



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Yankee Girls in Zulu Land
By Louise Vescelius-Sheldon
Illustrations by G.E. Graves
Published by Worthington Co, New York.
This edition dated 1888.

Yankee Girls in Zulu Land, by Louise Vescelius-Sheldon.

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YANKEE GIRLS IN ZULU LAND, BY LOUISE VESCELIUS-SHELDON.

CHAPTER ONE.

New York City, _November_, 18--.

My Dear Children:

Your Affectionate Mother.

P.S. George wants to know what has set you thinking of going to South
Africa, where there are only Zulus and missionaries.  Of course if the
physician orders it for Frank's health, you know what is best.

CHAPTER TWO.

Well, it had rained, and snowed, and "fogged" for six months during the
year we were in London, and we had seen the sun only on ten separate
days during that period.  The doctor ordered a change of climate for
Frank, to a land of heat and sunshine, and advised us to go to South
Africa, that land of "Zulus and missionaries."

The old strain ran through my head, "From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strands, Where Afric's sunny fountains," etc, and as
anything that suggested sunshine, even if it were in a diluted state,
was what we wanted, we considered that a health excursion to the
antipodes was worth a trial, if it wrought the desired effect.

There lived in the house with us an African lady who had recently come
"home" for a trip to see the wonders of a civilised world.  You must not
imagine that by African I mean a Zulu or a <DW5> or Hottentot.  Oh,
dear, no!  The lady in question was as white as we, and very much more
fashionable.  She never tired of expatiating on the glories of her
country, its marvellous fertility, its thousands of miles of grasslands,
its myriads of birds of dazzling plumage and bewitching song, its flocks
of sheep, flocks so large that even their owners could only
approximately count their numbers, its mighty rivers, and above all, its
immense wealth in gold and diamonds.  Then the hospitality of the
farmers, the way in which they welcomed strangers and treated them to
the best of everything, was quite beyond the conception of any one who
had not visited this wonderful country.

These descriptions, tallying with the doctor's directions, decided us,
and having counted up our pounds, shillings, and pence, we made adieus,
packed our Saratogas, and took passage on board the mail steamer
_Trojan_, Captain Lamar, sailing from the London Docks.

We had left ourselves so very little time to make our final arrangements
that, as soon as the cab started, there commenced a running fire of
questions.

"Did you pack the gloves in the big box?"

"Did you put the thin dresses on top, for we shall want them in the
tropics," etc, when all of a sudden Louise sprang up with a gasp and a
shout:

"Stop the cab! stop the cab!"

"What for?"

"Stop the cab, I say!"

"She must be ill," we cried.  "Stop the cab!" and an unharmonious trio
immediately assailed the ears of the driver: "Stop the cab!"

The cab stopped.  "What's up anyhow?" inquired the London Jehu.

"I have left my diary on the dressing-table!"

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If any of you have kept a diary you will understand the dread horror
that overwhelmed us all at this awful announcement: one gasp, one moment
of terrible silence, and then--action.  "I must go back for it at once.
You go on.  I will take a hansom and gallop all the way.  If I miss the
boat, I will catch you at Dartmouth.  I would sooner die than have that
diary read!  Hi, driver!  Montague Place, Kensington!  A half-sovereign
if you drive as fast as you can."  Bang! slam! a rush! a roar! and
Louise is whirled away in the hansom cab, with the white-horse and the
dashing-looking driver, with a flower in his button-hole.  How the horse
flew!  What short cuts the driver took, darting across street-corners,
shaving lamp-posts and imperilling the lives of small boys and old women
selling apples, as only a London hansom-cab driver can!  Everybody turns
around as the white horse with the short tail, dragging the cab with its
pale-faced occupant, dashes down the street, through the squares, across
the park, round the crescent, where the policeman looks almost inclined
to stop it, until he sees the anxious look of the girl inside; up the
terrace, down two more streets, and finally, with a clatter, rattle,
bang, a plunge and a bump, horse, cab, and "fare" come to a standstill
at Montague Place.  The door is thrown open by the servant-girl.  "Have
you seen a red-covered book with a brass lock that I left on the
dressing-table in my room?"

"No, miss."

"Very well, where is Mrs--Oh