Sunday, January 26th, 1901.
Still at the above address, but going strong, and almost losing the Spartan habits engendered by my recent life on the veldt!
News is very scarce with us, and to dare to write you a long letter would be the height of impudence, so I will let you off with a moderately short one this week.
Last week an original burlesque (perhaps I ought to politely designate it a musical comedy) was produced in a large marquee here, which is called "the theatre." I don't know what the name of the piece was but it dealt with a Hospital Commission, and the dramatis personæ consisted of a Boer spy, posing as the Commissioner, the real Commissioner, as a new nurse, nurses, orderlies, Kaffirs and doctors, amongst the latter being a Scotch Doctor, who drank a deal of "whuskey" and whose diagnoses were most entertaining. It was quite pathetic to watch the keen interest with which the audience followed the diversions of "Dr. Sandy" with the bottle.
I have been concerned in "doing something" in our day nurse's album lately (I think I have already alluded to the presence of the album evil out here). I have willingly volunteered to contribute to these volumes, hoping to see their contents, but, alas, in most cases I have had to start the tome; however, in the present case the album has been well started by various patients. Most of the efforts are strikingly original and all in verse, so I determined to do something for the honour of the county of my birth, and, securing a pen and ink, perpetrated some Michael Angelic-like sketches of "the-ministering-angel-thou," order. Then, hearing that a poem (scratch a Tommy and you'll find a poet) was expected, valiantly started off with something like this:
"She wore a cape of scarlet,
The eve when first we met;
A gown of grey was on her form
(I wore some flannelette!):
She was a sister to us all,
And yet no relation;
She stuck upon my dexter leg,
A hot fomentation."
But appearing suggestive of something else, I crossed it out and finally produced the following ambitious ode:—
The Great Panacea.
Poets from time of yore have sung
In every clime and every tongue,
Of beauty and the pow'r of love,
Of things on earth and things above.
Sonnets to ladyes' eyes indited,
And for such stuff been killed or knighted.
They've raved on this and raved on that,
The dog or the domestic cat.