Red Autumn on the banks, Where, through fields that bear no grain, A desolate Mother treads, By the brimming river, torn with rain! A chill wind moves in the faded ranks Of the rushes, rumpling their russet heads. And out of the mist, on the racing stream As I drift, I know that there gathers fast, Over the lands I shall see no more, Another mist, which with life shall last, Till all that I watched and my comrades bore Will be autumn mist, in an old man's dream. Here an Empire's might had agonized; and many of us had buried more hopes than we shall cherish again. It rained, and kept on raining. Knowing what wretchedness this meant on shore, we were glad of the crowded shelter of our P-boat, maugre its noises and discomforts. Marshall, the semi-mythical person at Corps, who had visited the Turks at Tekrit, scattering ruin from a 'lamb,' was everywhere said to be taking bets, ten to one, that the war would be ended by Christmas. If rumour spoke truth, Marshall must have lost a pile of money. On the 22nd we entrained at Amara, reaching Busra late on the 23rd. We spent Christmas encamped on a marsh. My mare developed unsuspected gifts as a humorist. Every time she saw a tree, even a date-palm, she shied, cavorted, and leapt, showing the utmost amazement and terror. This was witty at first, but she kept it up too long. Busra backwaters were lovelier than ever, with the willows in their winter dress, gold-streaked, and the brooding blue kingfishers above the waveless channels. _Bablas_[32] were in yellow button, scenting the ditches where huge tortoises crawled and clustered. On the 30th I got a glimpse of Shaiba, of the tall feathery tamarisks above the Norfolks' graves and trenches. On January 2 we embarked on the _Bandra_. With the cheering as we moved away, the words of a Mesopotamian 'gaff'[33] recurred to memory: And when we came to Ashar,[34] we only cheered once; And I don't suppose we shall cheer again, for months, and months, and months.