am going off to-morrow to our old original Modder River camp (having
ridden in from Thaba Nchu yesterday), that cockpit where so much
fighting was done and where we spent so many weary weeks watching the
heights of Magersfontein, to get luggage and things left behind. It will
be strange to see the old place deserted and to ride near the hills
without being shot at. Buller is peacefully sleeping at or near
Ladysmith; the sound of his snoring faintly reaches us along the wires.
Gatacre slumbers at Colesberg. Kitchener has disappeared, no one knows
exactly where; and Little Bobs has curled himself up at Government House
here, and given orders that he is not to be called for a fortnight. What
news can you expect in such times? There is positively none.

Bloemfontein gives one the curious impression just now of a town that
has been unpacked and emptied of all its contents, and had them dumped
down on the land alongside. The shops contain little or nothing. They
have been bought up and have not had time to restock. But outside the
town, on the veldt, a huge depot of all sorts of goods is growing larger
and larger every day, as the trains, one after another, come steaming
north with their loads of supplies. There is a street, ankle deep in
mud, of huge marquees, each with a notice of its contents outside:
"Accoutrements," "Harness," "Clothing," "Transit Store," and what not.
Behind and between are vast piles of boxes, bales, bags, and casks
heaped up, and more arrive every hour on loaded trucks along a branch
rail from the station. It is a busy, animated scene. Orderlies run or
gallop about; quartermasters and adjutants and others hurry here and
there, with their hands full of papers from one marquee to another,
collecting their orders; shopping as it were, but shopping on rather a
large scale; and the big ox-waggons come creaking along and churning up
the mud. This is where the cost of a war comes in. These are a few of
the little things that our army will require on its way to Pretoria.