He says,
"Oh, yes," but seems to have lost something of great value recently,
and not to be quite clear where. Only manner, I suppose. When M.
Forget has got his mails he goes, and the Eclaireur goes on; indeed,
she has never really stopped, for the water is too deep to anchor in
here, and the terrific current would promptly whisk the steamer down
out of Talagouga gorge were she to leave off fighting it. We run on
up past Talagouga Island, where the river broadens out again a
little, but not much, and reach Njole by nightfall, and tie up to a
tree by Dumas' factory beach. Usual uproar, but as Mr. Cockshut
says, no mosquitoes. The mosquito belt ends abruptly at
O'Soamokita.
Next morning I go ashore and start on a walk. Lovely road, bright
yellow clay, as hard as paving stone. On each side it is most
neatly hedged with pine-apples; behind these, carefully tended,
acres of coffee bushes planted in long rows. Certainly coffee is
one of the most lovely of crops. Its grandly shaped leaves are like
those of our medlar tree, only darker and richer green, the berries
set close to the stem, those that are ripe, a rich crimson; these
trees, I think, are about three years old, and just coming into
bearing; for they are covered with full-sized berries, and there has
been a flush of bloom on them this morning, and the delicious
fragrance of their stephanotis-shaped and scented flowers lingers in
the air.
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