



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! there you are!  Oh! please, have you seen
a brass book with a red lock, that I left on the--Why, there it is in
your hand!  Oh, thank you ever so much!  I know you were going to bring
it to me.  Good-bye!  I shall be just in time.

"London Docks!  Cabman, quick!  Catch the _Trojan_ before she leaves."
"All right, miss!"  A twist, a plunge, a flick with the whip, and the
bob-tailed nag is half-way down Oxford Street before the astonished
landlady can realise the fact that her chance of finding out all the
secrets of Miss Louise is gone forever.

Meanwhile Eva and Frank are anxiously awaiting her arrival on board the
ship: they have visited their state-room and seen their luggage
carefully stored away, and are now left with nothing to do but speculate
as to the result of Louise's expedition.  Presently the clanging of the
bell on the bridge gives warning that the warps are to be cast off,
there is a rush to the gangway of the weeping friends of the passengers,
and the hoarse cry passes along the quay: "Ease her off gently there!
Forward!  Stand by the cast-off!"  The two girls are almost in despair,
and have resigned themselves to the possible postponement of the
journey, for Louise's catching the boat at Dartmouth seems to them only
a bare possibility; when the people idling on the quay suddenly part
from side to side, and a hansom cab with the self-same short-tailed
"white" horse and knowing-looking driver dash triumphantly up the
gangway, already in course of being drawn from the ship, and deposit the
diary (for that seems to be for the moment of the most importance) and
Louise into the arms of the quartermaster.  Blessings on that London
hansom cab, its horse, and knowing driver.  They had nobly done their
duty and at 11:29, one minute before the ship casts off to drop down the
river, the three sisters with the recovered diary are safe on board the
steamer.

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Moral: Don't keep a diary.

CHAPTER THREE.

Soon after nightfall the lights along the coast began to fade slowly out
of sight, at length entirely disappearing, and we were left in our
little world bounded by the bulwarks of the ship, with the ocean on all
sides, and the star-studded heaven above, sailing out into that "summer
voyage of the world," as it is called.  Certainly to us the recollection
of it is like a long, happy summer's dream, passed under the bluest of
skies by day, and the brightest of stars by night.  On the sixth day
after leaving Dartmouth (a long passage, we were told) we sighted the
beautiful Island of Madeira.  The weather had cleared, the air was
deliciously fresh and balmy, the sea calm; and every one on deck to view
the purple cloud slowly rising from the sea, which, they informed us,
was Madeira.

Gradually the cloud assumed shape, then deeper shadows appeared here and
there, till at last we could discern the graceful uplands, the mountain
island, and the fantastically formed rocks strewn along the coast, with
the sea breaking into foam on the picturesque beach.

For half an hour we skirted along the coast, seeing no other signs of
human habitation than an occasional hut among the boulders on the
cliffs, until, rounding a point, we came suddenly upon the beautiful
village of Funchal, which is built on the beach of a romantic bay, with
the verdant hills rising in grassy terraces in every direction.  Low,
white stone buildings peeped out from small forests, and the air was
soft and balmy as it gently fanned the cheek, giving one a delicious
sense of rest and warmth, only to be felt and appreciated on the borders
of the tropics after a cold, damp, cheerless English winter.  Scarcely
had we dropped anchor ere the deck of the ship was swarming with men and
women from the shore, offering for sale native work of every
description, wicker basket chairs, sofas, tables, inlaid work-boxes,
feather flowers, parrots, canaries, such lovely embroidery, and, what
was most acceptable to many of us, the varied fruits of the island.
Whilst feasting ourselves with bananas, mangoes, oranges, etc, we had an
opportunity of observing the strange jumble of humanity on our decks,
and surrounding the ship in row-boats of all sizes and shapes.  Scores
of half-nude, dark-skinned boys were in the boats chattering and
tempting passengers to throw coins into the water for them to dive
after, and the amount of dexterity they displayed in diving after a
sixpence, catching it before it had sunk apparently more than five or
six feet, sometimes bringing it up between their toes, was truly
remarkable.

On the deck everything was noise and confusion; the sailors at work
unloading cargo were hustling the swarthy half-breed Portuguese peddlers
out of their way, while they, with one eye on their customers and
another on their wares (for Mr Jack Tar is not at all particular about
throwing overboard anything that happens to be in his way), were
chattering away in a polyglot tongue half English and half Portuguese,
praising their own goods and deprecating their neighbours'.

They will take generally before they leave the ship less than one-half
what they ask for their goods when they first come aboard, and we
noticed that passengers who had been to Madeira before did not attempt
to make a bargain until the vessel was just about to start.  As we were
to remain at anchor five or six hours we wished to take a run on shore,
and, together with a married lady and her husband, chartered one of the
queer cheese-box-looking boats for the expedition.

All appears delightfully clear while in the distance: the convent on the
<DW72>, and the green hill itself, form an agreeable background; but
ashore the prospect changed, and the streets