The climate of Egypt was rather a surprise to us. True, it was winter when we arrived, but we had an idea that such a season existed in name only in the Land of the Pharaohs. The first night, however, made us sit up and think things, it was bitterly cold. Even packed nine in a tent with two blankets and a greatcoat over us we could hardly get to sleep; the tent felt like a refrigerator. Indeed, until we hit on the plan of donning our greatcoats, and pulling on a pair of woollen socks, we were anything but comfortably warm. The days were hot enough, it is true, even in mid-winter, but it was not till towards the end of February that the nights lost their bite. Before we left for Gallipoli, however, we found a single blanket quite all right; as for the days, they were something to remember in your prayers, the sun seemed to get right down clear to your backbone, and stew the stiffening out of your spine. I saw rain only twice during the three months and a half we put in in Egypt; it wasn't more than an anæmic Scotch mist on both occasions. I reckon the average annual rainfall for those parts would figure out at about point ten noughts and a one. We were told, however, that once in every three years or so, the rain came down good-oh, and washed half the houses away, at the same time cleaning things up generally. But the natives take such things as a matter of course; being highly religious, they observe that Allah wills it so, and set about rebuilding their happy homes. I expect it's really a blessing in disguise, and the overflow from these villages of theirs should certainly fertilise the soil that receives it. We were told by the local residenters that February was the month noted for sandstorms. Well, we ran across two—or, rather, they ran across us. We didn't like them a little bit. There was only one thing to do—get under cover straight away and stay there till the beggars blew themselves out. You would see them coming, for all the world like a big yellow smoke-cloud stretched right across the desert. Then it was a case of hop into your tent, fasten up the flap, and pray that some one else had driven the pegs home. If even a single one should draw—ugh! it gives me the shivers even now! Once I saw a pole go clean through the top of a tent, the canvas, of course, sliding down like a parachute and "bonneting" the inmates: I reckon it says something for the power of their language when we heard it rising high above the storm.