Starting from Good Hope, and sailing north, down the Sherbro twenty miles, and then east up the Bahgroo twenty miles more, we come to Avery. For most of the way the banks of the river are lined with mangrove trees—appearing at high tide to stand in the water—whose trunks rest, at several feet above the ground, upon pyramids of stems or roots, and whose outspread branches send down to the earth numberless rope-like twigs of various sizes, altogether forming an almost impenetrable jungle. But about a mile below Avery the scene changes. The mangroves disappear, the low banks give way to quite high bluffs, and for a long distance stretches a rolling surface, with a soil of partially decomposed iron-stone. In a bend of the river, on a conspicuous bluff, stand the buildings of Avery, the component parts of the station being a home, a church, a school, a saw-mill, a garden, a coffee-farm, and a fakir. The home is beautiful for situation, being so nicely located as to command a view of both banks of the river for half a mile in each direction; water, rocks and foliage being blended most charmingly. In this home dwell the pastor of the church with his wife, the superintendent of industrial work, and ten little native boys and girls, whose voices cheer the heart of one who loves children, as the little fellows nearly exhaust their stock of English words in saying “amen,” and the end of grace at meals, repeating the Lord’s Prayer, and saying, “Good night, sir,” at their hour for retiring. Some of these buds of promise have such illustrious names as Robt. Arthington, Wm. E. Gladstone, A. K. Spence, Jennie Pike and M. E. Strieby.