The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1911-01-18
CHAPTER XII. Engines of War.


 Engines of War.
 Hope rises high on Africa's from tier. Maybe it is the result of the strenuous condition of the life itself which transforms the social flibuster of other lands into the militant self seeker of the borderland. It is a life for wonder, and one which never relaxes its grip upon the heart of its people. It assimilates man, and re- duces him to its own harsh condi- tions- It rouses something of the mediasval spirit. when men fought hard for the love of fight, bravely, fiercely, and died simply, with sword unsheAthed, and running with the blood of the foeman, because they found 1t more congenial to die brave ly than to live as towards.
 It is a country of baser human in- spirations, and the frontier is the cemetery of spirituality. Men curse the Creator of all things as they mofl through the almost trackless thirsts., The desert stretches of Ka- roo-of limestone. of kopjes. of des- perate. thorny forest land. of dry riv- ers-drive them back upon them- selves. God passes from their ken. Hope rises, but it is the hope of the warrior born of the knowledge that no power can save him but his own prowess and the invincible courage of a desperate heart.
 Therefore the country breeds men. The creature of superstition dies on the frontier. His shel1 is occupied by the spirit of the land. He will give a great account of himself whether for good or evil, or die on the sun-parched plains.
 It is the daring of such men that has made the country-is making it. Win the land from itself. and from the land win its treasures" Such is the cry of the frontiersman. And no scheme is too desperate for his at- tention when the trammels of civili- zation are shaken off. Play hard and
 
 life He may fall short, but he will achieve something, if it be only the stepping-stone for the surer foot of another.
 From Kuruman to Maroqweng and Honing Wei is weary track of de- sert country, paved with the broken hopes of old-time traders. Every mile O. the road abounds in promises that remain unfulflled. Nowhere in Africa, after the first flat stretch of Karoo is passed, can be found such gracious woods, such rolling country, suggestive of fertile valleys and sue culent grass-plains. The abounding hills. deep-wooded as are the noun tains of temperate zones, speak Of Naturs'a forethought for mans de- light; deep watercourses at their base invite his sojourn. All that man can desire is there-all but one thing.
 Every mile of his journey the heart of the weary trekker send its bitter cry for water up to the fiery heavens. There is none. The woodlands are a snare; the valleys and watercourses mockery. Drought-endless drought everywhere Natures prac- tical joke is monstrous. Where the Kalahari boundary touches men must dig for every drain of water. Ayel he must dig deep and long, and in the end his labor is more than often vain.
 So the road is almost deserted. But not quite. There are those for whom it has its uses. The Kaffirs and bush men can live upon it, and sometimes white men will face it's awful thirsts. But these are men such as we have spoken of; men whose natures have drunk in the doctrine of the frontier, who undertake those things which seem without hope of fulfilment. Where men fight hard for existence, secretfveness and cunning are often the most effective weapons; and this old road affords a wonderfully secret route from the south to the north.
 A transport train moves over ths horizon. The rumble of its wheels murmurs distinctly upon the hot air, and. in the immensity of the sur- roundings, smacking whips crack Ike the report of a cap in child s pistol: so small it is. yet so significant. One. -o. three. four; the wagons come zato view with their white tents