_Wednesday, September 1st._--Another full month past and gone, and leaving I fear, but a poor memory of much good done behind it. The days here certainly fly past one after another in rapid flight, and the very monotony of existence speeds their departure. One day is so like another that it passes unmarkedly by, and one finds oneself, all at once, at the end of the week, and is brought to final consciousness of the rapid rotation of time’s wheels at the end of the month. What has been done in the month? I fear there is but a poor record. God grant that I myself may have, by His Grace, made one step forward, and have been instrumental in leading others also onward to a higher and better life, and to that final epoch where the flight of time is unmarked by days and weeks and months and years, for time itself will be swallowed up in eternity. Nothing much happened to-day. A bright morning seemed likely to usher in a fine and brilliant day, but in the forenoon the rain pelted down, and for some hours we had a glorious downpour. The “blue bottles” gave indication of this at Prayers and morning school, and I have never known them in such numbers or so troublesome. One perfectly loathed oneself, but escape from them was impossible, they crowded my house, which is generally free from their incursions, and the poor people seemed quite distracted. This is the great yam planting season, and everyone was away after school busy at his garden. The heavy rain, however, drove them home, and some took refuge here with me. Natives are not great hands for introducing originality into their conversation, nor do they go much beyond the sight of their eyes, or the hearing of their ears for their subject matter. Any prominent object which attracts their attention is made the subject of remark. This is a specimen of the sort of conversation which goes on. I was writing when my friends came in, “Oh! you are writing!” “Yes, what else did you suppose I should be doing with pen, ink and paper?” “Oh! this is a curious tin, what is in it? Meat?” “You are the 101st person who has asked that self-same question, I answered the 100 before you with the monosyllabic negative, No, and I give you the same answer.” “What then is in it? Fish?” “No.” “Fruit?” “Yes, I hope you are satisfied.” “Oh! I see you have a “kove” (native flute) up there in the thatch, who gave it you?” “You yourself have asked that same question ten times before, and I have always given the same answer, ‘Arthur,’ next time perhaps you will know without asking.” “You have a bow and arrow there, where did you get them?” “Considering that every person in the village knows from whence they came, and has made them the subject of general conversation for weeks, I wonder you should be the only person ignorant of their origin, especially as you were here when I brought them from Tasmouri.” This is the style of thing which goes on, and except that one is glad to accede to any means for