Jungle Rhythm by Dan Bailey I SEE you are looking inquiringly at that picture on the wall. You say perhaps it is the marking place of something that once meant much in my life? Well, yes; you might call it that. In reality it is a grave, the grave of a simple native deep in the heart of the jungle. You wonder why it holds such a place of honor in my study? Sit down and let me tell you of the person that lies in that crude tomb. Our safari, which had been outfitted by a wealthy manufacturer, was entering Africa in search of ivory, and although our route was one over which I had never traveled, I held in my possession the exact location of the hunting place for the elephants. I also had the somewhat disturbing information that in the vicinity of our destination there were two tribes of natives, one of which was friendly to the white man. The other was reputed to be a tribe of savages that hated any invasion of their realm, especially by those after ivory, which they worshipped as a token of their God. However, our arrangements had been made to set up headquarters in the village of the friendly tribe and continue the expedition from there. I remember that as our pack train started along the tree-sheltered paths leading us to the interior I became conscious of a feeling that I had never experienced on any of my previous expeditions. I can't explain what it was I felt, but it seemed as if the shrubbery and the heavy, tangled branches of the trees were all telling me to go back. The still, dark shadows that overlapped the path and caressed my face, as we proceeded farther, seemed to whisper of a danger and a terror the like of which I had never before seen, but as I never allowed myself to believe in premonitions of any kind, I dismissed these things as merely the call to danger I always felt at the beginning of some new adventure. Still as we moved closer to the center of the jungle, the feeling grew until it was climaxed by the discovery of the half-skinned body of a native lying by the side of the path. I was told by the native guide that this was the work of the hostile savages whom we might encounter in our quest. Our arrival at the village caused a day of great festivities. There is no one in all the world who will grasp a chance for a ceremony like an African native. We received a speech of welcome from the chief and were then escorted to our huts with a hospitality that was a pleasure to see. We were also informed that there would be a dance of honor given for us that night. I assured them that we would come, and then set about putting up our apparatus prior to the time when we must continue our journey into the jungle. It was that night during the festivities that I first saw the person who was to become so definitely a part of my life. While we were eating the African delicacies that had been prepared for us and watching the ceremonial dances, I noticed one native who didn't join in the activities. He sat apart from the rest, holding his food almost mechanically; and as he ate, his eyes never left the fire. For some minutes I couldn't take my eyes away from the small dark-skinned figure who sat so still and whose mind seemed to be so far from the gayety around him. His head had a peculiar shape, and the heavy, drooping eyelids covered eyes in which there was a glow like that made by a small candle just before it sputters and goes out. Finally I could no longer contain my curiosity about the little man and his seemingly self-inflicted seclusion. Turning to the chief, I inquired trie reason. "Bwanna," said the chief. "That is Togo. He strange, not like other men of tribe. He never hunt. He never dance. No can think, only thoughts of child." "You mean," I said, "he has no mind?" The look of sorrow and pain that came into the eyes of the chief was pitiful to see. "No, Bwanna. Only mind of child." For the rest of the evening I sat watching the little figure. To be a moron in this primitive land where nobody could understand how or why he was that way, and so to become the laughing stock of all his brother men, made him an object of great pity. When the ceremonies were drawing to a close, I got up and went over to Togo. He didn't take his eyes away from the fire. I repeated his name, but without success. Then I bent over and touched him on the shoulder. Instantly he sprang to his feet, his once vacant eyes now filled with stark terror. He crouched and began backing away from me, his eyes searching my face. I held out my hand and spoke softly. "Togo, Togo. Would you like some candy?" I held out some of the hard-tack we had brought for the natives. He looked at the candy, then at me, then at the candy again; but I could see the sight of it brought no understandable picture to his poor mind. "Here," I continued, "It won't hurt you. It's good good." For a moment he seemed to understand and started to put out his hand for the sweets, but as I stepped forward to give them to him, he uttered a yelp like that of a hurt puppy and ran wildly off into the night. I watched him go and became aware of a figure standing beside me. It was the chief, who had silently witnessed the scene. "Poor Togo," he said slowly. "Him not understand. Him only think as child. It is bad; the witch doctor make people of tribe believe Togo evil spirit, so they hate him. They do not know him think only as child." For the next few days I watched Togo as he went about his work, watched him as he carried water to all the huts and saw how the people made fun of him. But somehow he didn't seem to notice them or perhaps it would be better to say he suffered without complaining for it seemed there was always a dullness in his eyes, a light made by years and years of unceasing mental torture inflicted by his brother men. And yet, beneath that look of anguish there seemed to smolder something else a desire. A desire for something that he either couldn't find or wasn't allowed to have because of the superstition against him. I felt sorry for the poor little devil and (Continued on Page 21 page THREE