This book, such as it is, is dedicated to the man whose kindliness of heart and generous journalistic instincts lifted me from the unknown, and placed me where I had a chance to battle with the best men in my profession. He was the man who found Archibald Forbes, the most brilliant, accurate, and entertaining of all war correspondents. What he did for that splendid genius let Forbes' memoirs tell; what he did for me I will tell myself. He gave me the chance I had looked for for twenty years, and the dearest name in my memory to-day is the name of

SIR JOHN ROBINSON,

Manager of the Daily News, London.

PAGE
WITH THE AUSTRALIANS.
[AUSTRALIA ON THE MARCH]1
[WITH THE AUSTRALIANS]6
[A PRISONER OF WAR]15
["STOPPING A FEW"]29
[AUSTRALIA AT THE WAR]38
[AUSTRALIA ON THE MOVE]48
[SLINGERSFONTEIN]60
[THE WEST AUSTRALIANS]69
AMONG THE BOERS.
[IN A BOER TOWN]75
[BEHIND THE SCENES]83
[A BOER FIGHTING LAAGER]90
[THROUGH BOER GLASSES]104
[LIFE IN THE BOER CAMPS]116
WITH GENERAL RUNDLE.
[BATTLE OF CONSTANTIA FARM]127
[WITH RUNDLE IN THE FREE STATE]149
[RED WAR WITH RUNDLE]159
[THE FREE STATERS' LAST STAND]174
CHARACTER SKETCHES IN CAMP.
[THE CAMP LIAR]194
[THE NIGGER SERVANT]199
[THE SOLDIER PREACHER]207
[PRESIDENT STEYN]212
[LOUIS BOTHA, COMMANDANT-GENERAL OF THE BOER ARMY]218
[WHITE FLAG TREACHERY]224
[THE BATTLE OF MAGERSFONTEIN]229
[SCOUTS AND SCOUTING: DRISCOLL, KING OF SCOUTS]242
[HUNTING AND HUNTED]253
[WITH THE BASUTOS]264
[MAGERSFONTEIN AVENGED]280
[THE CONDUCT OF THE WAR]289
[HOME AGAIN]299
We grow weary waiting, England,
For the summons that never comes--
For the blast of the British bugles
And the throb of the British drums.
Our hearts grow sore and sullen
As year by year rolls by,
And your cold, contemptuous actions
Give your fervent words the lie.
Are we only an English market,
Held dear for the sake of trade?
Or are we a part of the Empire,
Close welded as hilt and blade?
If we are to cleave together
As mother and son through life,
Give us our share of the burden,
Let us stand with you in the strife.
If we are to share your glory,
Let the sons whom the South has bred
Lie side by side on your battlefields
With England's heroes dead.
A nation is never a nation
Worthy of pride or place
Till the mothers have sent their firstborn
To look death on the field in the face.
Are we only an English market,
Held dear for the sake of trade?
Or are we a part of the Empire
Close welded as hilt and blade?
If so, let us share your dangers,
Let the glory we boast be real,
Let the boys of the South fight with you,
Let our children taste cold steel.
Do you think we are chicken-hearted?
Do you count us devoid of pride?
Just try us in deadly earnest,
And see how our boys can ride.
We are sick of your empty praises!
If the mother is proud of her son,
Let him do some deed on a hard-fought field,
Then boast what he has done.
A nation is never a nation
Worthy of pride or place
Till the mothers have sent their firstborn
To look death on the field in the face.
Australia is calling to England,
Let England answer the call;
There are smiles for those who come back to us,
And tears for those who may fall.
Bridle to bridle our sons will ride
With the best that Britain has bred,
And all we ask is an open field
And a soldier's grave for our dead.