The numbers of our gallant little body were small; still, we had enough.  Before our appearance “the country” had been arranged.  In the distance, near the southern entrance, were bushes; then, a little nearer home, a second row; then, nearer still, a canvas erection representing a fallen tree; then more bushes; and last, the door from which we had emerged to receive the plaudits of the populace.  First, two of our number (after some slight hesitation) galloped (taking, without much difficulty, the hedges on their way) towards the south.  They fired.  In the meanwhile the rest of our body had dismounted, and had buckled the forelegs of each horse so that it might not unduly wander.  This clever idea was nearly crowned with success.  Then tents were got out—­without any hurry.  They were pitched in a leisurely fashion.  Then the fire was lighted, also without flurry.  The two scouts now cantered back knocking over a bush on their way.  Shots were heard in the distance, and our camp was leisurely, very leisurely, broken up.  The tents were, with some difficulty, placed on the backs of the horses, and most of our troopers mounted without serious difficulty.  One certainly was thrown, and another had to hold firmly to his horse.  Then we advanced.  We again dismounted.  One of our body, after some negotiation, collected the reins of our horses.  We fired, and again leisurely mounted.  Then our troopers hurried off.

And when the magnificent display was over, I could not help thinking how good it was of these gallant Colonists to come so far that we might learn so much.  True, we had seen something a little like the mounted infantry evolutions in the displays of our own light Hussars.  Again, soldiers have been known before this to pitch and strike a tent.  Still, it was deeply gratifying to find history repeating itself, inasmuch, as in the Victorian evolutions there was no difficulty in conjuring up the picture with the popular title, “The Grandson teaching the Grandmother—­how to suck eggs!”

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HOW LONG?

EXTRACTS FROM A TRAGIC INTERNATIONAL ROMANCE, WRITTEN UP TO DATE.

The Government makes no sign or move, though people who think are clamouring and asking “How long shall such things be?”

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[Illustration]

They were only a few poor Polish Jews, there might have been a hundred of them all told, beaten, scourged, driven by a brutal and merciless Government to “move on,” somewhere—­anywhere,—­it cared not, so long as they had no abiding home, no hope of peace, of comfort, or of even the common necessaries of existence, and stricken with despair and overcome with terror, they meet with their good angel.

* * * * *

The Middleman, the blessed agent, to them, of all good, tells them of the bright free land, where a golden harvest of profit is waiting them, if they will only realise their “all” and hand it over to him.  With a shout of joy, in grateful paeans they sing the praises of their preserver,—­and realising all their worldly wealth and making it over to him, they arrive, greedy, hunger-smitten and expectant, one damp May morning in Whitechapel.