The Sunday Oregonian., August 30, 1908, Magazine Section, Page 8, Image 54

THE SUNDAY OREGONIAJT, PORTLANTV AUGUST 30, 1903.
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ma
BT FRANK O. CARPENTER.
I AM at the Broken Hill mine, 380
miles north of the Zambesi River,
and at the northern end of the
railroad system of South Africa. This
1 Is the rail head of th Cape to Cairo
trunk line, which now reaches from
here to Cape Town, a distance of more
than 1000 miles. I am quite as far
from the Cape of Good Hop from
Boston to Penver, and farther north
of the southernmost point of Africa
than Hudson Bay is north of the Oulf
of Mexico. The road is only tempor
arily stopped at this point, and by the
time this letter is published the work
of laying; the tracks northward may
he again under way. The late Alfred
Belt, the friend of Cecil Rhodes, who,
like him, made a srreat fortune in South
Africa, left $6,000,000 to be used for the
extension of the Cape to Cairo system,
"and this to be employed toward push
ing; the road to Lake Tanganyika." Aa
It is now, it is only about 200 miles
from the borders of the Congo Free
State, and within 450 miles of Tangan
yika. Some of the building between
here and Victoria Falls was done at
the rate of a mile a day. and a year
or so. If the work is pushed, will easily
sufflce to complete the steam route
from here to the Mediterranean Sea. A
flying surrey nas oeen maae io me
great copper deposits of the Congo
Free State, and after the road reaches
there, the Belgians will aid in that
branch of its construction.
By Steam Through Africa.
I refer to the Cape to Cairo line as a
steam route, including in tnat term
transportation by boat and cars. There
'will never be one continuous Iron track
north and south across this continent.
. Th. traffic will not warrant it, and be
sides there are deep waterways which
can be used to save almost one-third
'cf the construction. The longest
stretch of rail will be from Cape Town
north to Lake Tanganyika. This is
Just about as far as from New York
Ho the Great Salt Lake, and it com
prises almost one-half of the route
from the Cape of Good Hop to the
Mediterranean Sea.
Lake Tanganyika is a narrow trough
- In the mountains running almost north
and south for a distance of 400 milea.
It Is right along the survey of the
: trunk line, and the cars can be run on
to steamboats and ferried across It,
From the upper end of Tanganyika to
. Khartum only 410 miles of railway are
'needed. The distance between the two
' points is 1670 miles, but 1260 miles of
; It can be made by water. From Khar
tum the steamboats on th Nile are al
' ready running for more than 1000
miles, and with 100 miles more railroad
'passengers can reach Lake Albert.. It
Is but a short stretch from there to
LLake Albert Edward and Lake Kivu, so
'you see the Cape to Cairo system Is
' approaching completion. The roads yet
to be built are not as long as from
Philadelphia to Chicago, and more than
one-half of the work will be finished
V hen this line has reached Tanganyika,
Kbodeslan Railways.
For the past month or more I have
been traveling over the railroads of
.Rhodesia. Those already constructed
'measure something like 2500 miles, and
they have all been built within the
last fifteen years. They were laid out
y Cecil Rhodes, but he died before
'they had reached the Zambesi and the
srreater part of his traveling through
the country was done In ox wagons.
'The roads are well built and traveling
,over them is comfortable. The guage
'Is one meter, or three feet six Inches,
i The rails are comparatively light, most
l of them being from forty pounds to
sixty pounds per yard. Some of the
I cars are magnificent. The trains de
iJuxe carry cooking and dining ar
rangements, and my car to Victoria
Falls had a shower bath with a coil of
ripe which ran round and round, fur
nishing a needle spray.
One can now get on a train of that
kind at Cape Town and ride to Vic
toria Falls without change. The dis
tance is 1600 or 1700 miles, and the
first-class fare is Just about ISO. The
meals aro good and the prices cheaper
than at home. Breakfast costs o0
cents, luncheon 6IH cents, and dinner
75 cents. On the Rhodesian roads, the
dining-car rates are a trifle higher,
but nowhere are the meals as much as
tl. The rate from Cape Town to
Broken Hill is over $100, but the second-class
tickets cost about one-third
?ss. and the third-class are not half
as much as the first. For those who
xrish to travel without regard to cost,
private cars may be had. These have
cooking and dining compartments at
tached to them, and a single car has
every arrangement to accommodate six
persons. It nas a dining-room, kitchen,
bathroom and bedrooms. The railroad
company furnishes a cook and all the
provisions. The terms are $1800 a
month, which includes board, lodging
and travel. This is an average of $11
per person per day, and it seems to
me comparatively cheap.
From Victoria Falls Northward.
Good traveling arrangements stop
with Victoria Falls, although private
Broken Hill. I came on the ordinary
train and had a first-class compart
Xneot all the way. I had to carry my
imsjfi eouuD' how ydz7
own food and bedding, however. The
travel through the wilds is light and
the road has not been completed long
enough to make the demand for com
forts warrant the expense of furnish
ing them. It takes two nights to make
the trip to this point, and a few thick
blankets enable one to sleep well on
the ordinary cushions of the car. I
have rolled up my overcoat and used
it for a pillow, and. notwithstanding
the Jolting have slept like a top.
The eating is a more difficult mat
ter. I had a tin cracker box filled with
such things as canned tongue and ham,
with several varieties of pickles, which
serve as a relish and aid In cutting the
grease. I started out with some canned
butter, but I will say nothing about
that; It was amply strong enough to
speck for itself.. I had also some Jam,
made In London, which I spread on top
of my ham sandwiches, and that took
its place. As to bread, I carried three
loaves with me from Victoria Falls
hotel, and I will get another supply
here when I go back.
Tea From Pills.
I have had excellent tea, which I
brewed with hot water from the loco
motive. At meal times the black boy
who is In charge of the car brought
me a kettle and I made my tea with
tea pills. I wonder if you have ever
heard of the little tabloids of com
pressed tea, invented by Burroughs,
Welcome & Co., of London. They are
as big around as the end of your little
finger and one will make a full cup
of tea. compressed by an' enormous
force into pills. Each tabloid is as
hard as a stone until the water touch
es it, when it dissolves to a powder
and gives forth a delicious aroma. The
pills are put up in tin boxes and they
are so small that you can carry enough
for a hundred cups In your pocket. A
little box of short sweetening goes
with them. This is composed of saxin,
a material which is 600 times sweeter
than sugar. It is compressed into pills
as big as the head of a pin and a sin
gle pinhead will sweeten a cup.
Fighting the White Ants:
All the way from here to the Zambesi
River the telegraph poles and the railroad
ties are of steel. The ties are a hollow
steel shell about seven feet long with
clamps into which the rails are fitted. In
order to show Just how they looked I had
a native stand a tie upon end and photo
graphed it. The man is fully six feet in
height and the tie reaches more than a
foot above him. All of the railroad sta
tions are made of galvanized iron, and in
the huts here at Broken Hill almost no
wood is used. This is necessary on ac
count of the white ante which infest the
regions north of the Zambesi. They live
upon wood and they burrow Into the rail
road ties and eat away until nothing but
a shell la left. When wooden, telegraph
poles are erected they chew them to
pieces so that the wires fall to the ground.
White ants are to be found all over
Central Africa, I have seen tens of
thousands of their bills during this trip.
Sometimes their mounds will be 20 feet
high and at others they do not reach the
height of your walet. They go about as
far below the ground as above it, and
each hill Is divided up into little rooms
much like a flat building. The ants have
their soldiers and guards. They have
their workers and drones, and there is a
big queen who looks for all the world like
a white worm of the size and shape of a
email Frankfurter sausage, and who lays
all the eggs. I was offered one of these
queens aa a present during my stay In
TTganda. It had been caught by an Eng
lish army officer and pickled in alcohol. I
feared, however, that the bottle might
break and had to refuse.
Insects which Make Cement.
Speaking of the white ants, they are of
great value to Africa. Their homes form
a natural cement. The ant hills are built
grain by grain by these little Insects,
which, as they build, moisten the clay
with a Juice from their mouths. This
spittle contains formic acid and it is of
such a nature that It changes the clay
Into a paste or glue which afterward
turns to stone. It may be mixed with
water and softened, but as a rule it is as
hard as cement and has the same proper
ties. All over Africa the natives take this
ant-clay for their building material. They
start their huts by making a framework
of sticks which they weave In and out
much like a basket. Over this they spread
the wet clay from the white ant hills,
using it as a plaster. After a time the
walls become as solid as stone, and they
form a perfect protection from the
weather. In some places the huts are
composed entirely of this material and in
others they end in cones of thatch. Many
of the pioneers of Rhodesia live in huts
of this character, and there is a mission
church here which is plastered with red
clay from the abandoned homes of the
white ants. The church Is floored with
such clay, but its overhanging roof is of
galvanized iron. It was put up by the
Rev. John M. Springer, who for a long
time was the head of the Methodist Epis
copal missions at Umtail. Mr. Springer
stopped at Broken Hill on a trip across
Africa and built this church during his
stay.
The Station Farthest Xorth.
But suppose we take a look at Broken
Hill, the present terminus of the Cape to
Cairo railroad. It is the South African
station farthest north and is In the very
heart of the black continent It lies 3S0
miles above the Zambesi River, and more
than a hundred miles from the Kafue
River, which is one of the Zambesi's
mighty branches. The land here Is high
and healthy. It la a great plain lying
farther above the sea than the average
altitude of the tops of the Allegheny
Mountains. The plain is wvered with
grass which reaches far above one's head,
and Is spotted with patches of forest and
clumps of brush. The woods are not
dense nor are the trees large, but they
are the haunts of many wild animals.
The country seems rich, and it will some
day be taken up by farmers and stock
raisers.
Broken Hill itself is a mining town
supported by the several hills of zinc and
lead, which I shall describe later on. It
consists of two settlements, one of which
is devoted to the white officers and over
seers who manage the mines and to the
native workmen who live in a kraal
near by. ana the other to the hotel and
stores and the homes of those who have
business outsme uie mines. There ere
no saloons In either settlement, and the
selling of liquor Is contrary to law.
I wish I could show you the hotel at
Broken Hill. It is a collection of thatched
huts made of red clay from the homes
of the white ants. The largest hut is
the dining-room and near It Is the kitchen
built so far away that no smell can of
fend Every guest has his own indi
vidual hut as a bedroom. The bedroom
huts are also made of red clay with grass
roofs. All have holes in the walls for
windows and mosquito nets take the
place of glass. The dining-room Is about
20 feet square and the waiters ara half
naked negroes Who trot about in their I the grass behind is as high as your
bare feet. I head, and it would be easily possible for
This hotel Is almost in the Jungle. The J a leopard or a Hon to crawl up and sneak
places between the huts are clear, but out a baby. Indeed, the mothers watch
their children carefully, and the little
ones never play out of doors after dark.
And are there white children away up
here in the heart of Africa? Tes, there
are 50 or more white men connected
with the mines, and some have their
families here with them. Altogether there
are a half dozen whits women and nu
merous children. As I walked through
the hotel grounds I saw a baby carriage
at the door of one of the huts and a
rosy-cheeked little boy of 3 tagged at
my heels. The town has Its football
and cricket grounds and there Is a tennis
court In which these ladies are among
the players. Broken Hill has Its after
noon teas and now and then public din
ners. Business in Mld-Afrlca.
There are perhaps a dozen business es
tablishments. Some of them are in sheds
of galvanized iron, but the others are
made of white ant clay having roofs of
grass thatch. Every shop sells a variety
of goods. The shelves are full of canned
stuffs from Europe and the United Slates.
There are hams, tongue and canned beef
from Chicago, Kansas City and Omaha,
canned fruits from California and salmon
from Oregon and Alaska. The most of
the hardware and tinware comes from
Europe, and this is so also of the Jams
and the Jellies. The storekeepers are
Englishmen and the native blacks act aa
clerks. Everything Is sold at high prices.
Bread costs 25 cents a loaf; a tin cup
sells for a shilling and butter is 76 cents
a pound. A common case knife which
would bring a dime in New York costs
50 cents at Broken Hill, and all other
things are In like proportion.
I find many American goods used here
and there over Africa. I have written
about our cotton goods in Abyssinia and
Uganda. They are far superior to any
other, and it is their excellence only
that makes them sell In competition with
the German and English cottons which
are everywhere pushed. It Is the same
with our meats. They form a large part
of the food of South Africa, but the En
glish sneer as they smack their Hps over
them, and they would keep them out
if they could find any others as good.
TheSympathy of Jane Darrow
(J. Ia, Glover In New Orleans Times
Democrat.) SYMPATHY was Jane Barrow's
strong point. From her youth up,
her friends' affairs, whether love
or otherwise, had a genuine end per
ennial Interest for her. Confidences
were poured into her ears, and to do
her Justice, she did not pass them on.
She talked little herself, but she had
a way of leaning forward In her chair
and fixing a pair of intelligent gray
eyes on one's face with an Intent gaze.
as if nothing In the world Interested
her so much Just then as the person
she was looking at; and saying in soft
tones: "Now tell me something about
yourself."
The one to whom she spoke would
Invariably yield to the charm of those
earnest eyes, and In response to the
Invitation would find himself or her
self pouring out personal history,
thoughts or experiences. And whether
the speaker were a middle-aged scien
tist explaining his latest theory of the.
universe, or a dry-as-dust professor ri
ding his hobby, or a young girl with
first love affair, Jane listened with
the same expression of vivid Interest
in her eyes, putting In a sympathetic
word now and then, which lured one
on to further and deeper confidences.
"How is it that everybody tells you
everything?" little Alice Fenwick
asked her wistfully once.
"Oh, because I like to hear them, I
suppose," Jane answered, smiling into
the little flower-like face.
"And you never tell, do you, Jane?"
"I should never dream of betraying
any one's confidence," said Jane gent
ly. "I should think you knew me bet
ter than that, Alice."
Little Alice only sighed and went
away; but a few days later she came
to Jane with a piteous face.
"Tell me all about it, dear," encour
aged Jane.
They were alone in her room, which
looked out on a green orchard, with
rows of peach trees whose fruit was
Just blushing rosily among the setting
of glossy leaves. A pear tree grew so
near the window that they could al
most reach out and gather Its golden
fruit. Jane sat down in a chair by
the window and pointed to another,
lower and more comfortable still.
"Just sit down here and tell me all
about it," she said again in her sym
pathizing voice. And Alice resisted no
longer, but poured out all her bur
dened heart, sitting there with her
face hidden on Jane's lap.
It was a foolish little story enough.
Just a girlish love affair, and how she
and Bob were sure they would never care
for anybody else, and papa said it was
all nonsense, and she was much too
young even to think of such a thing.
And she was 19, and Bob was old enough
to be at college, and she thought it was
mean; and here the tears choked Alice's
speech.
Jane patted her hair and sympathized
and counseled patience, and after a while
Alice cheered up and went home, prom
ising to tell her of further developments.
The next evening there was a dance;
a sociable village affair, to which all
were invited. Jane rarely danced. She
disliked getting warm and disheveled. It
was her specialty to "sit out" in shady
corners and Listen to confidences; reap
pearing, cool and unruffled, when the
dance was ended, for a brief promenade
on her partner's arm.
To her retired moonlit corner of the
piazza whence she could see the roomful J
of dancers, came Bob, when the evening
was half over.
"All alone, Miss Jane? I've been hunt
ing for you."
"Have you? That was nice of you
when Alics is here," said Jane, with soft
meaning.
"Alice oh,' she looks pretty this eve
ning, doesn't she?" said the boy, his eyes
following the bewitching little figure in
white with pink roses.
A sympathetic look, a few encouraging
words and soon Jane was listening to
the other side of Alice's story. It seemed
to Interest her deeply, wonderfully, and
presently, before he knew it, the lad
found himself telling her of the other
girl back at college, who would feel her
self slighted if she knew about Alice.
"It's an awful complication," he fin
ished gloomily. "I can't give Alice up,
and yet she the other girl thinks I am
bound to her."
"It Is a complication," agreed Jane
softly. "And yet. Bob, I believe it will
eU come right after a while. It's the
course of true love, you know. Alice's
father objecting, and this other girl, are
only the rapids In the current. It will
flow smoothly by and by. If I were you
I should tell the other girl about it, and
ask her to give you back your promise
If she thinks you are bound to her. Oh,
I am sure it will all come right. And
you will tell me when It does, won't you?
You know I shall be so Interested."
"It's mighty good of you," said the
boy gratefully.
II.
So Jane, thus established as the confi
dante of both lovers, found herself plied
with details, which she thoroughly en
Joyed. After Bob's return to college he
wrote to her, telling of the progress, of
affairs with "the other girl," and little
Alice came frequently to pour her woes
into the ear which seemed never to tire
of hearing the oft-told tale.
It was not to be expected that so sym
pathetic a person as Jane should fall of
having a lover of her own. Therefore no
one was surprised when Wallace Ripley,
coming to spend a Summer in the vil
lage for rest and quiet and opportunity
to study, succumbed to the charm of her
earnest gray eyes and Intelligent face.
To him Jane lent the same interested
ear, put the same gentle questions cal
culated to draw forth confidences and,
as usual, she was not disappointed. Be
fore the Summer was half over, he had
told her everything about himself, as
far back as he could remember, and
given her a sketch of his work and his
plans for the future.
"But perhaps I am boring you with
all this," he said one day, suddenly
realizing that what Jane did not know
about him was hardly worth knowing.
It was an August evening. Just at sun
set, hot and still. They were walking
up and down In. a glowing crimson at
mosphere. The sky threw strange rosy
reflections on Jane's pale face and white
dress. He paused In the middle of a
long story to look at her and ask his
tentative question.
"If you are tired, pray say so. But you
are the only person who really seems to
care to hear, and so, perhaps, I trespass
on your kindness."
"You know I care," said Jane in her
soft voice. "Please go on."
He rushed on headlong, and before she
could guess what was coming, she found
herself listening to his eager, passionate
words of love, sne did not interrupt
him. Perhaps she could not. At any
rate, she made no attempt to stem the
torrent of his words, but heard him in
Hence to the end.
Her answer, when he paused for it, was
neither yea nor nay. Perhaps she was
not prepared to give a definite answer
yet. She was taken by surprise; she did
not know her own heart. But when Wal-
1 a i'a T?irtlA v,tit u n-j ir 1. a ViaH wntnfl
from her a promise that he might come one could recognize It," she pleaded, when
were transcribed faithfully. Jane was, In
fact, not an artist, but a photographer,
an accurate copyist.
"But the names are all changed. N
back after a while and try his fate again.
The "Winter wore away. Little Alice's
Iovetory had come to a satisfactory con
clusion at Christmas. Wallace Ripley was
in the city, writing eager letters to Jane
Jane herself was writing constantly dur
ing the Winter, but her writing did not
seem to be letters; at least, few envelopes
addressed In her clear chirography passed
through the village postoffice.
In the Spring appeared a new book a
popular novel, which bore Jans Darrow's
name on the title page. "A charming
idyl," the critics said. "A picture of life
drawn by an artist's hand." Some com
pared it to "Cranford," in its faithful
delineation of simple village life and
character. The book made a veritable
sensation.
But in Jane's home village, whither Its
fame promptly penetrated, the sensation
was not one of unmixed pleasure. Jane's
friends, reading, found themselves and
their experiences laid bare to the public
In a manner graceful and artistic. In
deed, but trying to the tempers of retir
ing persons who prefer to live in obscur
ity. Alice's and Bob's love story was neatly
Interwoven. Scenes and conversations I
taxed with this faithfulness to life.
But the aggrieved ones were not molli
fied. Jane, from being the most popular
girl In the village, became the most un
popular. But a sterner Nemesis still was
to overtake her.
Wallace Ripley came, pale, stony-eyed,
the book in his hand. He pointed to a
page whereon his own passionate declara
tion of love was detailed, word for word,
in cold print.
"Jane," he said, "you profess to love
me. and yet you could print that?"
Jane was silent before his accusing
eyes. A sudden light flashed Into her
mind. She had not cared for this man at
first, and she had remorselessly used him
as 'material." Now she realized vividly
that she loved him.
"Profess " she faltered at last, "do
you not believe It, then?"
"Believe It? No, I see that you have
been most diligent in gathering material
for your book, most careful in preserving
the local color. Pardon me If I do not
care to figure In your next. I wish it
great success."
He bowed courteously and went away.
down the orchard path to the gate; and
Jane was left alone, to suffer the natural
consequence of playing with edged tools.
J. L. GLOVER.
Say Americans Are Oytimists
London Spectator.
rHE Americans as a nation are opti
mists. It may be owing to the im
mense territory, the absence of dan
gerous neighbors on their frontiers,
or to their enjoyment of acknowledged
though not quite real equality, or pos
sibly to the self-conndence born of 200
years of continuous and successful effort,
or It may even be owing to some exhi
hllarating quality of the atmosphere in
which they live, but, at any rate, Amer
icans at heart are all contented and
cheerful men.
Collectively and individually, they all
believe that, however unpleasant may be
the circumstances of the moment, they
will In the end "muddle through" and
come out the stronger for their trials. No
one despaired when it seemed for a mo
ment as if the union must be broken
up, and no one quails now though every
foreign observer believes the "Haves"
and the "Have-notes" which is to mark
this century will be fought out first of
all upon American soil. i
They see their, numbers continually In
creasing; they see the Old World shink-
lng from any contest with their growing
strength; they deny, or at least they do
not recognize, that any moral changu
has passed over their millions, and they
perceive, as they listen to their presenf
President, that now, as in the great Civil
War, they will throw up out of the
depths of their elective system adequate
and trustworthy leaders.
In I860 they found Abraham Lincoln,
and in 1908 they are listening and was
there ever so vast or so attentive an
audience? to Theodore Roosevelt. They
wait, therefore, in the full confidence
that, however dark the path may mo
mentarily appear, the way will open.
A nation penetrated with that feeling
cannot be broken, and we only wirti that
saw more of It among the nations
of Europe, and more especially in our
own despondent land.
Broiled Bananas.
New York Times.
Another hostess has a way of broiling
bananas. The bananas are slit length
wise twice and a half inch of peel Is
stripped off. leaving the fruit in the lanss
part; the body of the fruit should then be
opened a bit and a pinch of salt, another
of pepper and a bit of lemon Juice be put
on the exposed fruit, and the whole left
for half an hour, so that the seasoning
may soak in. The butter should be spread
over the opened part. The bananas must
then be laid in a not too hot broiler, with
skins down, and broiled very gently until
lightly browned. They should be served
In the skins, which, if properly handled,
will retain frne Juices formed while cook
ing, and a truly delicious morsel will be
the result.
icar
we
-Walkln' Home With You."
I have had my days o' glory
And my days o" ture delight,
I have anguished in th' valley
An' have sorrowed In th' night
I bare drunk th' cup o' gladness
An' have tasted o' the rue
But th' time I went f heaven
Was a-walkin' home with you!
I have felt my pulses tingle
O'er the triumphs I have won.
I have knowed, th' deep damnation
Of a feelin' crushed an' done.
But of all th' great sensations
That I ever, ever knew
I enjoyed it when, one ev'nin',
I want walkln' borne with you!
I have heard about the Hebe
Who was fairest o th' fair.
But I bet she wasn't in it
With th glimmer o' your hair!
An' her eyes wan't nothln' startlln'
Just beside your orbs o' blue,
When you told me I could, maybe,
Go a-walkln' home with you!
So we left th' church together '
Tou and I, my dear, that day,
To go walkln Mirougrh Arady
Down th' apple-bloasomed way
Ah! you told me yes. my sweetheart.
Told me always you'd be true
When I reached the crest of glory
An' went walkin' home with you!
yr-on wilUclBsV