We had _reveille_ at a more Christian-like time this morning (4.30), and moved out as supports to our other troop (Devons), who were advance party. We number eighteen Sussex men, all told, in our ranks, and are led by Mr. Stanley, a Somerset I.Y. officer, who on our last trip was in charge of the Ross Gun Section, which consisted of two quick-firing Colt guns. After bare trees, dry veldt and dusty tracks, it is a real treat for one's eyes to see this fine district assuming its spring garb. Through the bright green patches of oats and barley we rode, past peach trees and bushes in full bloom, sometimes through a hedge of them, the pink blooms brushing against one's cheek. Then we came to a bend of the Crocodile River, with its rugged banks covered with trees and undergrowth, and the water rushing swiftly along between and over the huge rocks in its bed. This we forded at the nearest drift, the water reaching up to the horses' bellies. The general idea was for us mounted troops to clear the valley, and the infantry the ridges of kopjes. We were soon being sniped at from the right and the left, by, I presume, numerous small parties of Boers, and after riding about a mile were dismounted behind a farmhouse, and took up a position on the banks of the Crocodile. The scene was truly idyllic. Below us the river in this particular place was placidly flowing, the various trees on its banks were bursting out in their spring foliage, and birds were twittering amongst them: indeed, one cheeky little feathered thing came and perched on a peach tree covered in pink blossom close by and piped a matin to me, and there was I, lounging luxuriously in the deep grass, a pipe in my mouth, a Lee-Enfield across my knees, and a keen eye on the range of kopjes opposite. Truly, the spring poet's opportunity, but alas, beyond the few lines with which I have dared to head to-day's notes, I could do naught in that line. Soon our artillery began throwing shrapnel on the top of the objectionable height, and, later, the Mausers began to speak a little further on, and that has been the day's game. I don't know our losses yet, but we have undoubtedly had some. Our crowd had a horse killed, of course. We had a good deal of visiting to do, calling at this farm and that, and inquiring if the "good man" was at home. This is the usual scene: Farmhouse of a humble order. A few timid Kaffirs loitering around, also a few fowls and slack-looking mongrels. Gentleman in Khaki rides up, and in the door appear two or more round-faced women wearing headgear of the baby-bonnet mode, dirty-faced children in background. _G. in K._: "Where is your husband?" _Women_: "Niet verstand." _G. in K._: "Where is your brother?" _Women_: "Niet verstand." _G. in K._: "Is he on those kopjes, potting at us?" _Women_: "Niet verstand." _G. in K._: "Have many Boers been past here?" _Women_: "Niet verstand."