After making _blood-brotherhood_ between the head-men, there was enacted another performance called _bakia lolelembe_: a medicine man took a palm frond, split it and put one half of the frond across the path leading from Monsembe to the upper towns—the towns of the contracting parties. This was not only a sign that all that palaver was finished, but it was a fetish having power, it was supposed, to punish anyone who broke the treaty. It was firmly believed that the side that renewed that quarrel would get the worst of it by wounds and death. Perhaps this is the history of many a tribal fight in Africa—alarm, attack, defeat, pursuit, cannibal feasts, and the making of peace by blood-brotherhood. Congo boys are the most inquisitive animals that I have yet met in Africa. Crocodiles, when boats were new to the Congo, would follow them for hours in their attempts to investigate the strange object; goats and sheep were always ready to poke their noses at new things that came within their purview, but their curiosity was quickly satisfied. Congo boys (and in a minor degree the girls also) were never wearied of watching us at work, following us about to see what we would do next, and asking about our tools, etc., and why we did this or that in such a way, and did not accomplish the same result by some other mode of procedure. They would stand about our table while we were at meals, and pass critical remarks on our manner of eating, slyly imitating the action of our jaws as we masticated our food, or mimic our gestures as we conversed with one another. We seemed to live, move, and pass our existence in the full glare of public gaze like fish in a glass tank. One never-ending source of delight to them was to scan our countenances as we read. They noticed every alteration of facial expression as the “books talked to us.” If we burst out laughing at some witticism in our reading they would laugh heartily in sympathy with us, and would poke one another, saying: “The book is talking some funny thing to them.” When their shyness had passed away they would ask: “What does the book say to make you laugh?” Occasionally the bit of wit came within the scope of their comprehension, and of our knowledge of the language, and they would enjoy it as much as we did, showing they had a ready wit and enjoyed a hearty laugh; and we felt encouraged, for there is some hope for a people that can laugh joyously and boisterously. At times they would creep behind us, and looking earnestly at the open page, they would cock their ears to listen intently for any sound, and seeing nothing but a blurred page, and hearing no sounds, they would insinuatingly ask: “White man, how does the book talk to you? and can you make it talk to us?” We would then explain the system of letters and syllables, etc.; but would, at the same time, express a doubt as to their ability to learn to read.