tree; all that follows he leaves to nature, and he would much rather sit
down and pray for a beautiful harvest than get up and work for it. He is a
great believer in the power of prayer. He prays for a good crop of fruit;
if it comes he exalts himself and takes all the credit; if the crop fails
he folds his hands and remarks that it was God's will that things should so
come to pass. He knocks all the work he can out of his niggers, but does
precious little himself. In stature he is mostly tall, thin, and active. He
moves with a quick, shuffling gait, which is almost noiseless. Some of his
women folk are beautiful, while others are fat and clumsy, and are never
likely to have their portraits hung on the walls of the Royal Academy.





A PRISONER OF WAR.

BLOEMFONTEIN HOSPITAL.


I little fancied when I sat at my ease in my tent in the British camp that
my next epistle would be written from a hospital as a prisoner, but such is
the case, and, after all, I am far more inclined to be thankful than to
growl at my luck. Let me tell the story, for it is typical of this peculiar
country, and still more peculiar war. I had been writing far into the
night, and had left the letter ready for post next day. Then, with a clear
conscience, I threw myself on my blankets, satisfied that I was ready for
what might happen next. Things were going to happen, but though the night
was big with fate there was no warning to me in the whispering wind. Some
men would have heard all sorts of sounds on such a night, but I am not