Five years ago, a farm labourer said to me: “I do not know of a White man who ever stayed in any one of our homes. Would you stay with us? I think, Sir, that our circumstances would be too humble for you.” I said, “If it is good for you, it is good for me.” He said: “You would? Do you promise that you will?” I promised him. It was half a year before I took up the invitation. I arrived at the house just after sunset one evening. The house overlooked a misty plateau, and it was picturesque. It was a bitterly cold night. Chickens were scratching on the lawn, and a hunting dog lay in the doorway by a fire. His wife placed a candle with a candle-holder in my hand, and boiled some water for coffee (moerkoffie) on a wood-fired stove. I took this photo.
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