the grass-grown veldt.

At the breaking of the dawn I was aroused from sleep by the simultaneous
crashing of several of our batteries. It was Britain's morning salutation
to the Boer. I hurried up to a spot on the kopje where a regiment of
Worcesters lay amongst the broken ground, and saw that the battle was just
about to commence in deadly earnest. It was a huge, flat-topped kopje where
I located myself. The outer edges of the hill rose higher than the centre,
a little rivulet ran across tiny indentations on the crown of that rampart,
and there was ample space for an army to lie concealed from the eyes of
enemies. If the Boers were strongly posted, so were the British. Away past
our right flank Wepener range was plainly visible in the clear morning
light, and just behind Wepener lay the Basuto border, with its fringe of
mountains. About two thousand yards away, directly facing our centre, a
white farmhouse stood in a cluster of trees. This farmhouse gave the
battlefield its name, Constantia Farm. The enemy could be seen by the aid
of glasses slipping from the kopjes down towards this farm and back again
at intervals. Cattle, horses, goats, and sheep went on grazing calmly, the
roaring of the guns doubtless seeming to them but as the tumult of a storm.

Turning my eyes towards the valley behind our position, I saw that we
intended to try to turn the enemy's left flank. Little squads of mounted
men, 95 in each group, swept along the valley at a gallop. They were the
Yeomanry and mounted infantry, and numbered about 600. A more workmanlike
body of fellows it would be hard to find anywhere. They sat their horses
with easy confidence, and looked full of fight. Some of them carried their
rifles in their hands, muzzle upwards, the butt resting on the right thigh;
others had their guns slung across their shoulders. Group after group went
eastward, and the Boers knew nothing of the movement, because we were for
once employing their own tactics. I watched them out of sight, and then