Our lines are cast in pleasant places just at present; for, apart from the political puzzle which some of us study, and which I have already tried to explain, there is nothing to disturb our equanimity. We have a high and dry encamping ground, from which we can travel down at our leisure, either citywards, to explore the mysteries of Cabul and ponder over the Bala Hissar, now rapidly being cleared out; or else down into the Cabul plain, to exercise our horses on the racecourse, or over the water-channels which everywhere intersect the fields. The view on every side is an impressive one, for the mountains which keep watch and ward over Cabul are very picturesque, rising abruptly from the fields below, and seeming to shut us out securely from the petty world beyond. News of that outer world has been very scant of late, and it is with ill-concealed impatience that many of us turn eastward to where the Khurd Cabul and Jugdulluck Hills hide the long valley up which the Khyber column is crawling with tortoise-slowness. There comes no heliographic flash down to cheer us, and one might as well consult the impassible Hindu Kush itself. But there is a pleasanter outlook westwards. Through the gorge in rear of the city we catch a glimpse of the Chardeh Valley, a very Eden of fertility, and in the far background is the high range of mountains forming the sky-line towards distant Turkistan, over which we have gorgeous sunsets that more than atone for the chilliness which creeps over Siah Sung Ridge as the day closes. We have the sharp air of the early morning to brace us for routine work that must be gone through, and such genial warmth all day as to make the shade of our tight little tents seem almost superfluous. Whatever of cold and discomfort there may be in store for us, we are comfortable enough now, though perhaps the air bites shrewdly at mid-night to the sentry at his post. His outlook is chiefly for thieves who may think there is loot to be got in our camp; but we seem to have frightened the people into honesty, for robberies are unknown. Our camp is thronged with petty traders, and in convenient spots are little bazaars for our soldiers and camp-followers, to whom they are a rare boon. Fruit in abundance is exposed most temptingly: grapes, apples, pears, and pomegranates being sold so cheaply that a few pice will buy sufficient to satisfy even a soldier’s appetite; while melons of a flavour and succulency almost unknown to us poor dwellers in Hindustan are piled together in profusion. The usual curry-stuffs and native delicacies are ranged alongside these edibles; and occasionally some delicious beetroot or a gigantic cabbage nestling in a heap of bright-skinned onions tempts a _khansamah_ doing his day’s marketing to halt and haggle in a lordly manner until a fair bargain is struck. The Afghan “coster” is not an easy personage to deal with, for he has learnt the value of our rupees, and is determined to make the most of the present opportunity.