It's the third day about fourth drink time in the evenin'.

The sun has two hours yet to go.

My battery is toilin' along, sand to the hubs of gun-carriages an' caissons, when I sees the mules p'int their y'ears for'ard with looks of happy surprise.

Then the intelligent anamiles begins a song of praise; an' next while we-all is marvellin' thereat an' before ever a gent can stretch hand to bridle to stop 'em, the mules begins to fly.

They yanks my field pieces over the desert as busy an' full of patriotic ardour as a drunkard on 'lection day.