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Inside such a house as has been described, and in many a smaller one, are born the children of Africa. At first and for a few days they are not black. I am told they are pink in colour and quite light, but that they soon darken. The mothers and grandmothers are very pleased to welcome new babies and bath and oil them carefully. Nearly all the women one meets about a village have children tied on their backs, or are followed by them toddling behind. These mites glisten in the sun as they are well oiled to keep their skins in good condition.

In some tribes very little children have no names. You ask the mother of an infant what she calls her baby, and she replies, “Alibe dzina”—It has no name. I once asked the father of a plump little infant what the name of his child was. He told me that it had not been named yet but that when the child would begin to smile and recognise people it would get a name. “Well,” I said, “when he smiles call him Tommy.” Months after I saw the child again, a fine boy he was too, and Tommy was his name. But alas! Tommy did not live more than two years. He took some child trouble and died.