Great simple children they were, unknown in the art of lying, and yet they repeat stories of bygone battles and slaughter, which they have heard and believed, as gospel truth.  Like Esau, with the smell of the field upon them, they love to listen, too, to stories of unknown lands, where the houses are even larger and finer than those of Cetinje or Podgorica, which towns many even have not seen; but too much of the outside world one cannot tell them, for then they look hurt at being deemed so childish.  They are curious, too, as are all children, and love to examine the clothes which we strange foreign creatures wear.  There they sit on the hard earthen floor, as happy and contented as princes, nay, more so, for they have no cares to trouble them.  They proffer us their tobacco tins, accepting ours in return, touching their caps as they do so; then the cigarette, deftly rolled, is lit by a glowing ember, which they rake from the fire, and the now burning cigarette is handed to us to light from.  Again we all touch our caps, for it is rigid etiquette, in accepting a light, to acknowledge the courtesy by a half military salute.  In the corner the calf will moan, and we, now half asleep, will stretch out our weary limbs, draw our coats and blankets over us, and to the murmur of the now subdued conversation, find forgetfulness in sweet sleep.

I remember a conversation with a boy of about fifteen, who was out shooting with me, and acting as my guide and beater.

It was nearing sunset, and we sat and rested on a ridge which overlooked both sides of the valleys.

He asked me so many questions that I asked him if he had never even been to Podgorica.

“No,” he said, “I shall never go.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I am content here.  If I went to that great town, I should be ashamed of my ragged clothes.  I should want to buy the beautiful things which they tell me are to be bought in the shops, and not having money I should be sad.  No; it is better never to have seen such magnificence.”

“But,” I argued, “if thou goest to Podgorica, thou wouldst find work.  Even I could get thee employment.”

“No,” he repeated; “my home is in the mountains.  In time I would have to return here, and I should be miserable with the remembrance of those happy days.”

This boy had been taught at the school, and he told me the capitals of the great countries, which were nothing more than empty names to him.  He knew, also, a few words of German, about two phrases, though how he picked them up was hard to make out.

He liked to ask me questions about England, Montenegro’s friend in past times of trouble, and seemed surprised to hear that I had seen snow before I came to his land.

His father said that the boy was stupid and a dreamer, but I thought differently of him.