The camp is usually an open glade, where the night is not so sudden in its fall. The shadows grow longer in the evening light, and the gray twilight deepens till the stars shine through. Then in the red glow of the camp-fire, phantom shadows and eerie forms flit to and fro, approaching towards us and receding into the darkness like spirits impelled by curiosity, and planning either play or mischief according to the mood of the observer. In the day the man is properly the master of his mood, but in this hour it is pleasant to relax and let the mood be master of the man, giving a free rein to fancy. Immediately after supper it was my custom to hold prayers with the carriers. Then, if the labour of the day has been easy, or a Sunday rest has intervened, they become more sociable and communicative than usual, and often prolong the evening with camp-fire stories. They are born orators and can tell a story to perfection, whether it be a fable handed down from others, or a narrative from their own experience. The knowledge of the native may be ever so limited and his thought meagre, but he can always give it appropriate and striking form and express himself in forceful and sometimes beautiful language. He never hesitates nor becomes incoherent; his words flow like a river and keep well within the course of his purpose. His gestures are animated and infinitely varied, sometimes grotesque, more often graceful, and always expressive. He has also a faculty of imitation beyond all men. For instance, two schoolboys (if we may leave the camp-fire for a while to digress upon this native talent for imitation)—two schoolboys sit talking together, myself paying no attention, when one of them imitates the clicking of my typewriter so that I immediately recognize it. A new clock has recently been placed in the school, and I recognize their imitation of its stroke. Again, I recognize the noise of the gasoline engine of the launch, _Dorothy_, now at half speed, now full speed, now running smoothly and now with the peculiar omission followed by a heavier stroke, due to a weak battery. A boy in talking to me refers to another boy by a name that I do not know, one with rather a peculiar countenance. I say: “I do not know of whom you are speaking.” He replies: “He looks like this”—slightly twisting his face into an exaggerated and ludicrous likeness of the other boy, which I instantly recognize.