Waterbury evening Democrat., 1890-01-03

my mind. At last it came to an end, and we reached Africa, which was not to leave again for many, many years. In those days civilization had not made any great progress in Southern Africa. My father went up the country and be- came a missionary among the Kafirs, near to where the town of Cradock now stands, and here l grew to manhood. There were few Boer farmers in the neighborhood, and gradually a little set mission station. A drunken Scotch blacksmith and wheelwright was about the most interesting character, who. when he was sober, could quote the Scottish poet Burns and the ''In- goldsby Legends" literally by the page. It was from him that I contracted fondness for the latter amusing writ ings which has never left me. Burns l never cared for so much, probably be- cause of the Scottish dialect which re- pelled mo. What little education I got was from my father, but I never had much leaning toward books, nor he mpch time to teach them to me. On tho other hand, l was always keen ob- server of the ways of mon and nature. | Dutch and three or four Kaifir dialects perfectly, and doubt if there was any body in South Africa who understood nativo ways of thought and action more completely than I did. Also I was really very good shot and horseman, and think-as, indeed, my subsequent career proves to have been the case-a great deal tougher than the majority of men. Though I was then, as now, a light, small man, nothing seemed to tire me. I could bear any amount of exposure and privation, and never met the native who was my master in feats of endurance. Of course all that is diff ferent now; 1 am speaking of my early manhood.
 It may be wondered that did not run absolutely wild in such surroundings, but I was held back from this by my fa- ther's society. He was one of the gentlest and most refined men that over met; even the most savage Kaffir loved him, and his influence was a very good one for me. He used to call him. self one of the worlds failures. Would that there were moro such failures! Every evening when his work was done he would take his prayer-book, and, sit ting on the little stoop of our station, would read the evening psalms to him. self. Sometimes there was not light enough for this, but it made no diff ference; he knew them all by heart. When he had finished he would look out across the cultivated lands where the mission Kafirs had their huts.
 But knew it was not these he saw, but rather the gray English church, and the graves ranged side by side before the yew near the wicket gate.
 It was there on the stoop that he died. He had not been well, and one evening I was talking to him and his mind went back to Oxfordshire and my mother. He spoke of her a good deal, saying that she had never been out of his mind for . single day during all these years, and that he rejoiced to think he was draw ing near that land whither she had gone. Then he asked me if I remem- bered that night when Squire Carson came into the study at the vicarage, and told him that his wife had run away, and that he was going 90 change his name and bury himself in some remote land.
 said that I remembered it perfect ly.
 II wonder where he went to-" said my father, ''and if he and his daughter Stella are still alive. We'll, we'll! I shall never meet them again. But life is strange thing, Allan, and you may. If you ever do, give them my kind love"
 After that left him. We had been