relieved, and I start off down the road alone. Lovely road,,
bright yellow clay, as hard as paving stone. On each side it
is most neatly hedged with pine-apples ; behind these, carefully
tended, acres of coffee bushes planted in long rows. Certainly
coffee is one of the most lovely of crops. Its grandly shaped
leaves are like those of our medlar tree, only darker and richer
green, the berries set close to the stem, those that are ripe, a
CAFFEA LIBER1C A— LIBERIAN COFFEE.
rich crimson ; these trees, I think, are about three years old,
and just coming into bearing; for they are covered with full-
sized berries, and there has been a flush of bloom on them this
morning, and the delicious fragrance of their stephanotis-shaped
and scented flowers lingers in the air. The country spreads
before me a lovely valley encompassed by purple-blue mountains.
Mount Talagouga looks splendid in a soft, infinitely
deep blue, although it is quite close, just the other side of the
river. The road goes on into the valley, as pleasantly as
ever and more so. How pleasant it would be now, if
our government along the Coast had the enterprise
and public spirit of the French, and made such roads
just on the remote chance of stray travellers dropping
in on a steamer once in ten years or so and wanting a
walk. Observe extremely neatly Igalwa built huts, people
sitting on the bright clean ground outside them, making mats
and baskets. “ Mboloani,” say I. “ Ai Mbolo,” say they, and
knock off work to stare. Observe large wired-in enclosures
on left-hand side of road— investigate— find they are tenanted by
animals— goats, sheep, chickens, &c. Clearly this is a jardin
d 'acclimatation. No wonder the colony does not pay, if it
goes in for this sort of thing, 206 miles inland, with simply no
public to pay gate-money. While contemplating these things,
hear awful hiss. Serpents ! No, geese. Awful fight. Grand
things, good, old-fashioned, long skirts are for A fr ica ! Get
»rou gh geese and advance in good order, but somewhat
¡rapidly down road, turn sharply round corner of native
¡houses. Turkey cocker—terrific turn up. Flight on my part
forwards down road, which is still going strong, now in a
northerly direction, apparently indefinitely. Hope to goodness
there will be a turning that I can go down and get back
by, without returning through this ferocious farmyard. Intent
on picking up such an outlet, I go thirty yards or so down the
road. Hear shouts coming from a clump of bananas on my
left. Know they are directed at me, but it does not do
to attend to shouts always. Expect it is only some native
with an awful knowledge of English, anxious to get up my
family history— therefore accelerate pace. More shouts, and
louder, of “ Madame Gacon! Madame Gacon! , and out of
the banana clump comes a big, plump, pleasant-looking gentleman,
clad in a singlet and a divided skirt. White people
must be attended to, so advance carefully towards him through
a plantation of young coffee, apologising humbly for intruding
on his domain. He smiles and bows beautifully, but— horror !
jf-h e knows no English, I no French. Situation tres inexplic-
tres wteressante, as I subsequently heard him remark;
and the worst of it is he is evidently bursting to know who I
L