_Dec. 6._—About noon of the next day, while we were busy repairing the canoe, a native was found in the bushes close to the town with a small bow and a quiver of miniature arrows in his hand, and, it being a suspicious circumstance, he was secured and brought to me. He was a most remarkable specimen for a warrior, I thought, as I looked at the trembling diminutive figure. He stood, when measured, 4 feet 6½ inches, round the chest 30 inches, and at the waist 24 inches. His head was large, his face decked with a scraggy fringe of whiskers, and his complexion light chocolate. As he was exceedingly bow-legged and thin- shanked, I at first supposed him to be a miserable abortion cast out by some tribe, and driven to wander through the forest, until he mentioned the word “Watwa.” Recollecting that the Watwa were well known to be dwarfs, I asked Bwana Abed, the guide, if this man resembled those Watwa dwarfs Muhala’s people had fought with. He replied that the Watwa he had met were at least a head shorter, though the man might be a member of some tribe related to those he had seen! His complexion was similar, but the dwarfs west of Ukuna, in the West Lumami country, had very long beards, and bushy whiskers. His weapons were also the same—the short bow, and tiny reed arrows, a foot long, with points smeared over with a dark substance, with an odour resembling that of cantharides. Everybody seemed to be particularly careful, as they examined the arrows, not to touch the points, and, as many of them were folded in leaves, it appeared to me that the native had some reason for this precaution. In order to verify this opinion, I uncovered one of the leaf-guarded points, and, taking hold of one of his arms, I gravely pretended to be about to inoculate the muscle with the dark substance on the arrow. His loud screams, visible terror, and cries of “Mabi! Mabi!” (“Bad, Bad,”) with a persuasive eloquence of gesture, left no doubt in my mind that the arrows were poisoned. But the native possessed the talent of pronunciation in an eminent degree. For the first time I heard the native name of the Livingstone, as known to the Manyema and Wenya, pronounced as distinctly and deliberately as though Haji Abdallah himself was endeavouring to convey to my interested ears the true word RU-A´R-OW-A, emphasizing the ante- penultimate syllable. I requested several Wangwana, Wanyamwezi, and Arabs to pronounce the word after him. Only the principal Arabs were able to articulate distinctly “Rua´rowa”; the black people transformed the word instantly into “Lualawa.” The ugly, prognathous-jawed creature, among other information he gave us, related that just below Ikondu there was an island called Maturu, whose people the “Kirembo-rembo” (lightning) had completely destroyed. “Who sent the Kirembo-rembo, my friend?” I asked. “Ah, who knows? Perhaps ‘Firi Niambi’”—the deity. “Were they all killed?” “All—men, women, children, goats, bananas, everything.”