All these wonderful things the men have seen, and Manenko listens to
their stories until the moon is high and the stars have almost faded
in her light. Then her father and Zungo come home, bringing the
antelope and buffalo meat, too tired to tell their story until the
next day. So, after eating supper, they are all soon asleep upon the
mats which form their beds. It is a hard kind of bed, but a good one,
if you don't have too many mice for bedfellows. A little bright-eyed
mouse is a pretty creature, but one doesn't care to sleep with him.

These are simple, happy people; they live out of doors most of the
time, and they love the sunshine, the rain, and the wind. They have
plenty to eat,--the pounded corn, milk and honey, and scarlet beans,
and the hunters bring meat, and soon it will be time for the wild
water-birds to come flocking down the river,--white pelicans and brown
ducks, and hundreds of smaller birds that chase the skimming flies
over the water.

If Manenko could read, she would be sorry that she has no books;
and if she knew what dolls are, she might be longing every day for a
beautiful wax doll, with curling hair, and eyes to open and shut. But
these are things of which she knows nothing at all, and she is happy
enough in watching the hornets building their hanging nests on the
branches of the trees, cutting the small sticks of sugar-cane, or
following the honey-bird's call.

If the children who have books would oftener leave them, and study
the wonders of the things about them,--of the birds, the plants, the
curious creatures that live and work on the land and in the air and
water,--it would be better for them. Try it, dear children; open your