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brass wire about their necks, wrists and ankles,
while their bodies were smeared with red paint
and grease. Some of the men inserted the neck
of a gourd in each ear; in these receptacles they
carried tobacco and lime, obtained by burning
shells, while the women pierced their upper lips,
gradually enlarging the opening till they could
insert a shell. Each tribe spoke a different lan-
guage, and most were at war with one another.
When they agreed to become friends they made a
slight gash in the hands, or right cheek and fore-
head, and tasting each the blood of the other, .be-
come “blood relations!”

Sometimes these tribes fled at the approach of
Stanley and his men; sometimes they gathered in
great crowds to gaze upon them; and again, in
war paint and feathers, with bells on their ankles
and knees, flourishing battle-axes and assegais,
they attacked the travellers like packs of wolves.

For eleven months the determined Stanley had
led his: men, sometimes coaxing the weary, half-
starved ones, and sometimes whipping the insub-
ordinate. The feet of some were bleeding from
thorns, and others had fallen by disease. Not
one word had yet been heard of Livingstone.
Once the young explorer, alone with savages, was
well-nigh discouraged, but he wrote in his journal :
“No living man shall stop me—only death can
prevent me. But death —not even this; I shall
not die —[ will not die—I cannot die! Some-
thing tells me I shall find him and— write it
larger — FIND HIM, FIND HIM. Even the words
are inspiring.”

One day a caravan passed, and they asked the
news. ‘The reply was that there was a white man
at Ujiji on Lake Tanganyka— he had just reached
there.

Stanley’s heart beat at the announcement.

“Ts he young or old?” he asked.

“He isold. He has white hair on his face, and
he is sick.”

With enthusiasm, yet hardly daring to hope,
Stanley pushed on, travelling night and day until
they came in sight of Ujiji.

“Unfurl the flags and load the guns!” shouted
Stanley, his nerves for the first time quivering
with excitement. The Stars and Stripes floated out
with the Zanzibar flag, and fifty guns thundered
over the plain. They were immediately surrounded
by hundreds of Africans, who shouted “ Yamdbo,
yambo, bana!” These were words of welcome.

Suddenly from the crowd a voice called out,
“ Good morning, sir!”

Startled by English words, Stanley replied,
“Who the mischief ate you?”

“T am Susi, the servant of Doctor Living-
stone!”

Then a thrill went through Stanley’s soul. The
fatigues and the perils of the long, weird year were
as though they had not been.

LITTLE BIOGRAPHIES.—HOW

SUCCESS LS WON.

Susi ran back to his master, and soon the worn,
gray-bearded Livingstone and the young Ameri-
can stood before each other. They clasped hands
warmly, a strange tie uniting them at once.

“T thank God, Doctor, I have been permitted
to see you,” Stanley uttered from his heart.

“T feel grateful that 1am here to welcome you,”
was the response of the white-haired man, who,
without wife or children, receiving no letters for
years, with food only for a month, was hoping
against hope for aid.

For four months these two fearless men talked
and planned and explored together, the one re-
counting his privations and disappointments, the
other feeling that he must take up the work
which the noble Livingstone would soon lay down
forever. At length the day of parting came, for
the great traveller could not be prevailed upon
to go home, feeble though he was. His journals,
in waterproof canvas cover, were sealed and given
to Stanley, his letters written, supplies left him
for four years, and then the two men wrung each
other’s hands in silence, and Stanley, with choking
voice, gave the word to his men: “Right about
face! March!”

Livingstone never looked upon a white face again.
For a year he struggled on, fording the rivers on
the shoulders of his men, till, too weak to walk, he
was carried on a litter to the village of lala. At
four o’clock in the morning, May 1, 1872, Susi
entered the doctor’s tent to see if he might need
something. The latter was kneeling by the bed-
side, as if in prayer, his head buried in his hands
on the pillow, but quite cold and dead. For two
weeks his faithful servants dried the precious body
in the sun, and then, enclosing it in a bark case,
daubed with tar (pretending to bury it, as the
superstitious people would not let a dead body
pass through the land), they carried it on their
shoulders for nine long months, one thousand five
hundred miles, over rivers and through swamps to
the seacoast, where it was taken to England and
buried in Westminster Abbey. The great of the
earth gathered at that funeral. Among the pall
bearers was the negro lad who had borne the body
over the sea, Jacob Wainwright, and the young
American, Stanley, but for whom Livingstone
would probably have been buried on African soil.

Meantime Stanley had reached England, to find

- that after all his hardships, his statements about

Livingstone were disbelieved. The delivery of
the journals and the letters, however, proved the
truth. The Royal Geographical Society then pre-
sented him with a gold medal, and the Queen sent
him a gold snuff box, with “V. R.” set in brilliants
on the top.

But Stanley’s work was far from completed.
To his joy, the London Daily Telegraph now united
with the Mew York Herald to send him again to
Africa to continue Livingstone’s work. He at once