d-laced coat and has lined the inside of
his cocked hat with plaintain-leaves.

He has also groaned much at the idea of substituting this futile
head-gear for his hideous but convenient pith helmet. I too have
donned my best gown, and am horrified to find how much a smart bonnet
(the first time I have needed to wear one since I left England) sets
off and brings out the shades of tan in a sun-browned face; and for
a moment I too entertain the idea of retreating once more to the
protecting depths of my old shady hat. But a strong conviction of the
duty one owes to a "first sod," and the consoling reflection that,
after all, everybody will be equally brown (a fallacy, by the way:
the D'Urban beauties looked very blanched by this summer weather),
supported me, and I followed F---- and his cocked hat into the waiting
carriage.

No need to ask, "Where are we to go?" All roads lead to the first
sod to-day. We are just a moment late: F---- has to get out of the
carriage and plunge into the sand, madly rushing off to find and fall
into his place in the procession, and we turn off to secure our seats
in the grand stand. But before we take them I must go and look at
the wheelbarrow and spade, and above all at the "first sod." For some
weeks past it has been a favorite chaff with us Maritzburgians to
offer to bring a nice fresh, lively sod down with us, but we were
assured D'Urban could furnish one. Here it is exactly under the
triumphal arch, looking very faded and depressed, with a little
sunburned grass growing feebly on it, but still a genuine sod and no
mistake. The wheelbarrow was really beautiful, made of native woods
with their astounding names. All three specimens of the hardest and
handsomest yellow woods were there, and they were described to me as,
"stink-wood, breeze-wood and sneeze-wood." The rich yellow of the wood
is veined by handsome dark streaks, with "1876" inlaid in large black
figures in the centre. The spade was just a common spade, and could
not by any possibility be called anything else. But there is no time
to linger and laugh any longer beneath all these fluttering streamers
and waving boughs, for here are the Natal Carbineers, a plucky little
handful of light horse clad in blue and silver, who have marched, at
their own charges, all the way down from Maritzburg to help keep the
ground this fine New Year's Day. Next come a strong body of Kafir
police, trudging along through the dust with odd shuffling g