“Boys”—it was the Old Man speaking—“we come together to say good-bye.” He outlined his association with the Brigade, and touched briefly on the outstanding incidents of its career. He humorously alluded to their “weakness” in a few respects, but he was proud to say that no man had ever complained of his punishment. Everybody had played the game, and his life was infinitely richer because of his association with them. He wished all a bright future, and they were never to forget him if they were ever in any difficulty. At the close of the homily, I am afraid, the etiquette of military discipline was violated in many ways. “Good old Brig., the whitest ever made,” and such-like remarks were punctuated by cheering and the waving of hats. A personal handshake with each man and wishes of “good luck”; and then came the farewells round the camp, when mates of years bade each other good-bye, and turned away. Friendship such as this will stand the test of time. “BATAGGI.” [Illustration: MRS. CHISHOLM’S CANTEEN AT KANTARA ] [Illustration: BETHLEHEM ] [Illustration: TROOPERS ENTERING JERICHO ] [Illustration: DAMASCUS ] “Old Horse o’ Mine” Hoof-beats, that rang on the crowded street, Had never beat unto me All the wealth of the gold in your old black hide, All the grit of your loyalty; But deep in the sand of a lonely land, Out on many a far flung trail, Your old hoofs spoke of a heart you broke For me, that _you_ might not fail. Great eyes, that dusked in the green gums’ wave, Though I recked not that you were there, That danced or dulled at the whim mayhap Of a fancy unaware— How the mateship grew in the depths of you, When the waste spread its gauntness wide. How you parched with me, how you marched with me, Through that Hell of a thirst denied. Brave Soul that sprung in the colt of you, Unguessed in the years far back, Ere your Fate ran out from a land of streams To the drought of a sun-blazed track— For the days since seen, for the pals we’ve been, When Old Time sees us through— O! If then there be for the likes o’ me, A Heav’n—it must hold you, too. T. V. B. [Illustration] Concerning Machine Guns