them. Kaffirs do not make butter and cream with the milk they get from their cows, as we do, neither do they drink it in its nice sweet state; but they put it in large basins made from pumpkins, and leave it until it has become perfectly sour and has formed into a thick curd, something like Devonshire junket, when they eat it. The fowls and eggs they sell to English people, never using them themselves, excepting for some of the old people, who have grown fastidious and require such dainties, for Kaffirs take care of their old relations. The eldest wife is quite the queen over all the others, and is not set aside because she has become old and ugly, which Kaffir women soon do, for they work very hard, and in hot climates people lose their good looks much sooner than in cold ones.

Kaffirs delight in smart clothes, and are very fond (particularly those who live in the towns) of trying to make themselves look like Engerlishmen, as they call them, which, considering their black faces and woolly heads, of course is not very easy to accomplish. But they do their best towards it, torturing themselves by wearing clothes which don't fit properly, hats that are always too large or too small, and tight boots,

in which, not being used to them, they shuffle along, looking wretchedly uncomfortable and very ridiculous.

A Kaffir always looks best in his own national dress, which consists of a short kind of petticoat made of the skins or tails of wild animals, a string of beads round his neck, sometimes bracelets of the same, and occasionally a few feathers as a set-off by way of head-dress. this costume he looks quite at his ease, walks with a free, swinging step, and has an upright and extremely graceful way of carrying himself.

In

They are as particular about their wool as any lady is about dressing her hair, and they do it up into all sorts of queer shapes. They make a kind of instrument of thorns for combing it. On Sunday mornings they assemble in groups to do each other's wool, for it is a too elaborate arrangement for a Kaffir to manage properly himself. Sometimes it is combed up and cut into a shape exactly like a huge coal-scuttle bonnet, like those your great-grandmothers used to wear; and some have it drawn up to look just like two, or even three, enormous fans on the top of the head. There are all sorts of other queer ways besides. It takes hours to do, and as

soon as it is finished they put on their best string of beads by way of completing their Sunday toilet, and go off to visit their friends at the neighbouring kraals. Of course I am speaking of those Kaffirs who lived amongst English people, and who were accustomed to look upon Sunday as a day of leisure. I can't say what they do in their perfectly wild state, but I have no doubt they have some particular time for the all-important ceremony of hairdressing.

They are particularly fond of neck ornaments of all kinds, but what pleases them more than anything else is an old collar, which they fasten round their necks with the greatest pride. One of our Kaffirs, who could not obtain a whole one, used to go about with half a paper collar hung on with a bit of string,—that and a few tails being his whole attire,—and he never could imagine why we laughed at him, for he evidently thought his costume a great success.

When we were in Africa, about six years ago, the great Kaffir chief Umpandi died, and his son Ceteweyo was to reign in his stead. So there was a grand coronation, which many of the English people went from great distances to see; and, to please the chief, they took him a large