On blessed peace and glorious war, On deeds of daring dashed with gore, And scores of other wondrous deeds, Which History or Tradition heeds. But I would humbly sing to praise Something unhonoured in those lays-- The cure for broken legs and arms, For suff'rers of rheumatic qualms. For wounds by bullet or the knife, Obtained in peace or deadly strife; For broken heads or sprained toes, And myriad other sorts of woes, For that incurable disease "Fed up" or "tired of C.I.V.'s." For pom-pom fever, Mauseritis, The toothache or the loafertitis. For broken heart or broken nose, For every sickness science knows. All these and ev'ry other ill, Are cured by that well-known Pill; 'Tis made on earth with pow'rs divine, I sing in praise of _Number Nine_. To expatiate further upon the famous "No. 9 Pill" would be absurd, as it is as great an institution of the British Army out here as the 4.7 or pom-pom. [Illustration: Thoughtless Sister (persuasively): "Now I want you to do something very nice in my Album."] We are still suffering (worse than ever) from a paucity of news and a superabundance of rumours; indeed the supply of the latter far exceeds the demand, and budding fictionists eclipse themselves daily. Had the Psalmist lived in these days, I feel sure he would hardly have contented himself with the gentle statement that "all men are liars," but have indulged in language far more emphatic. Still as far as we are concerned, the Boers can beat the most brilliant efforts of our own fellows any day. We have a lot of Regulars in this hospital, and it is amusing at times, and at others rather irritating, to hear some of their criticisms of the Yeomanry. I recently heard some of them (good fellows) chaffing merrily over certain Yeomanry (a very small number), who were concerned in an unfortunate affair some time ago, totally ignoring the fact that a _large_ number of Regular Infantry and Mounted Infantry were also equally involved. Again the Cavalry may make a mistake, and they have made a few, but we don't hear much about their incapacity, but let the Yeomanry commit a similar error, and we hear about it, I can tell you. I venture these few remarks in common fairness to the Yeomanry, my temperature being quite normal, as I fancy they have often been used as a butt where others would have done as well. The explanation, it appears, is this. A corps of new Yeomanry is being formed, who are to receive five shillings a day; we also, of the original Yeomanry, are to receive the same at the expiration of a year's service, having up till then been paid the regular cavalry pay, for which we enlisted. Naturally, Thomas A. feels exceedingly wroth at "blooming ammychewers" receiving such remuneration, and to use his own metaphor, "chews the fat" accordingly. His position and feelings remind me very strongly of the poor soldier in "The Tin Gee-Gee!"