The missionary party had to be their own bakers, butchers, and what not. When settled in such a district a man learns for the first time how many manipulations are required before he can have dinner. The first-comers made it a rule never to see the cooking. What the natives brought they got through as well as they could, but they suspected that if they looked at all the cooking processes their peace would be broken. On one occasion two of us were at Zomba. I was suffering slightly from over-work, and enjoyed a change of labour. We were much delighted with a supply of goat’s milk, which a boy brought each day. After school I used to sit in the verandah studying the language. I often observed a piece of cloth lying on the ground at the foot of the wall. It had once been white, but was now very dingy. It was generally damp, and covered with sand and mud. Further, it had an attraction for the playful toes of the group of natives that were always about me. I had a vague idea that it was used for cleaning the lamps, and regarded the rag with a kind of affection. But one morning my companion shouted out, “Look here! Just fancy! See the abominable thing that he puts our milk through!” The boy was carefully straining the milk which we so much appreciated by means of the dirty piece of cloth. At once all the enchantment of that rag was gone, and so was the enjoyment of our nice milk. But the boy’s diligence was quite commendable: he might fancy that the white people strained milk in order to effect a “charm,” and so far as he saw, one rag was as good as another.