Now the mother takes her hoe, and, calling her little girl to help, hoes the young corn which is growing on the round hill behind the house.  I must tell you something about the little hill.  It looks like any other hill, you would think, and could hardly believe that there is anything very wonderful to tell about it.  But listen to me.

A great many years ago there was no hill there at all, and the ground was covered with small white ants.  You have seen the little ant-houses many a time on the garden-path, and all the ants at work, carrying grains of sand in their mouths, and running this way and that, as if they were busy in the most important work.  Oh, the little ants are very wise!  They seem to know how to contrive great things and are never idle.  “Go to the ant; consider her ways, and be wise,” said one of the world’s wisest men.

Well, on the spot where this hill now stands the white ants began to work.  They were not satisfied with small houses like those which we have seen, but they worked day after day, week after week, and even years, until they had built this hill higher than the house in which I live, and inside it is full of chambers and halls, and wonderful arched passages.  They built this great house, but they do not live there now.  I don’t know why they moved,—­perhaps because they didn’t like the idea of having such near neighbors when Sekomi began to build his hut before their door.  But, however it was, they went, and, patient little creatures that they are, built another just like it a mile or so away; and Sekomi said:  “The hill is a fine place to plant 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.