Read Ebook: Star Bright by Clifton Mark Stone David Illustrator

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Ebook has 175 lines and 11938 words, and 4 pages

VOICES OF AFRICA

AFRICA

Sphinx among continents,--the Nations strive To guess my ancient riddle; Greece essayed-- She drooped to death; upon me Rome set gyve-- She sank in her own bonds. The Persian laid His life down 'mid my deserts. For a day I smiled on each, then tore them for my play.

THE SAHARA

The ghosts of buried cities scale the air When Day wakes my mirage. The lion keeps My iron hills. The bones of men lie bare Where my thirst-sickle its rich harvest reaps. Time, like a little child, amid my sands Builds and unbuilds with feeble, listless hands.

EGYPT

The gods who dwell 'mid equatorial snows Bade Nilus cleave the waste, and I awoke. A giant, robed in mystery, I arose; The young world listened, breathless, when I spoke. My Sphinx Time's sister is; her brood lies hid Where dream the dead 'neath rock and pyramid.

CARTHAGE

Sidon sent forth her sons, her sons sent Tyre; The Desert's daughters bore a mighty race. The God whose brazen hands sloped to the fire Reared o'er me the red terror of his face. Rome, vengeful, trod me to the dust, and strowed With salt the site where once my powers abode.

ALEXANDRIA

The godlike Alexander wav'd his sword; Beneath its spell rose palace, mart and school, No gold so precious as my lightest word; My logos still the Faith of Man doth rule. Greek, Roman and Barbarian, East and West, Drank lore like milk from my most bounteous breast.

MOUNT ATLAS

Time haled the great Globe from my aching back And hung it 'mid the stars. Content I rest, The ocean's murmured music at my feet, The foldless flocks of cloudland round my crest. Pan walks with Faunus through my dreaming woods, And Dryads pace my leafy solitudes.

RUWENZORI

A diadem of changeless snow lies light Upon my regal head; my locks I shake, And, straightway, living waters take their flight. The iron bonds of Ancient Drought to break. A virgin, new-unveiled, I stand alone; Aeons will pass, but none unclasp my zone.

THE LAKES

Hand seeking hand, a peerless sisterhood, We watched for dawn through dark of murd'rous years Our sky-pure fringes mired with human blood, Our rain-sweet wavelets salt with human tears. Our tideless glasses gleam resplendently High o'er the rockings of the restless sea.

THE CONGO

THE ZAMBEZI

The spoils the sky had of the world-wide main I bear, new-gathered from ten thousand rills To where the thund'rous gates my steps enchain, Clogged with the wastage of a million hills. Thence, breaking forth in triumph, full and free, I render back my booty to the sea.

ZIMBABWE

I housed the brood of Carthage; they the earth Deep rifled for its treasure. On me fell The hand of Doom. No rumour speaks my birth, No legend shrines my death. My citadel Glares at the cold fane of my obscene god, O'er which the feet of ancient ruin trod.

THE SOUTHERN DESERTS

The wayward Spring, in dalliance afar, Forgets us for long seasons, till the sky Weeps for our burning woe; then, star on star, Rich blossoms from our glowing dunes arise. Thirst, with his legioned agonies, still stands Warding the barren empire of our sands.

THE BLACK PEOPLES

God smote us with an itch to dip our hands In one another's blood. Our long travail The ages hearken to. The ocean sands Than we are not more myriad. Men hale Us forth in chains o'er every moaning sea Foul with the trails of Man's iniquity.

KIMBERLEY

I sprang from 'neath the desert sand, and cast A double-handed shower of living gems I' the world's astonished visage. In my vast Black, echoing chasm, whence the bright diadems Of half Earth's thrones are furnish'd, I can hear The lost souls wander, wailing, far and near.

JOHANNESBURG

A maenad seated on a golden throne; My plaything is a nation's destiny; My feet are clay, my bosom is a stone; The princes of the Earth are fain of me, But, stark, before the splendour of my gates, The grim Boer, leaning on his rifle, waits.

THE WHITE COMMONWEALTHS

To-morrow unregarded, clean effaced The lesson of unhallowed yesterday, We rail against each other; interlaced Albeit are our fortunes. So we stray, Blind to the lurid writing on the wall, Deaf to the words Fate's warning lips let fall.

THE LEPERS.

The Magistrate sat in his office, deep in thought. Before him, on his desk, lay a pile of documents of foolscap size--clinical reports as to some forty odd natives in the district, who had been cursed by God with the most bitter of all curses--the disease of leprosy. The Magistrate noted that the documents were livid white in colour--a variation from the orthodox blue of the ordinary printed form, and even this trivial circumstance seemed to have an unpleasant significance.

It was a month since the receipt of the circular from the Government, directing that the long-dormant "Leprosy Repression Act" be put in force, and the District Surgeon had, in the interval, been busy riding from kraal to kraal in these locations where the disease existed, obtaining the voluminous data required in each individual case. This data had now been transferred to the fateful livid forms, the imposing pile of which the Magistrate was regarding with troubled eyes.

In response to a touch upon the bell a smart-looking native constable entered the room, and a message sent through him brought Galada, sergeant of the native police, and four of his men, who stood before the desk in an attentive line. After the Magistrate's order had been explained to them, Galada and his men left the room, went to where their horses stood, ready saddled, and rode forth respectively in five different directions. The sun was shining brightly. The season was early summer, but a light, refreshing breeze was making glad the land. The previous day had been hot, but a short thunderstorm at sunset had cleared the atmosphere and lowered the temperature, so the morning was sweet, as only a South African morning can be when cool, sea-born wind and gently ardent sunbeams flatter and caress.

Galada, the sergeant, took his course along the footpath which leads over the bush-covered "Black-water" Ridge. To his right arose, in precipitous terraces, the noble mass of the Umgano Mountain. The valleys were full of long lush grass, on which the sleek-limbed kine were greedily browsing. The long-tailed finches lilted over the reeds in anxious pursuit of their short-tailed, and therefore more nimble, mates; the crested lories called hoarsely from the mysterious depths of the jungle.

As the Sergeant reached the higher slopes of the ridge, the late flowers of retreating spring became more and more plentiful. The pink shields clustering around the orchid stems were full of struggling bees half-smothered in yellow pollen, while over each golden mass of mountain-broom a small cloud of butterflies hovered. Around the towering crags wheeled the chanting falcons, whose wild cries seemed to voice the very spirit of the mountain wilderness.

But Galada had neither eye nor ear for these things; his thoughts were almost wholly engrossed by the "beer-drink" which he knew was that day being held at the kraal of Headman Rolobele--an hour's ride away--among the foothills of the Drakensberg Range. He knew that there he would find all the headmen to whom he had to convey the Magistrate's message, as well as other good company, and an excellent brew of beer. Thus would be afforded a most fortunate opportunity of combining business and pleasure.

When Galada arrived at his destination he found the "beer-drink" in full swing. The men were all sitting in a circle before the main entrance to the cattle kraal, which was half-surrounded by a crescent of beehive-shaped huts. In the centre stood several immense earthenware pots full of the pink liquor, while several smaller pots, each with a cleft-calabash spoon floating in it, were circulating among the guests. Galada removed the saddle from his horse, let the animal loose to join the horses of the other visitors--which were being herded by a couple of boys. Then, after greeting the giver of the feast, he joined the circle of drinkers.

But the Sergeant was far too sensible a man to allow pleasure to interfere with duty to his own disadvantage, so after quenching his immediate thirst by emptying one of the largest of the secondary pots, he drew Rolobele and the other headmen aside for the purpose of communicating to them the Magistrate's message, while all were yet in a state of sobriety.

"This, then, is the word of Government," said he. "The people who have `the sickness' are to be gathered together at Izolo. From there they will be sent on in wagons to Emjanyana, where they will henceforth dwell. The Magistrate tells me to warn you that this word is a word which must be listened to and obeyed."

The four headmen looked at each other in silence for awhile. Then Rolobele spoke--

"Yes, we knew of the coming of the word and we will obey. With the old men and women there will be no difficulty, but with the young men--the son of Makanda, for instance--he will be a difficult bull to drive into the Emjanyana kraal."

"Oh, yes," replied Rolobele. "The doctor was here last week and found `the sickness' in his hand and his knee. But you knew, surely, that his mother died of it three years ago."

Across the heavy features of the youngest of the headmen--a man named Xaba--the ghost of a smile seemed to flit. Xaba had quite recently been appointed to the headmanship in succession to his father. There was enmity and jealousy between him and Mangele. Both had been paying their addresses to the same girl, and the suit of Mangele had prospered. He had, as a matter of fact, already paid more than one instalment of the "lobola" cattle , and the wedding was expected to take place within a few months.

After giving full instructions as to the collection of the unfortunate sufferers, Galada, accompanied by the others, returned to the beer-feast with a clear conscience. After removing his uniform to prevent its getting soiled, he borrowed a blanket from Rolobele and gave himself up to enjoyment.

Mangele was the "great son" of his father, who was so old and infirm that he slept away his days and took no further interest in life. When the weather was cold he lay all day long on his mat next to the fireplace in his hut--a little boy being always on duty to prevent the fire either going out or setting the old man's mat or blanket alight. In mild weather he lay outside in the open. When the sun stung he sought the shady side of the hut, and groaned grievously when the pursuing sunbeams forced him to shift his quarters.

Makanda was a rich man, and, as the greater portion of his riches belonged to his "great house," such would, consequently, fall to Mangele. The latter had many half-brothers who were older than himself, but, his mother having been the "great wife," he took precedence of the rest of the family.

A few years previously Mangele's mother, who had been afflicted with leprosy for many years, died miserably. Mangele, when little more than a boy, had quarrelled with his father and run away from home, meaning to return no more. He wandered far and near--sometimes working at the docks at Cape Town or East London--sometimes at the gold or diamond mines. The love of home is always very deep in the Kaffir, and Mangele came to find the longing to return to his father's kraal so strong, that he could no longer withstand it. For some months previously he had suffered from a feeling of painful weakness in his left hand and wrist, which had made it difficult for him to use pick or shovel.

Upon his return Mangele found that his mother had died recently, and that his father had become very feeble in mind and body. But the old man welcomed him with open arms. Makanda had been badly treated by his other sons, who, after the fashion in such cases, had begun to despoil him of his property in the most barefaced manner. Soon after his "great son's" return old Makanda formally abdicated the headship of the family in his favour and thenceforth spent most of his days and all his nights in peaceful, dreamless slumber.

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