Of Lobengula's house nothing but a low heap of bricks remains. It is very pathetic to see the great deserted kraal, once so populous and now tenanted only by a few screaming plovers flying round and round over it. One or two miserable looking blacks were squatted among the ashes, grubbing for a few glass beads. Far away — the only thing that breaks the monotony of the horizon — you see Thabas Induna, the hill where Lobengula won his first victory. In spite of all his cruelties one cannot help being rather sorry for the old king. I think that feeling is held by most of the people engaged in the war.
The Matabili seem absolutely quiet and have no sense of the ignominy of defeat. But their insolence before the war is almost beyond belief. They would enter an Englishman's wagon, unbidden, pull the book he was reading out of his hand and throw it on the floor again and again, spit into his water bottle, snatch off his hat, and if he tried to recover it chuck a knobkerrie (club or knotted stick) under his chin so as almost to shatter his teeth. These insults had to be borne in silence, as resistance would only have ended in murder by overwhelming numbers. But the forbearance and self restraints of the white men when their turn came seem to have been marvelous after such provocation. — National Review.
A Dainty Sprinkler.
O'Kief — Doesn't Miss Flipsley make a pretty picture as she sprinkles her flowers?
McEll — Yes, and judging by the way she is holding her skirt she seems anxious to let the neighbors see that she uses nothing but the best quality of hose. — Brooklyn Eagle.
Monday, September 8, 2008