But to return to our weather.  At first it was simply perfect.  Bright hot days—­not too hot, for a light breeze tempered even the midday heat—­and crisp, bracing nights succeeded each other during the first fortnight.  The country looked exquisitely green in its luxuriant spring tints over hill and dale, and the rich red clay soil made a splendid contrast on road and track with the brilliant green on either hand.  Still, people looked anxiously for more rain, declaring that not half enough had fallen to fill tanks or “shuits” (as the ditches are called), and it took four days of continuous downpour to satisfy these thirsty souls even for the moment.  Toward the middle of the month the atmosphere became more oppressive and clouds began to come up in thick masses all round the horizon, and gradually spread themselves over the whole sky.  The day before the heaviest rain, though not particularly oppressive, was remarkable for the way in which all manner of animals tried to get under shelter at nightfall.  The verandah was full of big frogs:  if a door remained open for a moment they hopped in, and then cried like trapped birds when they found themselves in a corner.  As for the winged creatures, it was something wonderful the numbers in which they flew in at the windows wherever a light attracted them.  I was busy writing English letters that evening:  I declare the cockroaches fairly drove me away from the table by the mad way in which they flung themselves into my ink-bottle, whilst the smell of singed moths at the other lamp was quite overpowering.  Well, after this came rain indeed—­not rain according to English ideas, but a tropical deluge, as many inches falling in a few hours as would fill your rain-gauges for months.  I believe my conduct was very absurd that first rainy night.  The little house had just been newly papered, and as the ceiling was not one to inspire confidence, consisting as it did merely of boards roughly joined together and painted white, through which and through the tiles beyond the sky could be seen quite plainly, I suffered the gravest doubts about the water getting in and spoiling my pretty new paper.  Accordingly, whenever any burst of rain came heavier than its immediate predecessor, I jumped out of bed in a perfect agony of mind, and roamed, candle in hand, all over the house to see if I could not detect a leak anywhere.  But the unpromising-looking roof and ceiling stood the test bravely, and not a drop of all that descending downpour found its way to my new walls.

By the way, I must describe the house to you, remarking, first of all, that architecture, so far as my observation extends, is at its lowest ebb in South Africa.  I have not seen a single pretty building of any sort or kind since I arrived, although in these small houses it would be so easy to break by gable and porch the severe simplicity of the unvarying straight line in which they are built.  Whitewashed outer walls with a zinc roof are not uncommon, and they make a