In years to come, I suppose, only the imagination will be able to realise the effect on the stoical British mind of Baden-Powell's brisk and witty telegrams. England at that time, let it be known, was in a state of sullen wonderment. Every dispatch brought consternation to our minds. Here were our troops pouring into South Africa, soldiers of renown at their head, regiments famous throughout the world, representing our courage and prestige, and yet check after check, reverse after reverse--no progress, no sign of progress. In the midst of this national gloom came telegrams full of cheery optimism from little Mafeking--a name hardly known then to the man in the street, now as familiar as Edinburgh and Dublin. Who, for instance, can forget the famous message which ran: "October 21st. All well. Four hours' bombardment. One dog killed"? In an instant the gloom was dispelled. In 'bus and tram and railway carriage men chuckled over the exquisite humour of that telegram. Leader writers, unbending, referred to it decorously. The funny men on newspaper staffs made jests about it, and the "Oldest Evening Paper" enshrined it in verse:-- Four long, long hours they pounded hard, Whizz! went the screaming shell-- Of reeking tube and iron shard There was an awful smell. On us they wasted all their lead, On us who stood at bay, And with our guns (forgive it, Stead!) Popped quietly away. They could not make the city burn, However hard they tried. Not one of us is dead, but learn A dog it was that died.