found.

Retief recovered the cattle and with one hundred burghers visited the Zulu royal kraal and returned them to Dingaanzulu. After the cattle were driven in the Zulu chief sent for the Boer leader, ostensibly to arrange about the land grant. He insisted that the Boers were now his friends and, as such, should leave their weapons outside the royal kraal and enter unarmed. The ruthless Zulu chief said that this would be "an evidence of the good hearts of the white men."

With great foreboding Retief did as he was asked. With his hundred men he went into the kraal and found Dingaanzulu in the most friendly frame of mind. After fraternization the chief told the Boers that a great celebration had been prepared in their honor, and that night there was feasting, dancing, and much speech-making in front of the great fires.

I have often heard what happened next. It is history with us and tradition with the Zulus, Swazis, and other natives of our section of the Transvaal. The story was first told me by an old Zulu who was a sort of farm-helper at our home when I was a little fellow. He claimed to have been there, and from his evidence I believe he was.

"There was a great feast and all the fires were lighted," he said. "Many cattle had been killed and all the royal impis (regiments) were in full costume. These were the picked men of all Zululand, and they danced for a long time before the fires.

"Dingaanzulu sat with the white leader, and they drank tswala (kaffir beer) together. Often they would shake hands, and it was as though they were brothers. All the other white men sat near the fires in front of the king. They, too, had much tswala and plenty to eat.

"When it was quite late and the moon shone through the flames of the dying fires, many of the royal impi gathered behind those who were dancing and waited for a sign from Dingaanzulu. Soon this came, and then the killing! Dingaanzulu stood up and threw his leopard-skin cloak about his shoulders. This was the sign. The waiting warriors dashed through the dancers and threw themselves upon the white men. Assegais flashed, and the Boer leader dashed to his men. These held together and fought the impis with bare hands. Some of the white men were very strong and tore assegais from the warriors and fought with them, stabbing, and stabbing, and stabbing!

"But there were hundreds, even thousands, of Zulus to each white man, and the fight could not last long. All the white men were killed, and some were stabbed scores of times before they died. I do not know how their leader died, but we found him with a broken assegai in his hand and seven dead warriors about him."

As soon as Dingaanzulu had murdered Retief and his band, he sent his impis to kill all the remaining members of the expedition. My grandfather and his brother were in charge of the main encampment, or laager, at Weenan, which means "Weeping," or "Place of Sorrow." The wagons had been formed into a hollow square, and the Boers finally drove off the Zulus after a fight lasting several days. Hundreds of the savages were killed, and the Boers lost a large number of men who could ill be spared.

Then my grandfather and his party settled in the district surrounding Majuba Hill. His brother founded the place known as "O'Neil's Farm" at the foot of Majuba, while my grandfather established and named the village of Belfast on the top of the hill. Following this he moved to Potchefstroom, and from there north-east, where he established the Republic of Lydenburg. These various little republics were discontinued, or rather merged into the modern form of government, when the Boers became sufficiently numerous and communications were established.

After the establishment of the Republic of Lydenburg my grandfather discovered Rietvlei, the "Valley of Reeds," which has been the O'Neil homestead ever since.

The massacre of Retief and his devoted band is celebrated yearly by a three-day holiday in the Transvaal and Orange Free State. The celebration is in the nature of a memorial service, followed by rejoicing. About every eighty miles throughout the Boer country a spot is designated, and the burghers, with their families, trek to this place. This trek is symbolic of the "Great Trek" in which their ancestors died. On the first day of the celebration there is a sham battle in which the fight at Weenan is acted again, and the last two days are given over to religious services and the festivities.

All self-respecting Boer families join in the Dingaan Day celebration, many of them coming scores of miles to do so. The children are taught the story of "the day" in the schools, and it is probably the most important civic celebration of the year.

Piet Potgier's party was entirely wiped out, none surviving attacks made by the combined impis of the Zulus and Basutus.

CHAPTER II

Rietvlei, the "Valley of Reeds"—The O'Neil homestead—Pioneer hardships—The war against Maleuw, "The Lion"—"Slim Gert" O'Neil breaks the power of the Makateese king—Jafta, King of the Mapors—My boyhood and "Jass"—Sibijaan, "The Skunk," becomes my pal—My first trousers nearly cost me an eye—Our toy factory and mimic battles—Oom Tuys Grobler tells of Swaziland and King Buno, "The Terrible."

Rietvlei is one of the most beautiful accidents of nature I have ever seen. To properly appreciate this wonderful Valley of Reeds, it should be approached across the high veldt. To reach it in this way is to receive a thrill that is seldom felt when viewing any scene. It is set like a jewel in the wilderness of the veldt and seems more like a sunken oasis than anything else. Time and time again I have been almost startled when I suddenly saw Rietvlei.

As you ride across the high veldt you are struck by its utter barrenness and the thousands of ant-hills on all sides. The wild grasses, browned by the sun, are higher than your horse's belly and far in the distance are the barren hills. The veldt, with its altitude of about seven thousand feet, is much like the plains of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. It is almost desert. Hundreds of times I have crossed this veldt on my hairy Boer pony and always the same thing has happened. Several times, sometimes scores of times, springbok, blesbok, or duiker, the antelopes of the veldt, have jumped to their feet and scampered off through the tall grass. My pony would give one leap and then dash madly after them. If I was day-dreaming, I was likely to find myself unhorsed and facing a chase after my active steed. However, one gets used to such interruptions and it was seldom that I did not enjoy the chase. It is no use to think that a Boer pony can be prevented from pursuing these antelope; he is trained to do it from the first time he feels a saddle, and his quickness often makes it possible for the shot that provides fresh meat that night in camp.

After miles and miles of veldt, with the distant hills seeming to recede as one goes on, the fascination of space loses its grip and the fatigue of monotony follows. About the time I would begin to feel like a sailor adrift in mid-ocean the blessed relief would come—I would reach Rietvlei!

My pony would come to a sudden stop on the rim of a great precipice and thousands of feet below I would see the Valley of Reeds with the settlement that meant home. The high veldt breaks off abruptly, as though cut with a giant knife, exactly like parts of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado in America. Since the beginning of time the little rivers of Rietvlei have worn down the veldt until they have hollowed out thousands and thousands of acres. From the