of
rain has drenched the land, from which mephitic vapours rise to clog our
spirits. The knowledge that rations are running short may also have some
effect. We have not felt the strain severely yet. There is no reduction
in the issue of meat or bread, but luxuries drop out of the list one by
one, and the quantities of tea, sugar, coffee, and similar things
diminish ominously. Vegetables were exhausted long ago, and a daily
ration of vinegar has been ordered for every man, whose officer must see
that he gets it, as a precaution against scurvy.

_February 1._--It has come at last. Horseflesh is to be served out for
food, instead of being buried or cremated. We do not take it in the
solid form yet, or at least not consciously, but Colonel Ward has set up
a factory, with Lieutenant McNalty as managing director, for the
conversion of horseflesh into extract of meat under the inviting name
of Chevril. This is intended for use in hospitals, where nourishment in
that form is sorely needed, since Bovril and Liebig are not to be had.
It is also ordered that a pint of soup made from this Chevril shall be
issued daily to each man. I have tasted the soup and found it excellent,
prejudice notwithstanding. We have no news from General Buller beyond a
heliogram, warning us that a German engineer is coming with a plan in
his pocket for the construction of some wonderful dam which is to hold
back the waters of the Klip River and flood us out of Ladysmith.

_February 3._--Horseflesh was placed frankly on the bill of fare to-day
as a ration for troops and civilians alike, but many of the latter
refused to take it. Hunger will probably make them less squeamish, but
one cannot help sympathising with the weakly, who are already suffering
from want of proper nourishment, and for whom there is no alternative.
Market prices have long since gone beyond the reach of ordinary purses.

_February 4._--One pathetic incident touched me nearly this morning, as
a forerunner of many that may come soon. I found sitting on a doorstep,
apparently too weak to move, a young fellow of the Imperial Light
Horse--scarcely more than a boy--his stalwart form shrunken by illness.
He was toying with a spray of wild jasmine, as if its perfume brought
back vague memories of home. I learned that he had been wounded at
Elandslaagte and again on Waggon Hill. Then came Intombi and malaria. He
had only been discharged from hospital that morning. His appetite was
not quite