my early corn."

There is but little hoeing to do this morning, and, while the work
goes on, Shobo, the baby, rolls in the grass, sucking a piece of
sugar-cane, as I have seen children suck a stick of candy. Haven't
you?

The mother has baskets to make. On the floor of the hut is a heap of
fine, twisting tree-roots which she brought from the forest yesterday,
and under the shadow of her grassy roof she sits before the door
weaving them into strong, neat baskets, like the one in which the men
carried their dinner when they went to hunt. While she works other
women come too with their work, sit beside her in the shade, and
chatter away in a very queer-sounding language. We couldn't understand
it at all; but we should hear them always call Manenko's mother
Ma-Zungo, meaning Zungo's mother, instead of saying Maunka, which you
remember I told you is her name. Zungo is her oldest boy, you
know, and ever since he was born she has been called nothing but
Ma-Zungo,--just as if, when a lady comes into your school, the teacher
should say: "This is Joe's mother," or "This is Teddy's mamma," so
that the children should all know her.

So the mother works on the baskets and talks with the women; but
Manenko has heard the call of the honey-bird, the brisk little chirp
of "Chiken, chiken, chik, churr, churr," and she is away to the wood
to follow his call, and bring home the honey.

She runs beneath the tall trees, looking up for the small brown bird;
then she stops and listens to hear him again, when close beside her
comes the call, "Chiken, chiken, chik, churr, churr," and there sits