A steady rain has begun that promises to last for several days, a sure but not very heavy downpour, and with it comes a greater number of mosquitoes and fleas than would otherwise be the case. The sticky black flies seem to be of a different family from those one is accustomed to elsewhere. It is awful to see them feasting themselves on these filthy and ill-smelling Chinese people, half of whose bodies are usually covered with a hundred of these pests; but the Chinese are so accustomed to them that when they prepare their food they do not object if some, or I should say a great many, get into it. The “slaughter-house,” of course, is a great centre for these disgusting flies, and as we are only a few doors from it, the feeling of having these beasts swarming over everything in one’s room, oneself included, is distinctly unpleasant. To an imaginative person, who may have been so unfortunate as to study “The Life of the Microbe,” these scavenger flies would certainly cause him to lose his mind. The room at the back of Dr. Poole’s house, which we occupy, is damp, and all night the fleas and cockroaches that appear would horrify anyone. We sent our mosquito-nets and hair-mattresses to the hospital, so that every night we lie on our straw-stuffed bag, doing duty as a mattress, on the floor, and unless one lies in a pool of bug-powder there is no such thing as sound sleep. Until quite recently we had no insect-powder, and the nights were unimaginable. Our bodies were most frightfully bitten. Lately, however, a steward at the hospital concocted a powder of materials which he had on hand. It makes one sneeze, it is so powerful; but under these circumstances sneezing is a joy. One knows our arch-enemies are dying, although this does not affect the ungetatable mosquito, who sings on nightly. Last night young Warren, of the Customs, was carried through the compound on the way to the hospital, his face almost entirely shot off. I knew him quite well—had danced with him often; he was a charming fellow. He died at daybreak this morning. One of our wonderful shots, a marine named Fisher, who was stationed on the Wall, was shot and instantly killed this morning, and to-day really seems to be the most disheartening morning of the siege, for so many men are going, as the French Canadians would say, “on their last great trail,” or “over the Great Divide.”