31. Have seen enough.

32. Going home to a Certainty.

33. Same reason here.

34. The Patriotic Fever has run its natural course.

35. Because the Bo-ahs shot me instead, And the papers (confound them) reported me "dead," That sort of game is rather too bad, So the prodigal now returns to his dad.

36. Got C.B. instead!

37. Bags of biscuits hard as rocks, Smashed my teeth and gave me sox!

38. To join the Bodyguard for same reason and—better pay.

39. To go back to a hum-drum life, which is better than a Dum-Dum death.

40. Novelty somewhat worn off, and military discipline not being at all adapted to my temperament.

In a few days all the men marked for home will be leaving, and to those they will be leaving behind them the yearning to be on the sea once again, seems stronger than ever,

"Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw. As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the home trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the long trail—the trail that is always new?"

HOME.

ENGLAND-FONTEIN April 22nd, 1901.

"We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome, Our ship is at the shore, An' you must pack your 'aversack, For we won't come back no more."

So from going up to Elandsfontein, which is by Johannesburg, it came to the above cheerful sentiment. And this is how it happened. An order came from somewhere to our doctor, who had of late so hardened his heart, to "invalid convalescents freely," and, to be brief, within a few days nearly every man at Maitland was marked for home, wore a smiling face, and drew warm clothes for the voyage.

The next burning questions were "What boat will it be and when does she sail?" Needless to say, these interrogatories were answered at least thrice a day, and were always wide of the mark. Still, we were booked for home, and could afford to wait cheerfully. Our hut (No. 1), inhabited by the thirty best men in the camp (any man of that hut will tell you this assertion is correct), thereupon blossomed forth as the publishing and editorial offices of a camp newspaper known as the

"LATEST DEVELOPMENTS GAZETTE," WITH WHICH IS INCORPORATED "THE COOKHOUSE NEWS."

In this journal shipping intelligence was a speciality, and topical cartoons a great feature. We claimed the largest circulation in the camp. The various articles, stop-press news, and cartoons, were stuck on the walls of the hut and afforded much entertainment. Of course, B.P. was very unpopular in Cape Town and with us, and had to be dealt with severely. (Note.—Not the Mafeking man or the "worth a guinea a box" lot, but the Bubonic Plague).

A few days before sailing I caught sight of a well-known name in the dread casualty list: "69th Co. I.Y., 16,424, Trooper R. Blake, (severely wounded, since dead). Hartebeestefontein." "Poor Blake!" He used to sing at our concerts on the boat coming out, at our bivouac fire when we indulged in an impromptu sing-song, and at Pretoria, when in the police, he often appeared at the various musical entertainments held in the town or hospitals. His mimicry of a growling or barking dog, big or small, was marvellous and notorious. I remember once how a fellow on one occasion, accustomed to Master Blake's games, on hearing a persistent yapping at his heels, at length said "Oh, shut up, young Blake!" and turned round to see a live terrier there. A verse in the last issue of our paper, expressed, in a humble way, every man's feelings on such matters.

We are leaving them behind us, 'Neath the veldt and by the town, The men who joined and fought with us, Who shared each up and down. We are going home without them, But our thoughts will on them dwell, We shall often talk about them, Good comrades all, farewell!

The day before we left, the sketches and other matter were sold by auction, it having been previously decided to devote the proceeds of the sale to the last No. 1 Hut annual ball. By way of explanation, it must be noted that the hut had an annual ball once a week, "dancing strictly prohibited." To be explicit, the annual ball was a weekly dinner. The auction was a great success, a real auctioneer presiding, well over L10 being realised.

The farewell dinner was a grand affair and very convivial. To my surprise I was presented with a handsome silver cigarette case by the so-called staff of the "L.D. News" as a token of good will and their appreciation of my humble efforts to relieve the monotony of camp life.

The next day, Friday, March 29th, we embarked on the transport "Aurania," and, as the sun was setting, bade a sarcastic good-bye to Table Mountain.

As regards the voyage home, which was accomplished in three weeks, much might be said, but probably little of particular interest. A transport is not a very luxurious affair for the common soldier, though the accommodation for the officers amply atones for what may be lacking for the ninety-and-nine, as it were. But what on earth, or sea, did it matter, we were going home.

Good Friday was not a success, an officer committed suicide, a sergeant in the Royal Sussex died of dysentery, the engines broke down, and we had no buns. At St. Vincent we stopped two-and-a-half days to coal, and flew the yellow flag at the fore, being in quarantine on account of the Bubonic outbreak at Cape Town. In the Bay of Biscay a Yeoman comrade died of enteric, and was buried two days from home. Friday, the 18th, on a lovely spring morning, the sea being as smooth as glass, we sighted the cliffs of England once again.

"England, my England."

Then we commenced passing shipping; a man at the tiller of a Cornish fishing boat waving his cap to us made it clear that we were getting back to our real ain folk once more. At eight in the evening we were lying off Netley Hospital, and taking in the proffered advice of a large board in a field by the waterside to eat Quaker Oats, and by twelve o'clock the following night I was home once again.

The treking, the fighting, the guards and pickets, the hospitals are done with now. My small part in the game has been played, and, with a slight and permissible alteration, the concluding lines of a favourite poem must end these simple records.

"But to-day I leave the Army, shall I curse its service then? God be thanked, whate'er comes after, I have lived and toiled with men!"

BURFIELD & PENNELLS, PRINTERS, HASTINGS.

THE END