But where can memory rest upon such a picture as that in darkest Africa? Look upon a tree, the tender buds of which half fearfully peep through the bare branches just to catch a glimpse of the outer world, when a cold frost blast of winter strikes across the frail young life and withers it for ever. That is child life in Africa. Innocence and purity were withered just as they dared to step from infancy. Happy, careless mirth was crushed with the weight of the burdens laid upon the shoulders of childhood. Their mother’s home, as has been described, was their earliest environment, their language was learned from her, and then lovelessness was the children’s portion, as they were sent away as servants or slaves to neighbouring chiefs. Parents scorned the idea of bringing up their own children; they affirmed that a child would never listen to its parent and would refuse to work, so they exchanged their children at the age of four or five years for others who would be as slaves to them. Even at this tender age they were taught to gather the sticks and twigs, and then sit by and feed the fire while the food was cooking, or they carried the gourds or pots on their little woolly pates down to the river to draw the daily supply of water. They were generally fearfully neglected and underfed; their dislike to water was accounted for by the fact that they possessed no clothing and the dirt kept them warm. If anyone had been born with a leaning towards cleanliness his mother would have effectually crushed this by the cold water treatment administered during infantile ablutions. It was the custom every morning between 4.0 and 5.0 a.m., when the cold night air still clung in damp mists to the land, to hold the babies naked out in the courtyards, throw cold water over them, and then leave them out to dry.