Mr. Becker funerals; six.

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Wednesday, September 18.—­Bitterly cold night; frost; glorious day.

Regular holiday; did precious little “leeraarts” (pastoral) work to-day; grand clean up; fine bookcase of big box; grand!

Baby[49] comes regularly now to clean up.

Tent very close to-day; hot weather; contemplating building house; busy with estimates to-day; will need about 3,500 bricks; such edifice will be real boon when hot weather sets in.

Our kitchen is palatial, and the admiration of the whole camp, and I guess hundreds have cast envious eyes upon it.  And yet within it is but 4 feet by 7 feet, its height is 5 feet 10 inches; but it has a pitch roof, with coffee tins beaten out to serve for zinc.  It is built of good, raw brick, and the walls are 4 inches thick, plus two more inches of substantial clay plaster.  It has a window without panes, and a doorless doorway, and yet a marvellous structure both in workmanship and usefulness.  Total cost about L3.  Let me not forget its chimney—­made of a half-sheet of zinc, and beaten into a cone (1s.).  Now with my mind’s eye I see the structure sparkling in the gentle moonbeams.  A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.  Enough!

Rigged up church again; little nearer in, and this afternoon three of us went and put everything geometrically straight—­poles, pegs, ropes, etc.—­to prevent second collapse.  We are going to sink heavy stones into the ground as anchors, and the whole structure we are going to make rigid with wire ropes.  This all to be done on the morrow.  It is going to serve as school; good!

There must be some two thousand children here, and yet I doubt if fifty go to school; pity; children run loose, absolutely neglected.

Too much sickness about; fear the deterioration.

Funerals this afternoon five; all children; “Heere, maak mij bekend mijne einde” (Lord, make me to know mine end).  May those graveside addresses bear fruit!

Called to 104, Hugo’s; great sorrow; baby died this morning; poor mother; talk about tears rolling down!  Let me not think on it!

179, Roelvert’s baby; convulsions after measles; also dying.

A mother’s heart:  the most delicate, mysterious, profound piece of architecture in creation.  Let a man not attempt to fathom its depths; there are mazes which he can never pass through; and there are recesses (illuminated, I guess) which he can just barely know of, let alone enter.

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Thursday, September 19.—­Two women cleared last night; burghers evidently in near neighbourhood.  There are always numbers of women who go to hills to collect wood, and for long, weary distances they carry their loads of oven wood, like so many Kaffir girls.  It hurts to watch them return.

Camp continually getting bigger; there must be some 800 tents now, and quite 5,000 souls.