THE MUD LARKS.

The ammunition columns on either flank provide us with plenty of
amusement. They seem to live by stealing each other's mules. My
line-guards tell me that stealthy figures leading shadowy donkeys are
crossing to and fro all night long through my lines. The respective
C.O.'s, an Australian and an Irishman, drop in on us from time to time
and warn us against each other. I remain strictly neutral, and so far
they have respected my neutrality. I have taken steps toward this end
by surrounding my horses with barbed wire and spring guns, tying bells
on them and doubling the guard.

Monk, the Australian, dropped in on us two or three days ago. "That
darn Sinn Feiner is the limit," said he; "lifted my best moke off me
last night while I was up at the batteries. He'd pinch BALAAM'S ass."
We murmured condolences, but Monk waived them aside. "Oh, it's quite
all right. I wasn't born yesterday, or the day before for that matter.
I'll make that merry Fenian weep tears of blood before I've finished.
Just you watch."

O'Dwyer, the merry Fenian, called next day.

"Give us a dhrink, brother-officers," said he, "I'm wake wid
laughter."

We asked what had happened.

"Ye know that herrin'-gutted bush-ranger over yonder? He'd stale the
milk out of your tea, he would, be the same token. Well, last night he
got vicious and took a crack at my lines. I had rayson to suspect he'd