There is beauty, too, in the forest decay, in the fallen tree trunk, whose rotting bark and ugly torn stump are transformed by tufts of gracefully drooping fern, while tiny rootlets smile from out every crevice. There is beauty, too, in the fungus growths, tinted and white, or the perfection of coral, or blooms whose purple depths suggest some cherished hot-house flower. The experienced traveller is quick to note signs of a change; the pathway leads uphill and the absence of giant tree trunks denotes that he is treading a once cleared and populated region. That hill, whose summit is capped with foliage, was once a village landmark, beneath it, myriad termites live and pursue their daily toils through tunnels and chambers that they have shaped by their countless thousands. Were man’s three-score years and ten twice told devoted to the study of the ways and purposes of the unheeded occupants of our earth, he had but then begun to learn the alphabet of nature’s infinite resources. [Illustration: THE “ELEPHANT EAR” IN THE WET SEASON.] [Illustration: WILD FOREST FRUIT.] Close to the termite hills the half-buried foundations of primitive dwellings speak of departed life, and in the Congo, hundreds, yea thousands, of these mark the spot where once the children of nature lived out their simple life, till civilization strode through the land treading ruthlessly down the souls of men. They have gone and their haunts lie deserted, but their monuments remain. The discarded kernels of the housewives’ palm nuts have taken root and now rear their graceful fronds on faultless trunks like capitals of Corinthian pillars in some cathedral aisle. As if by design they ranged themselves thus. In these silent groves the traveller treads reverently upon the grassy floor; no monk is here; there is no echo of the choristers’ song, but nature has reared her temple where myriad voices rejoice and sing their song of praise, unfettered by the forms and creeds of man. The long day’s tramp is now over; the sun is setting and the birds are carolling their evening song, as the traveller emerges into the open space beside the gleaming river, flowing swiftly onwards with its errand to the sea. The glow of the departing sun tints the clouds with purple and gold outshining in glory the loveliness of the morning. Surely the heavenly regions are not far beyond, and this is a glimpse behind the veil. The afterglow has departed and the world of man falls asleep till the twittering of the birds heralds the approach of another day with another march through the inexhaustible forests of tropical Africa, where verily “Earth is crammed with Heaven And every common bush ablaze with God.” IV A MEDLEY OF CUSTOMS A lifetime spent amongst a single African tribe would scarcely exhaust its folklore and customs. Awaiting scientific investigation there is throughout the African continent a wealth of lore and superstition.