Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

DARK DOINGS IN LUVALELAND 137
up what little shreds of dignity are left to you, you
roll yourself up in a blanket, while your shabby shirt
tied to a tree branch is dancing itself dry in the wind.
But the cold cuts like a carving-knife, and a blanket is
inadequate. So, to finish the folly, you are facetiously
forced to keep the shirt company— you dancing yourself
warm, while it dances itself dry. Of course your comfy
negro, per contra, likes all this splashing, for he never
wore boots and never felt damp with the clammy cling
of wet stockings.
{Later.)
The extraordinary insalubrity of the Luvale flats is
appalling. In later days, it was in these sweltering
plains Cyril Bird and brave young Copithorne poured out
their lives for Luvaleland. Characteristically and car-
dinally men of deep love for souls, they gave their all to
a tribe that listened for years to the Gospel with sharp
antagonistic ears. Once Bird left for the Ocean, osten-
sibly to take a much-needed furlough, but the haunting
need of that vile Luvaleland dragged him back, and the
end was soon reached. Life like a spent steed panting
towards its goal, the Pauline gleam in his eye and praise
on his lips. Black-water fever they called his mortal
malady, but he died of a broken heart, yes, broken for a
tribe of robbers—a holiday at last, furlough in Glory I
Weary and worn by the vertical rays, what a whiff" of
joy in the thought :
" Heaven's ahead—hurrah !
Remember, there is no deep valley but near some
great hill, and that sowing in tears culminated in others
"