The "Khapong," which I mentioned in a former chapter, is supposed to be the abode of the Spirit of Maternity, and women who have no children firmly believe this spirit is able to grant their heart's desire if only they can find favour in his sight. In order that he may see how earnestly they desire a child, they will make either a wooden or clay doll, which they strap on their backs and carry about with them, as they would a living child, for at least six months. At the end of that time, they lay it in the "Khapong" as an offering to the spirit, together with any bangles, beads, or ornaments, or even money, which they can collect. Should no child be born, it is a sign that the woman has not found favour with the spirit yet, so the doll is removed from the "Khapong," and strapped on the woman's back until the spirit is satisfied, when oh, joy! the longed-for child is born. I know of one case where for five years the woman carried one of these dolls about with her before her petition was granted.

The customs with regard to the birth of a woman's first child are decidedly quaint. To begin with, the wife must leave her husband's house about a month, or even longer, before the expected arrival of the child, as it must be born at the home of its maternal grandmother, or else it cannot possibly live to grow up. If it happens to be a boy, the rejoicings are judiciously mixed with regret. As the news-bearers set out at once to carry the tidings to the father (who has remained at his own village), they learn nothing of the woman's condition, that is a matter of slight importance. Upon arrival at their destination they attack the unsuspecting man and beat him vigorously with their sticks. No word is spoken, but the unlucky man at once understands he is the father of a male child instead of the eagerly hoped-for daughter. Naturally he is disappointed, but nevertheless he consoles himself with the reflection that after all a boy is better than no child, for he will certainly be of some use, and the spirits may be kind and give him a daughter next time. If, on the other hand, the infant is a girl, the woman receives many and hearty congratulations; the news-bearers hurry off to carry the joyful tidings to the father. Great caution is observed as they approach the village, lest he should catch sight of them. At length they manage to creep up behind him, when he is sitting outside, probably conversing with one or two friends. The messengers are armed this time with a pot of water, which they throw over the happy father, who immediately receives the congratulations of all his friends. The water is supposed to act as a wholesome "damper" upon his joy, lest the good news should prove injurious to him or unsettle his mind. It is not considered correct for him to visit his wife and child, but, when the baby is a month old, the wife returns to her husband, bringing the child with her. Basuto women often nurse their baby until it is eighteen months old. When the first baby is weaned, the mother takes it back to her parents, to whom it will in future belong; the actual parents no longer retain any claim upon it, nor, should it be a girl, do they receive the dowry upon her marriage; that also belongs to the maternal grandparents.

Should a doctor be called in at the birth of a child, the mother can neither wean it nor cut its hair until the doctor has given his consent. Usually the infant's head is shaved on the second day.

Should other children be born, there is no need for the mother to leave her husband's house, as no evil will attend their birth, such as threatens the birth of the first-born. In all cases where no doctor has been in attendance, the father has absolute control over the child, whether absent or present, and no step can be taken without first consulting him.

Sometimes rather strange complications arise. For instance, numbers of Basuto leave the country every year to find work in the mines and on the railways. Many of them are married men with young children. Suppose one man left a wife and baby of a few months old behind him, his wife must on no account wean the child until her husband returns. The result is, that now and then one comes across quite big children, able to run about and talk quite intelligently, still unweaned, and, when asked the reason, the mother will reply: "My husband has not yet returned." Occasionally he never comes back.

When the birth of a child is momentarily expected, as many women and old men (the latter being regarded as "old women") crowd into the hut as it will conveniently hold. As soon as the child is born, an appropriate name is suggested, such as "Thibello" (waited for or long expected), "Siluane" (tear-drop), etc., and by this name the child is in future known, the mother taking the name "Ma-Thibello" (mother of waiting), or "Ma" (mother of), whichever name is given to the child.

Should a woman die while her child is still too young to be fed with a spoon, a sheep or goat is killed, and the windpipe, thoroughly cleansed, is used as a feeding-tube, down which the milk is slowly poured into the child's mouth. If it is not expedient to kill an animal, a female goat in milk is procured, and the child taught to drink from the goat's udder. In these cases the goats become more attached to their "foster children" than to their own offspring, and will return at regular intervals to the hut to suckle the child. It is a strange sight to see a goat run bleating to the hut out of which crawls a fat brown baby, over whom the animal rejoices as if it were her own, lying down contentedly to allow it to drink, until, thoroughly satisfied, the child retires to sleep, and the goat trots off to pasture, returning again to her charge in a few hours.

Amongst Christian families Sesuto names are always given to the children at the time of their birth, although, when old enough, they are taken to the missionary to be baptized, the name then chosen being generally a Biblical one. The Basuto also bestow what they consider suitable Sesuto names upon the Europeans and their children living in the country.

Now that education is procurable in the country, the children are sent off to school as soon as they are old enough to master the alphabet. Many of them are bright, clever little creatures, and keenly interested in their studies, with often quite as much ability as the ordinary European child of the same age, but, as a rule, they can only be educated up to a certain point. When one reaches that one comes, as it were, to a blank wall. There seems to be no further brain power to develop, and, if forced to continue his studies, the youth will become sullen, stupid, and intensely trying to one's patience. This applies to them in all "walks of life"—in domestic work, in carpentry, masonry, etc. The girls are good, honest, nice-tempered servants, capable of becoming fairly efficient in all household work, and especially good as nurses, being devoted to their little charges, who, as a rule, have a great affection for them in return; but one has to realise at once that one must limit one's expectations, and be content with something considerably less than perfection. Their wonderful honesty, on the other hand, is a strong point in their favour. I have lived ten years in the country, and have only had two dishonest servants during that period.

All church services have a great attraction for them, whether heathen or baptized Christians, and they will go long distances to attend "service," on week days as well as Sundays. They are a musical race, and pick up the airs of the hymns and chants with wonderful celerity, learning to sing in parts as easily as though they had been trained to do so for generations. Many of them have beautiful voices. In church they are very devout, and would put to shame many a civilised congregation. Of course, there are many cases of hypocritical devoutness, but is that to be wondered at in a nation barely in touch with civilisation? and, if we look nearer home, are we in a position to criticise? I fancy not. It is, I admit, a little irritating to come across a self-opinionated, intensely consequential young Mosuto, who evidently thinks his fellow-creatures the coarsest pottery as compared with his own superfine eggshell china self, but another generation of civilisation will show them more clearly where they stand.

The Basuto method of carrying news is as follows. In certain villages, at considerable distances apart, there are men whose business it is to act as "criers," because they possess the art of throwing their powerful voices through long distances. In each district, certain spots are selected from which to call. These spots are chosen because of their natural advantages. When any important news has to be sent through the country, a "crier," or Mohale or a Marumo, as he is called (literally "the brave man of the assegai"), goes to the top of one of these chosen places, and shouts his news to the village in the distance, where dwells the next "crier." It is desirable to call at night, as the voice carries so much more distinctly. Crier No. 2, on hearing the voice, listens, perhaps asks a question or two, and then sets off at a trot to the next spot, from whence he calls to Crier No. 3, and so on. In this way the news travels with astonishing rapidity. Long distances are covered in a few hours. News of battle is never sent until after sunset. During the fighting in Natal and in the Stormberg, the Basuto invariably heard of any big engagement before we did, though we were possessed of telegraphic communication. Of course, I am only referring here to South Basutoland. As far as I know, our headquarters was all along in direct communication with the Generals, and probably received information before other parts of the country.

Often in the evenings, when there is, for South Africa, a great stillness over all, the silence will be broken by the call of one human voice to another. It is by no means unmusical, and there is nothing harsh about it. Somehow the sound seems fitted to the scene, part of the weird strangeness of one's surroundings. I wish my pen were gifted enough to describe it properly, so as to bring the picture before you—the dim twilight; the cool after the great heat of the day; the tiny blinking fires here and there on the dark, frowning mountains from numberless hamlets; the voice of nature hushed to a dreamy murmur; then the deep drawn-out call from one village to another, arousing countless echoes from the kloofs below, or the steady rise and fall of many voices chanting in the minor key some favourite heathen song as the singers sit round their homes in the refreshing coolness of a Basutoland summer night. One is filled with a great wonder. Life and oneself seem so little, the world so vast, and eternity the vastness beyond all words.

People living in such a country are naturally emotional, and very impressionable, with a firm belief in the supernatural. Their music, too, if such it can be called, is in the minor key, though even that does not have a lastingly depressing effect upon them. They are just like big, undisciplined children, full of "moods" and impulses, and easily influenced by kindness.