utiful harvest than get up and work for it. He is a
great believer in the power of prayer. He prays for a good crop of fruit;
if it comes he exalts himself and takes all the credit; if the crop fails
he folds his hands and remarks that it was God's will that things should so
come to pass. He knocks all the work he can out of his niggers, but does
precious little himself. In stature he is mostly tall, thin, and active. He
moves with a quick, shuffling gait, which is almost noiseless. Some of his
women folk are beautiful, while others are fat and clumsy, and are never
likely to have their portraits hung on the walls of the Royal Academy.

A PRISONER OF WAR.

BLOEMFONTEIN HOSPITAL.

I little fancied when I sat at my ease in my tent in the British camp that
my next epistle would be written from a hospital as a prisoner, but such is
the case, and, after all, I am far more inclined to be thankful than to
growl at my luck. Let me tell the story, for it is typical of this peculiar
country, and still more peculiar war. I had been writing far into the
night, and had left the letter ready for post next day. Then, with a clear
conscience, I threw myself on my blankets, satisfied that I was ready for
what might happen next. Things were going to happen, but though the night
was big with fate there was no warning to me in the whispering wind. Some
men would have heard all sorts of sounds on such a night, but I am not
built that way I suppose. Anyway, I heard nothing until, half an hour
before dawn, a voice jarred my ear with the news that "there was something
on, and I'd better fly round pretty sharp if I did not mean to miss it."

By the light of my lantern I saddled my horse, and snatched a hasty cup of
coffee and a mouthful of biscuit, and as the little band of Tasmanians
moved from Rensburg I rode with them. Where they were going, or what their
mission, I did not know, but I guessed it was to be no picnic. The quiet,
resolute manner of the officers, the hushed voices, the set, stern faces of
the young soldiers, none of whom had ever been under fire before, all told
me that there was blood in the air, so I asked no questions, and sat tight
in my saddle. As the daylight broke over the far-stretching veldt, I saw
that two other correspondents were with the party, viz., Reay, of the
Melbourne _Herald_, and Lambie, poor, ill-fated Lambie, of the