In the Imperial Light Horse they are killing one of their horses every other day, and eating him.
_January 30, 1900._ Mortals depend for their happiness not only on their circulation but on the weather.

To-day was certainly the gloomiest in all the siege.

It rained steadily night and morning, the steaming heat was overpowering, and we sludged about, sweating like the victims of a foul Turkish bath.
Towards evening it suddenly turned cold.

Black and dismal clouds hung over all the hills.

The distance was fringed with funereal indigo.