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Well, it so happens that I am sitting writing this story in a native hut in Africa, many thousands of miles away from you; and if any of you wanted to come and join me here and see for yourselves, you would have to travel a good many weeks to reach me. Will you let me first try to describe this house I am in, and the village of which it is part, as being what most African huts and villages are like, and in which black boys and girls are born and play.

This hut is a square one, and a good deal larger than you would imagine. It is the size of a small cottage at home. Long ago most of the huts were round, I believe, and indeed many of them are so yet. But square ones have come into fashion here, for even in far-off Africa there is such a thing as fashion, and it can change too. This hut is divided into three rooms. The middle one is provided with a door to the front and another to the back. The rooms on each side have very small windows like spy holes looking out to each end. All round the house runs a verandah which prevents the fierce rays of the sun from beating against the walls of the house and throws off the heavy showers of rain of the wet season clear of the house. The whole house is built of grass and bamboos, and is smeared over with mud inside and out. The roof, supported by stout cross beams in the middle of the partition walls in which other forked beams stand, slopes not very steeply down to the verandah posts which hold up its lower edges. It is heavily thatched with fine long grass. The owner knows by experience what a tropical thunder-shower means, so he leaves nothing to chance in thatching his house.