and
delicate, like jewellers' ornaments. These are Lee-Metford bullets. You
could pick up a pocketful in a short time.

The action itself was mainly an infantry one. Here are one or two
jottings taken that day:--

"_November 26th_, 7.30 A.M.--We left camp, six miles south of Modder
River, a little before daylight and marched north. The country is like
what one imagines a North American prairie to be, a sea of whitish,
coarse grass, with here and there a low clump of bushes (behind one of
which we are halted as I write this). One can see a vast distance over
the surface. Along the north horizon there is a ripple of small hills
and kopjes, looking blue, with the white grass-land running up to them.
It is a comparatively cool morning with a few light clouds in the sky
and a pleasant breeze. On our left is the railway, and all along on our
right, extending far in front and far behind, advances the army."

"We incline to the left near to the railway. The horrid, little,
grey-bluish, armoured train crawls in front. It is dreadfully excited
always in presence of the enemy, darting forward and then running back
like a scorpion when you tease it with your stick-end. One can see by
its agitation this morning that the enemy are not far off. Behind it
comes a train of open trucks with the famous Naval Brigade, with their
guns, search-light, &c. The river flows somewhere across the landscape
yonder in the plains. One cannot see it, but a few belts of bushes
indicate its course. It is just that awkward moment before one gets
touch of the enemy. They, no doubt, can see us (I wonder how they like
the look of us), but we cannot see them. They must be somewhere along
the river among those bushes, and probably in trenches. But where does
their main strength lie? where are their guns? There goes fire, away on
the right (probably at the Lancers, who are the right flankers); the
dull short discharge of Mausers. The train moves forward a hundred
yards, but as yet the men keep their places, clustered in the trucks.
Two officers standing on a carriage roof watch with a telescope the
distant fire. It has now ceased. A flag-wagger flutters his flag in
eager question. Nothing moves on the plain save here and there a lonely
prowling horseman, cantering on, or dismounted and peering through his
glass. It was three minutes to eight when the first shot was fired.
'This will be a bit more history for the kiddies to learn,' yawns the
next man to me,