"We are a wonderfully dirty and ragged-looking crew now--especially me, because I left Buluwayo six weeks ago to join this column only with such things as I could carry on a led pony (including bedding and food). My breeches and shirts are in tatters, my socks have nearly disappeared in shreds. Umtini, my Matabele boy, has made sandals for me to wear over--or at least outside--my soleless shoes. And everywhere the veldt has been burnt by grass fires--every breeze carries about the fine black dust, and five minutes after washing, your hands and arms and face are as grimy and black as ever--as if you were in London again. Bathing 'the altogether' too often is apt to result in fever. Too much washing of hands is apt to help veldt sores to originate--so we don't trouble to keep clean. "Veldt sores bother nearly every one of us. Every scratch you get (and you get a good number from thorns, &c.) at once becomes a small sore, gradually grows, and lasts sometimes for weeks. It is partly the effect of hot sun and dry air too rapidly drying up the wound, and also probably the blood is not in too good a state from living on unchanging diet of tinned half-salt beef and tinned vegetables. We have very little variety, except when we loot some sheep or kill a buck. No vegetables, and we are out of sugar, tea, cocoa, and rice. Matches are at a premium, pipes are manufactured out of mealie corncobs and small reeds. Tobacco is very scarce--tea-leaves were in use till tea came to an end." [Illustration: Dolce far Niente. General Sir F. Carrington and Mr. Cecil Rhodes on the homeward journey.]