In conversation, excellent fellow as he usually is, the Babu is easily misunderstood. It was only yesterday that one of them was giving me an account of an old Sikh monk he had come upon during a walk in the woods. I had not known before that there were monks among the Sikhs, but then there are quite a number of facts about India that I have yet to learn. I had no difficulty in picturing the aged hermit sitting at the foot of a tree in a religious trance. But it seemed strange that when the Babu approached he should have shown his teeth and gibbered. This, however, might be due to the eccentricity of a recluse or to some caste difficulty. I could not share the Babu's surprise that he refused the acorns proffered to him, but it did seem odd that when the Babu callously shook his stick at the old man and said "_Huh!_" he swarmed with great agility up the tree and made faces. It was only when the limpness of his tail was mentioned that I suddenly realised we were talking about a sick monkey. Letters from the Battalion, 7000 feet below, drift up to me occasionally, but they contain little beyond the old sentiment, expressed hundreds of times daily by Territorials from the Himalayas to the Nilghiris. India is a marvellous and unique country; to have lived in it is an education and a joy; to have guarded it a proud Imperial privilege. But most of us would give something to get out of it and into Europe. Yours ever, ONE OF THE _PUNCH_ BRIGADE. * * * * * NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN. XII.--THE STRAND. The loveliest maidens in the land, Girls in rags and ladies grand, All go wandering down the Strand, Ding, dong, ding! To look for pearls in oyster-shells And listen to Saint Martin's bells, Ding, dong, ding! Some get amber, some get jet, Silver fish-scales others get In a golden fishing-net, Ding, dong, ding! Some find crowns of seaweed there And flowers of coral for their hair, Ding, dong, ding! All day long they have delight, Then the Thames flows in at night And sweeps the maidens out of sight. Ding, dong, ding! Down the Strand their lovely knells Echo from Saint Martin's bells, Ding, dong, ding! Ding, dong, ding! * * * * * LIEUTENANT ALEC JOHNSTON. A brother-officer attached to the King's Shropshire Light Infantry writes from the Front:--"I thought you would like to hear some details of the death in action of Lieutenant ALEC JOHNSTON, who used to write 'At the Front' in _Punch_. I knew him well and we were rather especial friends.