The southern point of the peninsula had been very sparsely inhabited. There were two villages, Sedd-el-Bahr, between “V” Beach and Morto Bay, and Krithia, below the slopes of Achi Baba. Elsewhere a few isolated buildings remained, and arches of an ancient aqueduct which had formerly brought water to Sedd-el-Bahr, still stood. But the inhabitants of the nullahs had not fled. Who that heard them will ever forget the frogs of the nullahs at night? A vivid memory of this will remain when things of more importance are forgotten. The average Lancashire man had read that frogs croak, and had accepted the statement tolerantly, as we acquiesce when told that, in spite of appearances, Sirius is really larger than the moon, or that the earth goes round the sun. Now they heard them, and considered “croak” too feeble and inexpressive a word. Some had perhaps read Aristophanes, and had assumed that the frogs of sunnier climes might voice their joys and sorrows less decorously than those which reside in suburban ponds near Manchester. At first the origin of the noise[3] gave rise to much conjecture, a popular notion being that the Gurkhas were responsible. Anything out of the common might be attributed to them. Had it not been printed in the newspapers that the Gurkhas observed a strange rite in respect of the shedding of blood whenever they drew their kukris, to show to the curious stranger or to put a still keener edge on the blade? And did they not throw these heavy, curved knives at the enemy? Accepting such statements as facts it was quite simple to believe that you yourself had seen them do these strange things. So the noise was made by the Gurkhas, and doubtless some unfortunate Turks were having a most unpleasant time. [Sidenote: _The Fauna of Gallipoli_]