War's Brighter Side Part 37

TAKEN FROM THE OFFICE OF "THE FRIEND."

Monday or Tuesday, a pair of Field Gla.s.ses, a pair of Wire Cutters, and Leather Pouch. Please return same and claim reward.[16]

[Footnote 16: The victim of this bold theft out of our sanctum was Mr.

James Barnes, our occasional contributor and a.s.sistant.]

NOTICE.

The time by which Civilians have to be in their houses is extended to 9 p.m. on Sundays, to enable them to return from Church.

B. BURNETT HITCHc.o.c.k, Lieutenant, a.s.st. Provost-Marshal to Military Governor.

April 6th, 1900.

THAT V.C.

BY A. B. PATERSON.

'Twas in the days of front attack, This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it, That every "front" has got a "back,"

And French is just the man to turn it.

A wounded soldier on the ground Was lying flat behind a hummock; He proved the good old proverb sound, "An army travels on its stomach!"

He lay as flat as any fish, His nose had worn a little furrow, He only had one frantic wish-- That like an ant-bear he could burrow.

The bullets whistled into s.p.a.ce, The pom-pom gun kept up its braying, The four-point seven supplied the ba.s.s; You'd think the Devil's band was playing.

A valiant comrade crawling near Observed his most supine behaviour And crawled towards him, "Eh! what cheer?

Buck up," says he "I've come to save yer!"

"You get up on my shoulders, mate!

And if we live beyond the firing, I'll get a V.C. sure as fate, Because our blokes is all retiring.

"It's fifty pound a year," says he, "I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky."

"No," says the wounded man, "not me, I won't be saved; it's far too risky!

"I'm fairly safe behind this mound, I've worn a hole that seems to fit me, But if you lift me off the ground It's fifty pound to one they'll hit me!"

So off towards the firing-line His mate crept slowly to the rear, oh!

Remarking, "What a selfish swine!

He might have let me be a hero!"

TO THE PEOPLE OF THE FREE STATE.

BY MESSRS. KIPLING AND RALPH.

The British have come to stay.

Our students of political economy have taught us that the const.i.tution and laws of the old Free State were as nearly perfect as any that could be framed for a democracy.

The basis of the British Government is that of an enlightened and progressive democracy.

It is therefore certain that British rule will not bring any violent or revolutionary changes to the conditions under which you citizens have been living.

What are British principles?

The absolute independence of the individual, so long as he does not interfere with his neighbour's rights.

Prompt and equal justice, before the Lord, to all men.

A natural and rooted antipathy to anything savouring of military despotism, in any shape or form.

Absolute religious toleration and freedom of belief for all peoples.

Prompt and incorruptible justice to all men in every walk of life.

The right of every man to make his home his castle.

In view of these things and of the unalterable fact that the country has pa.s.sed under a new rule, why should burghers hesitate or delay in making friends with the new situation?

We are your friends. We have never felt unfriendly toward you; for even in war we realised that you were deceived by unwise and selfish leaders.

Let us, then, repeat the new motto of the Free State, printed at the head of the newspaper, "All has come right," for we are certain that as soon as your people realise what is to be the new rule under which you are to live, you will know and acknowledge that the right has prevailed, and that never again shall you stand in fear of a military oligarchy like the Transvaal; or of tyranny or injustice in any form.

A FIRST IMPRESSION.[17]

[Footnote 17: Copyrighted. Used here with the author's permission.]

BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

It was only Smith-Dorrien's Brigade marching into Bloemfontein, but if it could have been pa.s.sed, just as it was, down Piccadilly and the Strand it would have driven London crazy. I got down from the truck which we were unloading and watched them, the ragged, bearded, fierce-eyed infantry, straggling along under their cloud of dust. Who could conceive, who has seen the prim soldier of peace, that he could so quickly transform himself into this grim, virile barbarian? Bulldog faces, hawk faces, hungry wolf faces, every sort of face except a weak one. Here and there a reeking pipe, here and there a man who smiled, but the most have their swarthy faces leaned a little forward, their eyes steadfast, their features impa.s.sive but resolute. Baggage waggons were pa.s.sing, the mules all skin and ribs, with the escort tramping beside the wheels. Here are a clump of Highlanders, their workmanlike ap.r.o.ns in front, their keen faces burned black with months of the veldt.

It is an honoured name that they bear on their shoulder-straps. "Good old Gordons!" I cried as they pa.s.sed me. The sergeant glanced at the dirty enthusiast in the undershirt. "What cheer, matey!" he cried, and his men squared their shoulders and put a touch of ginger into their stride. Here are a clump of Mounted Infantry, a grizzled fellow like a fierce old eagle at the head of them. Some are maned like lions, some have young, keen faces, but all leave an impression of familiarity upon me. And yet I have not seen irregular British cavalry before. Why should I be so familiar with this loose-limbed, head-erect, swaggering type; of course it is the American cow-boy over again. Strange that a few months of the veldt has produced exactly the same man that springs from the western prairie. But these men are warriors in the midst of war. Their eyes are hard and quick. They have the gaunt, intent look of men who live always under the shadow of danger. What splendid fellows there are among them!

Here is one who hails me; the last time I saw him we put on seventy runs together when they were rather badly needed, and here we are, partners in quite another game. Here is a man of fortune, young, handsome, the world at his feet, he comes out and throws himself into the thick of it. He is a great heavy-game shot, and has brought two other "dangerous men" out with him. Next him is an East London farmer, next him a fighting tea-planter of Ceylon, next him a sporting baronet, next him a journalist, next him a cricketer, whose name is a household word. Those are the men who press into the skirmish-line of England's battle.

And here are other men again, taller and st.u.r.dier than infantry of the line, grim, solid men, as straight as poplars. There is a maple-leaf, I think, upon their shoulder straps, and a British brigade is glad enough to have those maples beside them. For these are the Canadians, the men of Paardeberg, and there behind them are their comrades in glory, the Shropshire Light Infantry, slinging along with a touch of the spirit of their grand sporting colonel, the man who at forty-five is still the racquet champion of the British army. You see the dirty private with the rifle under his arm and the skin hanging from his nose. There are two little stars upon his strained shoulders, if you could see them under the dirt. That is the dandy captain who used to grumble about the food on the P. and O. "Nothing fit to eat," he used to cry as he glanced at his menu. I wonder what he would say now? Well he stands for his country, and England also may be a little less coddled and a little more adaptive before these brave, brave sons of hers have hoisted her flag over the "raad zaal" of Pretoria.

THE MODERATE DRINKER'S LAMENT.