was the only indication there was that I had hit him at all, for there was no blood spoor. Stanton and I did a cross country in an effort to head off the eland between the mountain and the river but they beat us to it and the last we saw of them they were fully a mile ahead of us and disappearing behind another hill. 

We decided to call it a day and headed back toward camp. Our guide told us, that he had a better way to get across the river by crossing upstream where the river was divided into three separate streams. We tried this with the result that everyone of the three was almost as bad as the combined streams so that it was just three times as much work. When I got back to camp I was soaking wet above my waist and my feet were very sore. We had been out over twelve hours, only stopping for a few minutes during the day. It is after a day like this, when one is drenched to the skin and so weary you can hardly walk the last mile into camp, that a “sundowner” is a lifesaver. 

Stanton and I had an early dinner and then I made at once for my tent and was asleep before I had scarcely covered myself with the blankets. We had a note from John and Waller. They have seen about 300 buffalo but have been unable, as yet, to get close enough for a shot. Waller has been sick so John has been hunting with Mumo. I expect they will be back by tomorrow night.

Second Camp on Rupingazi

Wednesday, December 30^th, 1925.

Well, today was certainly a lucky one for me. I felt a little weary as I started out this morning after two twelve hour days in succession. We left camp about six o’clock, with “M’ Embogo” and “Parfu” (buffalo and eland) as our main objectives. We were hunting back in the thick scrub when Makau ran across rather fresh lion spoor. We followed it for sev­eral hundred yards just to have a look at the direction the lions were going, never expecting to get up to them. The spoor led into some thickets, and when a rhinoceros came charg­ing out at us, there was quite a bit of excitement. All the boys were up the trees in a jiffy, but as we were below wind, the old rhino didn’t get our scent, having been frightened out of the brush by the noise of our trying to be quiet.

We followed the lion out of the dense brush, losing and picking up the trail several times in the grass, but Makau and our guide are just like dogs, and they finally nosed the trail out into the open. Our guide suggested that the lions were probably lying under some nearby rocks, and we decided after a consultation to carry on. It seemed rather hopeless as shooting lions in the day time is practically unheard of in this district. One’s only chance, and that is rather slim, is to get a lion at night from a boma. Even if we get up to where they are lying, I thought, how will I ever get a shot at them? They are sure to be off before we get near them, and, as John says, “A lion can absolutely conceal him­self in six inches of grass.” Well, we trudged on foot by foot. It was easy walking, but the trail was hard to fol­low. There were three different lions, all headed upstream toward our old camp. Twice they went through small gullies, where we were sure they were lying up. Each time we approached very carefully, for a lion is a pretty dangerous animal at close quarters. They are said to be able to cover 100 yards faster than any other animal in the world.

After a bit of tea, we were on their trail again. Mile after mile we followed their spoor until it led to a thicket at the top of a little hill right across the Rupingazi from our old camp. Fortunately, for me, I took my 375 from my second gunbearer, thinking it not a bad idea to have a rifle in my own hands if we got into any dense scrub. We were mov­ing forward at a snail’s pace without making a sound. Stanton was first, I was second with my 375, and Makau third with my heavy rifle. We were within ten feet of the thicket, follow­ing along its edge. I heard a slight sound in the brush. At the same time Stanton pointed. There was a lioness walking away from us not thirty feet away. My rifle was up to my shoulder in a flash. My hand was shaking a bit. I started to fire quickly, and then I thought, for heaven’s sake, be careful, take, good aim; it’s probably the only shot you’ll ever get at a lion. All this flashed through my brain in a second. The lion, although moving off slowly, not looking at us, was not an easy shot through the scrub. I was just about to fire when something moving to my left attracted my atten­tion. There was a second lioness, much closer, and a broadside shot. I quickly swung my rifle toward her. Just as I did this, she stopped dead in her tracks and turned her head right at me. I never in my life shall forget that look. There she was, in a little opening not more than 25 or 30 feet away. She could have reached me in one jump, but be­lieve me, she never got, the chance to think twice, for I fired the second she stopped. The shot was a darned lucky one for it hit her right between the shoulder and ‘the neck. She sank in her tracks like a load of bricks. Stanton fired almost immediately after I did to make sure she was dead. His shot hit between the front and hind legs rather low down. If I had missed, his hitting her where he did would have made for us a merry time.    ­

The second lion had cleared, and we never saw the third. With one dead lion in the brush, we were rather careful. Makau, who had had a great deal of experience in African shooting, rather put a damper on my enthusiasm.  I was all for follow­ing the second lion spoor in the thicket, but Makau was firm. “Apana missouri,” (No good), he kept saying. We rounded the bush, walking as carefully as though we were on pins and needles. In the middle of a little opening, we were scout­ing around, when suddenly a large rhinoceros let out a couple of bellows, and started tearing around in the thicket to get our wind. With a charging rhinoceros and a couple of lions somewhere in the thicket, probably less than 100 yards away, it was quite a thrilling few minutes. We stood our ground with our rifles ready, but the rhinoceros soon cleared and the lions remained under cover. Makau refused to look for them, and in­sisted, even before we went up to the dead lioness, on scout­ing about for twenty minutes to be sure there wasn’t another lion waiting for us. I couldn’t see much danger in going right in, but Makau told us how he and three other men had once killed a lion in the brush, and the other three walked in at once to bring it out. The lion’s mate was waiting, and killed all three men before Makau could get a shot.

Believe me, a lion in the open gives you quite a thrill. They look much different than they do behind bars. I was so darned excited, I couldn’t believe my luck. We hauled her out, and she was a beauty, a full grown lioness. They say they are even more ferocious than the lion. Although the lion has a mane and the lioness has not, you can bet I was a mighty happy boy to get her, as my movies will undoubtedly show. Then, too, it is so darned exceptional to get a lion in the middle of the day. I took a lot of movies of her, and after a sip of tea we started back to camp. We didn’t see anything on the way back, but it didn’t bother me in the least. I had had enough good luck to satisfy me for the day.

I decided to call it a day and to do a little writing on my diary. 

John and Waller arrived about three in the afternoon with a nice buffalo head measuring about 38 inches. It is an ex­ceptionally old fellow, and its horns are almost together in the center. I was awfully tickled that John got it. 

When Waller saw my, buffalo, he almost went mad. I guess I hadn’t realized how darned lucky I was. Waller said that never in his life, outside of a museum, had he seen such a big or beautiful head. He guaranteed me that no buffalo head like mine had gone in or would go in to Safariland for five years or more. He said a man could come out here for several years, and specialize in buffalo, without ever seeing one like the one I shot. Well, I had been pretty excited about getting such a nice head when Waller came in twice as enthusiastic. Both he and John say it is the finest buffalo head they have ever seen or hope to see, and that if I went back to Nairobi with only this one trophy, the shoot would have been more than worth while. Now that I think of it, it will look pretty nice above some fireplace. John says his uncle got a 39 inch buffalo head, and has been talking about it for years; that the one thing he is going to do when he gets home is to bring his uncle to see this buffalo head. Waller says he is certain we will get nothing to beat the buffalo and that it will be the prize trophy of the safari. He is going to carry it on with us instead of sending it back to Nairobi now with the other heads, as the best trophy of the shoot is always carried in to Nairobi by the porters. Waller says it will make the people in Nairobi open their eyes when they see it, and I think Father will be pleased to have it, as John says he has never seen such a head in anyone’s private collection.

John took several pictures of me with the buffalo and with the lioness, and then we discussed recent events. Ed has writ­ten that he has decided not to join us, but is going to do some shooting right around Nairobi, and incidentally get in training for a fight with a fellow named Harris, champion of South Africa. The bout is scheduled for January 20, unless Harris backs out, as he has a habit of doing, so Waller says. We expect to be in Nairobi in time to see it. John brought me a postcard from Clarence, and a note from Mr. Villiers, but that is all. He got fifteen or sixteen letters, so I had a great time reading all the gossip from home in his letters.

I spent the whole afternoon and evening in camp reading Chicago Tribunes, writing on my diary, and getting cleaned up.

Second Camp on Rupingazi

Thursday, December 31^st, 1925.

Stanton went back to Nairobi this morning on his motor bicycle to get some shells for his 475 No. 2 that would fit. Three times they have sent him the wrong size and he is pretty well fed up. Wa11er was sick so John went out with Mumo and a bunch of porters while Makau and I crossed the Rupingazi to see what was stirring on that side.

We first saw a large herd of baboons, which we watched for some time. Then we ran across a large herd of impala does with one buck. We tried our darndest to stalk the fellow as he had a beautiful pair of horns but he was too clever for us and we couldn’t get up to him. We crawled along through the grass for over an hour and saw another herd of impala bucks, with one beauty, but they too were wise. I tried a long shot and missed. We decided to keep right after them but it twas at least two hours before I got another shot at them. They had stopped over a little rise and I crawled up to an anthill within 150 yards of them. I picked out the best head of the lot and fired. I missed. I fired again and missed. Usually, they are off like a bolt of lightning after the first shot but this time, for some unknown reason, the very one I wanted stood broadside, motionless, with his ears cooked up. The third shot caught him squarely between the shoulders and he dropped like a shot. He has by far the best impala head that either John or I have, and I was very much pleased with his horns which are about twenty-four inches long and have a magnificent spread to them. After sending some of the boys in with the meat and the head, we pushed on. It was pretty warm so we decided to go back to camp for lunch. On the way in we walked right up with­in 100 yards of a little oribi with record-breaking horns. None of us saw him until he was running and then, of course, it was impossible to hit him. I followed him for half a mile hoping to see him when he stopped to look back at us and, while I did see him again, he was running. I tried a shot which went way wild. I saw a little steinbuck lying up under a thicket but he was too fast for me and by the time I got my 375 he was out of sight. Just before reaching camp I saw a blasted old kongoni about 200 yards off. Makau said they needed meat so I shot the thing with great delight. As the horns weren’t anything extra, I didn’t bother to bring them in to camp at all. You ought to hear Makau and me. He can’t speak a word ­of English and I know only a dozen or more phrases in Swahili. It is quite amusing and we get along amazingly well for the little we can say to each other.    

John came into camp about the same time I did but hadn’t had much luck. He got a waterbuck and an impala but both had rather small horns and Waller chucked both of them into the river. Waller was feeling better in the afternoon so John and he went out together about four P.M., while I decided to stay in camp and write as I felt pretty tired after two days of darn hard hunting.

About six o’clock one of the boys came into camp with the news that the Bwana had shot a big rhinoceros. All the boys dashed out to join the procession which was to bring the head and hide into camp. About an hour later they arrived with the rhinoceros and it certainly was a beautiful trophy. The front horn is 21 inches long while mine is only 16-3/4 inches, but his second horn is not quite as big nor as well shaped as the second horn of mine. It is a great rhinoceros and I certainly am glad John got it for he was beginning to think his luck was pretty bad and was feeling rather blue. You see, I have the only lion and my buffalo head is a wonder.

The porters put on a little dance and cried for “baksheesh.” Waller told them they would receive good tips when they got back to Nairobi which thoroughly pleased them. The last few hours of the old year passed quickly for me as I was sound asleep by nine o’clock and didn’t wake up until 1926 was well under way. Just a year ago I was in Florida cruising near Long Key. Little did I think that a year from then I would be in Africa hunting. It just shows how little one can really rely on what the future has in store for him.