shall march 50,000 strong. The line is choked with troop trains,
batteries, siege guns, naval guns, and endless truckloads of stores and
provisions. _At last!_ is every one's feelings. The long waited for
moment has come. You know a hawk's hover? Body steady, wings beating,
and then the rushing swoop. So with the army. We have hovered steady
here these two months with our wings stretched. Now we swoop.

Far out on the left flank our little body of fifteen has been in a great
state of suspense for several weeks. We knew the great tide of advance
was setting up from Orange River to the Modder, and as no orders came
for us, we began to think we should be out of it. Then one evening, as I
was sitting on some boulders above camp looking out over the country, I
saw Chester Master riding in from headquarters with a smile on his face,
and the sort of look that a man has who brings good news. Down I
clambered. Yes, it had come. We were to move that night. The advance had
begun, and we were off on an all-night march to catch up French. What a
change came over the men! Instead of bored, sulky faces, and growlings
and grumblings, all were now keen and alert. When the moon rose we
started. Our very ponies seemed to know they were "in the movement," and
stepped out cheerily. The night was clear as silver, and each man's
shadow moved by his side, clean cut on the ground like the shadows
thrown by the electric light outside the Criterion. Song and joke passed
once more, and soon up went the favourite cavalry march, the most
stirring tune of any, "Coming thro' the Rye." It was very jolly. Not
often has one ridden on such a quest, on such a night, to such a tune as
that.

So, old Modder, fare you well! Farewell the huge plain that one grew so
fond of, with its blue and yellow bars of light, morning and evening;
the shaggy kopjes heaped with black rocks, the secluded, lonely farms
nestling beneath, old Cook's, where the figs were ripe in the garden,
and Mrs. Dugmore, who gave us fresh bread and butter and stewed peaches.
Not soon shall I forget those morning patrols. The sea of veldt, the
pure air, the carelessness, the comradeship, and the freedom. Old
Gordon has a good verse that I find sometimes running in my head--

"It was merry in the morning
Among the gleaming grass,
To wander as we've wandered many a mile,
And blow the cool tobacco cloud
And watch the white wreaths pass,
Sitting loosely in the saddle al