ugh yesterday was, in parts, more charming than
this. One little village, called Zeekooe, was a particularly pleasant
spot, the houses being half-hidden by the white pear blossoms, the pink
peach, and the various green foliages of the trees, for this is Spring,
when "the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," and here
am I ----, well, well!! Even my old foe, the two-inch thorn bush, has
assumed a light-green muslin bridal veil. All this bursting into leaf is
most refreshing, to me at least, and I doubt not no less welcome to the
noble Boer sniper, who now gets more cover than was possible a month
ago. As we left camp, he was sniping away merrily, and about as
ineffectively as usual. When we crossed the kopjes to get to this valley
we came by way of a fine mountain road. Sheer down below us rushed the
river Magaliz, crystal clear, splashing and bubbling over the big rocks
in its bed, with weeping willows dipping down from amidst the thick
undergrowth on its banks, while now and again a garden from a farm near
ran to its edge, with vivid patches of young oats and lemon trees. On
arrival in camp, we heard that some Boers had been discovered in some
undergrowth, by a stream on our left flank, so we set off, and beating
it got six armed.

The barbed-wire curse is great in this Eden-like valley, and when you
consider that the advance mounted parties have to go straight ahead
through fields and back gardens, the garden walls of which are
invariably represented by barbed-wire fencing, you can comprehend that
our work is more often than not, no easy matter, especially as
wire-nippers are as rare as brandies and sodas, and even when possessed
are not much assistance in surmounting the wide and deep irrigation
cutting, which is often on the other side of the fence. Again, bogs are
not infrequently come across--_across_, by the way, is hardly the word
to use. Only a few days ago I was riding towards what I deemed to be a
passable ford, when I met a Rough Rider (72nd I.Y.) coming back from it.
I casually asked him if it was all right, to which he replied that it
was a bit boggy, and then incidentally added, "We've just shot one of
our fellows' horses that got stuck and we couldn't get out." Whereupon I
took a more circuitous route, a proceeding which I did not regret, when
later, I saw the poor, horseless Rough toiling in the broiling sun, his
huge saddle covering his head and shoulders, after the tail of the
convoy,