The barbed-wire curse is great in this Eden-like valley, and when you consider that the advance mounted parties have to go straight ahead through fields and back gardens, the garden walls of which are invariably represented by barbed-wire fencing, you can comprehend that our work is more often than not, no easy matter, especially as wire-nippers are as rare as brandies and sodas, and even when possessed are not much assistance in surmounting the wide and deep irrigation cutting, which is often on the other side of the fence. Again, bogs are not infrequently come across--_across_, by the way, is hardly the word to use. Only a few days ago I was riding towards what I deemed to be a passable ford, when I met a Rough Rider (72nd I.Y.) coming back from it. I casually asked him if it was all right, to which he replied that it was a bit boggy, and then incidentally added, "We've just shot one of our fellows' horses that got stuck and we couldn't get out." Whereupon I took a more circuitous route, a proceeding which I did not regret, when later, I saw the poor, horseless Rough toiling in the broiling sun, his huge saddle covering his head and shoulders, after the tail of the convoy, in hopes of catching it and depositing his burden on a waggon. THE INFECTION OF SPRING AGAIN. I must apologise for the enclosed doggerel. Last night, round one of our fires, we were alluding to the various uses we have made of that deadly weapon, the bayonet, and it was suggested that I, as a Spring Poet, should record them in verse, hence the enclosed:-- THE BALLAD OF THE BAYONET. (Sussex Yeoman _loq._) Did I ever use the bay'nit, sir? In the far off Transvaal War, Where I fought for Queen and country, sir, Against the wily Boer. Aye, many a time and oft, sir, I've bared the trusty blade, And blessed the dear old Homeland, sir, Where it was carefully made. _Chorus_: _Then here's to the British bay'nit Made of Sheffield steel, And here's to the men who bore it-- Stalwart men and leal._ You notice the dents on the edge, sir, At Bronkhurst Spruit they were done; I was getting a door for a fire, For out of wood we had run. I was smiting hard at the door, sir, Or rafter, I'm not sure which, When I struck on an iron screw, sir, And the bay'nit got this niche. 'Tis my mighty Excalibur, sir, I've used it in joy and grief, For digging up many a tater, Or opening bully beef. I have used it for breaking wire, Making tents 'gainst rain and sun; I have used it as a hoof-pick, In a hundred ways and one. Oh, how did the point get blunted, sir? I was driving it home As a picketing peg for my horse, So that he should not roam. I drove it in a little, sir, And then in my haste, alas, I stubbed the point on a rock, sir, Some inches below the grass.