Wonderfontein, for the wonder of it is where to find the fountain? Speculation was rife, as the pools of water we saw were so putrid that the horses, though they had done thirteen miles from the last halting-place, would not drink till accident disclosed a tiny spring in a bed of sand, just deep enough to fill a coffee cup at a time. Here was the wonder, and, _eureka_! we had struck it. The 5th was an eventful day, for when we had marched eastward three miles a heliogram from a contingent of 90 Canadians on the line of communications solicited help, as they were hard pressed by 300 Boers near Pan station, where they had been fighting since daybreak. Files about and canter was the order, and we went back some six miles to their aid, but the enemy had beaten a retreat after capturing a small post, where they crept up through a dense fog and surprised the helpless picket. We returned to Wonderfontein, and General Mahon, in consideration of the call made on us, very generously ordered an issue of a quarter of a pound of bully-beef and a biscuit. ’Twas lunch _à la South Africa_, and much appreciated. Thus refreshed we continued on our march for some five or six miles, and camped for the night. Such a night we have never had. The wind blew a perfect hurricane, and it was bitterly cold. On the 6th the brigade reached Carolina, and we were in expectation of seeing a town where we could renew our diminished stock of provisions, but, alas! Carolina in Africa is very different from the Carolina of the song— South Carolina is a sultry clime, Where the niggers work in the summer time, Massa in the shade would lay, While we poor niggers work all day. With us it was not summer time, but Massa had to lie on the bleak veldt and pretty hungry too. We found General French in camp near by us, with two brigades. A foreign commando of Austrians and Italians was said to be in the neighbourhood, and we hoped to become better acquainted with it later on. Carolina is a small uninteresting sort of place, more a village than anything else, the houses being small and built of corrugated iron. It is about the windiest place I have ever been in. We were there nearly a week, and it blew a hurricane almost all the time. One day it rained as well, and this made it horribly cold—the chilly blast cutting into one like a knife. Even the hardy Cape ponies, who had never before in their lives known what it was to be blanketed, had to be covered up that day. Another of the charms of this delightful place is that it is most dangerous to send horses out grazing on the surrounding veldt, as there is a low poisonous bush which grows pretty plentifully on it, to eat which is almost certain death. We found this out by bitter experience, losing four or five horses before we left.