s of the snipers afar off. We
have rigged up a sun shelter and have just dined, our "scoff" (Kaffir
for "grub") being bread and bully beef.

_Apropos_:

_First Yeoman_: "I say, is this bully beef American?"

_Second Yeoman_: "No, _'Orse_-tralian, I believe."

Wednesday, September 5th.

"The peaches are a-blooming,
And the guns are a-booming,
And I want you, my honey,
_Yus, I do_."

We had _reveille_ at a more Christian-like time this morning (4.30), and
moved out as supports to our other troop (Devons), who were advance
party. We number eighteen Sussex men, all told, in our ranks, and are
led by Mr. Stanley, a Somerset I.Y. officer, who on our last trip was in
charge of the Ross Gun Section, which consisted of two quick-firing Colt
guns. After bare trees, dry veldt and dusty tracks, it is a real treat
for one's eyes to see this fine district assuming its spring garb.
Through the bright green patches of oats and barley we rode, past peach
trees and bushes in full bloom, sometimes through a hedge of them, the
pink blooms brushing against one's cheek. Then we came to a bend of the
Crocodile River, with its rugged banks covered with trees and
undergrowth, and the water rushing swiftly along between and over the
huge rocks in its bed. This we forded at the nearest drift, the water
reaching up to the horses' bellies. The general idea was for us mounted
troops to clear the valley, and the infantry the ridges of kopjes. We
were soon being sniped at from the right and the left, by, I presume,
numerous small parties of Boers, and after riding about a mile were
dismounted behind a farmhouse, and took up a position on the banks of
the Crocodile. The scene was truly idyllic. Below us the river in this
particular place was placidly flowing, the various trees on its banks
were bursting out in their spring foliage, and birds were twittering
amongst them: indeed, one cheeky little feathered thing came and perched
on a peach tree covered in pink blossom close by and piped a matin to
me, and there was I, lounging luxuriously in the deep grass, a pipe in
my mouth, a Lee-Enfield across my knees, and a keen eye on the range of
kopjes opposite. Truly, the spring poet's opportunity, but alas, beyond
the few lines with which I have dared to head to-day's notes, I could do
naught in that line. Soon our artillery began throwing shrapnel on the
top of the objectionable height, and, later, the Mausers began to