All over Africa one hears of “giving” men away: the custom is as follows. A negro has chanced to live a certain time in another’s employ; he considers himself his property, and has abandoned the trouble of thinking what he is to do from day to day; but leaves the ordering of his future entirely to his employer. He becomes too listless to exist without a master. The weight of independence is heavier than he likes, and he will not bear it. He feels unsupported and lost if alone in the world, and absolutely requires somebody to direct him. Now, if the employer happens to have no further need of the man, he “gives” him, that is to say, he makes over his interest in the savage to a friend or acquaintance; the savage passively agrees to the bargain, and changes his place without regret; for, so long as he has a master at all, the primary want of his being is satisfied. A man is “given” either for a term or for ever; and it was on this tenure that I held several of my men. Swartboy gave me his henchman; Kahikenè, a cattle-watcher; Mr. Hahn, a very useful man, Kambanya. As a definition of the phrase “giving a man,” I should say it meant “making over to another whatever influence one possessed over a savage; the individual who is given not being compelled, but being passive.” Before starting on my return I bought as much corn as I could carry back, which also proved to be exactly as much as I could buy with my stock of beads. I knew by this time pretty well what weights the different oxen could carry, and arranged their saddle-bags accordingly. I always carried a couple of spring balances with me when on ride-oxen, and as they each marked up to forty pounds, by using the two together I could weigh up to eighty pounds, which was as much as I ever wanted on this occasion, though afterwards when ivory had to be earned I was put to shifts for weighing it. It saves infinite trouble in packing to have the two saddle-bags of exactly the same weight, and I am sure that no practice will train the hand to judge with certainty whether they are so; a small heavy thing always feels lighter than its real weight, and a bulky thing heavier. I have constantly tested the guesses that practised muleteers and camel-drivers have made of the weights of things, and often convicted them of great mistakes. In my waggon I carried a steel-yard, and knew and registered the weight of everything I carried. I mentioned that the Ovampo had fowls; they are very pretty small bantams, and I bought three—thinking that being a new breed they might have some points about them which would be valuable to poultry fanciers; they eat very little, and laid eggs every day. I put them in an Ovampo basket, covered it with a piece of skin, and made one of the Damara women carry it on her head.