September 4th.—­Shaw is quite well to-day, he says.  Selim is down with the fever.  My force is gradually increasing, though some of my old soldiers are falling off.  Umgareza is blind; Baruti has the small-pox very badly; Sadala has the intermittent.

September 5th.—­Baruti died this morning.  He was one of my best soldiers; and was one of those men who accompanied Speke to Egypt.  Baruti is number seven of those who have died since leaving Zanzibar.

To-day my ears have been poisoned with the reports of the Arabs, about the state of the country I am about to travel through.  “The roads are bad; they are all stopped; the Ruga-Ruga are out in the forests; the Wakonongo are coming from the south to help Mirambo; the Washensi are at war, one tribe against another.”  My men are getting dispirited, they have imbibed the fears of the Arabs and the Wanyamwezi.  Bombay begins to feel that I had better go back to the coast, and try again some other time.

We buried Baruti under the shade of the banyan-tree, a few yards west of my tembe.  The grave was made four and a half feet deep and three feet wide.  At the bottom on one side a narrow trench was excavated, into which the body was rolled on his side, with his face turned towards Mecca.  The body was dressed in a doti and a half of new American sheeting.  After it was placed properly in its narrow bed, a sloping roof of sticks, covered over with matting and old canvas, was made, to prevent the earth from falling over the body.  The grave was then filled, the soldiers laughing merrily.  On the top of the grave was planted a small shrub, and into a small hole made with the hand, was poured water lest he might feel thirsty—­they said—­on his way to Paradise; water was then sprinkled all ever the grave, and the gourd broken.  This ceremony being ended, the men recited the Arabic Fat-hah, after which they left the grave of their dead comrade to think no more of him,

September 7th.—­An Arab named Mohammed presented me to-day with a little boy-slave, called “Ndugu M’hali” (my brother’s wealth).  As I did not like the name, I called the chiefs of my caravan together, and asked them to give him a better name.  One suggested “Simba” (a lion), another said he thought “Ngombe” (a cow) would suit the boy-child, another thought he ought to be called “Mirambo,” which raised a loud laugh.  Bombay thought “Bombay Mdogo” would suit my black-skinned infant very well.  Ulimengo, however, after looking at his quick eyes, and noting his celerity of movement, pronounced the name Ka-lu-la as the best for him, “because,” said he, “just look at his eyes, so bright look at his form, so slim! watch his movements, how quick!  Yes, Kalulu is his name.""Yes, bana,” said the others, “let it be Kalulu.”

“Kalulu” is a Kisawahili term for the young of the blue-buck (perpusilla) antelope.

“Well, then,” said I, water being brought in a huge tin pan, Selim, who was willing to stand godfather, holding him over the water, “let his name henceforth be Kalulu, and let no man take it from him,” and thus it was that the little black boy of Mohammed’s came to be called Kalulu.