I am no judge of oxen, and my views on the feeding of Kaffir sheep raised broad smiles on the black faces of my Mashona labourers.
I still lodged at Tant Mettie's, as everybody called Mrs.Klaas; she was courtesy aunt to the community at large, while Oom Jan Willem was its courtesy uncle.

They were simple, homely folk, who lived up to their religious principles on an unvaried diet of stewed ox-beef and bread; they suffered much from chronic dyspepsia, due in part, at least, no doubt, to the monotony of their food, their life, their interests.

One could hardly believe one was still in the nineteenth century; these people had the calm, the local seclusion of the prehistoric epoch.
For them, Europe did not exist; they knew it merely as a place where settlers came from.

What the Czar intended, what the Kaiser designed, never disturbed their rest.

A sick ox, a rattling tile on the roof, meant more to their lives than war in Europe.