stream is drained, and yet the proud heart of the mother continues to beat strongly. It is so hard for men to die; it is as hard for the Zulu and the Afghan and the Ghoorka as it is for the civilized man, and that is why I wish it were Britain's fortune to be allowed to cease from the shedding of blood. If the corpses of the barbarians whom we have destroyed within the past ten years could only be laid out in any open space and shown to our populace, there would be a shudder of horror felt through the country; yet, while the sweet bells chime to us about peace and goodwill, we go on sending myriads of men out of life, and the nation pays no more heed to that steady ruthless killing than it does to the slaughter of oxen. Alas! Then, if we think of the lot of those who fight for us and slaughter our hapless enemies by deputy as it were, their luck seems very hard. When the steady lines moved up the Alma slope and the men were dropping so fast, the soldiers knew that they were performing their parts as in a vast theatre; their country would learn the story of their deed, and the feats of individuals would be amply recorded. But, when a man spends months in a far-off rocky country, fighting day after day, watching night after night, and knowing that at any moment the bullet of a prowling Ghilzai or Afridi may strike him, he has very little consolation indeed. When one comes to think of the matter from the humorous point of view--though there is more grim fact than fun in it--it does seem odd that we should be compelled to spend two thousand pounds on an officer's education, and then send him where he may be wiped out of the world in an instant by a savage little above the level of the Bushman. I pity the poor savages, but I certainly pity the refined and highly-trained English soldier more. The latest and most delightful of our Anglo-Indians has put the matter admirably in verse which carries a sting even amidst its pathos. He calls his verses "Arithmetic on the Frontier." A great and glorious thing it is To learn for seven years or so The Lord knows what of that or this, Ere reckoned fit to face the foe, The flying bullet down the pass, That whistles clear, "All flesh is grass." Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in villainous saltpetre! And after--ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies. A scrimmage in a border station, A canter down some dark defile-- Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail! The crammer's boast, the squadron's pride Shot like a rabbit in a ride. No proposition Euclid wrote, No formulae the text-book know, Will turn the bullet from your coat Or ward the tulwar's downward blow; Strike hard who cares--shoot straight who can-- The odds are on the cheaper man.