"During the years we were missionaries in British Central Africa, my husband and I heard many stories of the long, long ago. It was a great pleasure to the old grandfathers and grandmothers to find someone willing to listen to tales of the dark and terrible days before the white men brought both curse and blessing to the native people. "Some would be eager to tell legends and stories of strange ways long forgotten, with the hope that perhaps their stories might be written so that the old days would not be lost forever. Some of the legends are contained herein, just as I have heard them told...

Colored leaves, red, yellow, and brown, fluttered past George as he rode behind Woonsak in the long string of Indians and ponies. They were riding north and moving quickly. So many Indians moved along the path that George, who rode near the front of the line, could not see the end when he turned around to look. The farther they went, the more unhappy George became. For with every step, Neko (his faithful pony) took him farther and farther from his home and from Ma and Pa. Even the fluttering leaves seemed like little hands waving good-bye all the day long. So begins chapter seven of this...