should have completed my whole series of photographs of African
subjects. They are now, unfortunately, lost forever; for they were left
behind in the bush during my hurried retreat from Ashango-land, as will
be related in the sequel.

When the last boat which took on board the Captain and the live animals
left the shore for the vessel, I trembled for the safety of the cargo,
for the surf was very rough. The negroes, however, could have managed to
get her safely through if they had not been too careful. They were
nervous at having a white man on board, and did not seize the proper
moment to pass the breakers; their hesitation was very near proving
fatal, for a huge billow broke over them and filled the boat. It did
not, happily, upset, but they had to return. Captain Berridge thus
escaped with a wetting, and the Potamochoerus and eagles were half
drowned. As to poor Tom, the bath, instead of cooling his courage, made
him more violent than ever. He shouted furiously, and as soon as I
opened the door of his cage he pounced on the bystanders, clinging to
them and screaming. A present of a banana, which he ate voraciously,
quieted him down, and the passage was again tried in the afternoon with
a better result.

THE CLOUD

_By_ PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits,
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder;
It struggles and howls by fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;