We each have our foibles and whims which sickness sometimes brings into strong relief. One of my own I cannot forbear relating. After several days of sickness, when I knew that it was fever, and recovery seemed hopeless, my mind turned to the meagre and unique undertaking formalities in such a place as Efulen. The fact that no boards were procurable did not trouble me in the least; I felt that I could be comfortable in a cotton blanket or a rubber sheet. But I had a great longing for a genuine white shirt laundered in America. Through all the successive changes of clothing by which I had gradually discarded the total apparel of civilization I had maintained a serene attitude. But, for that final ceremony, after which there should be no more changes, I had a childish desire for something that would separate me from the rude and savage surroundings of Africa and that would serve to designate the civilization to which I really belonged; and the most civilized article I could think of was a white shirt such as those I had packed away in the bottom of a trunk at Batanga. A little incident of that period will further illustrate the helplessness of bachelor white men in such an emergency. One day, when I had been ill a week, I became hungry for the first time; but not so hungry that I could eat corned beef, sardines, or Irish stew; and we had not yet been able to procure a chicken or even an egg from the natives. Mr. Kerr looking hopelessly over the pile of tins suddenly discovered one little tin of oysters, which had gotten into our supplies by some happy mischance. He shouted for joy and came running to show it to me. Nothing could have been better; and when he asked me how I would like to have them prepared, I said I would like them stewed in milk. He soon brought them to me steaming, and even the odour seemed to invigorate me. I took a spoonful—and with a nauseous exclamation I spewed it into the middle of the room. Dear reader, _condensed milk is forty per cent. sugar_.