These are the lads who in their packed thousands tramped yesterday through Pretoria. Past old Kruger's house, a cottage you might almost call it, with its lions in front and several old burghers in black crying in the verandah, we went at a foot's pace, choking in the cloud of red dust, with the strains of "God Save the Queen" in our ears. We emerge into the square. The Volksraad is on our right; then the Grand Hotel, with all its windows full of English people, or sympathisers with England, many of them women, all waving handkerchiefs and raising a cracked cheer as we pass. I was staring at all this, whilst a big band on the right broke merrily out with the "Washington Post," and did not see till I almost brushed his horse's nose, our Commander-in-Chief standing like an amiable little statue at the head of all his generals and their staffs, with finger raised to helmet. It is quite a moment to remember, and I do really feel for an instant, what all the morning I have been trying to feel, that we are what literary people call "making history."

As for Pretoria itself, it is a pretty and well-wooded little place, with pink and white oleander trees in blossom, fir-trees, gums, and weeping-willows along the streams and round the little bungalow houses. The shady gardens and cool verandahs give these houses a very inviting air in this land of blazing sun. They have a comfortable, and at the same time sociable, look, the houses being near by each other, but each with a pretty garden and trees overhanging. Like all the works of these very practical people, the place is designed for convenience and comfort and not a bit for beauty. But the first two give it the last to some extent, give it a sort of simple and homely beauty of its own which is pleasing as far as it goes.

"Take heed to thyself, for the devil is unchained." We are told that Christian De Wet is loose again, and is trifling with our lines of communication. If this is so, our supplies will be cut off, the army will be starved, and you will never get this letter. There has been a pretty general hope that the taking of the capital would mean the end of the war. "We have fired our last shot," said some. At least we counted on a good rest. Alas! orders have just come in. Good-bye flowers and shady gardens and dreams of bottled beer and a dinner at the club. We march immediately.

Talking of soldiers, here is a soldier's story for you—

Officer (to distracted Tommy, fleeing for his life under shower of bullets): "Dash you! what the dash are you running for?"

Tommy, tearing on: "'Cause I ain't got no b——y wings."

Here's another—

First Tommy: "And the bullets was comin' that thick——"

Second Tommy: "Well, but 'adn't you got no ant'ills?"

First Tommy: "Ant'ills! Why, there wasn't ant'ills 'nough for the orficers."