"My Word!" said the Colonial when the grateful Son of Ham had departed, "that Ethiop is full to the back Teeth of most valuable Information! Let us give him a new Coat and a Pound of Tobacco." "On the Contrary," said the I.O., "He is a Wastrel and a Stinker. He cannot reply to Direct Questions and habitually contradicts himself." "That," said the Discerning Colonial, "is just It! I am about to act upon his Inaccuracies." This the Colonial did with great Success, and wiped up Seven of the Enemy advancing up a Spruit in the Cool of the Evening. On reporting his Achievement, the Intelligence Officer reported the Colonial for supplying the Kaffir with Illicit Liquor. MORAL. Oh Caesar! * * * * * KOPJE-BOOK MAXIMS. BY RUDYARD KIPLING, PERCEVAL LANDON, AND A. H. GWYNNE. _Various._ You cannot argue with a Shell, a Mule or a Press Censor. The nearer to the Press Censor the further from Truth. (N.B.--This is generally guaranteed by the Press Censor.) It's a wise Field Marshal that knows his own Generals. It's a long front that has no turning. "A shell in time saves nine," as the 4'7 said when it opened on the sniper. "Heaven helps those who help themselves," as ----'s Horse said when they found the poultry yard. Providence and the Company Officer have a great deal to look after. Between two rivers, drink Modderietly. It's always the next shell that will do the trick. Five under cover is fifty in the open. * * * * * PRICES IN BLOEMFONTEIN. When you've tightened up your waistbelt just a pair of holes or so, When you've tackled your last bit of armoured "duff," Then you put your bally pipe on, and you puff and spit and blow, And you realize half ration ain't enough. You go into the market and you purchase lots of grub Off the farmers whom friend Steyn has done a scoot from, And when you ask the price of it, that's where you cop the rub, For it takes away your breath just like a pom-pom. Duke's son, Cook's son, all of 'em want their scoff, Fifty thousand horse and foot struggling to get some grub, Each of 'em doing his country's work, and each being _done_ in turn, If you want to buy things in Bloemfontein you must pay! pay! pay! When they charge a "bob" for hair-cut and a tanner for a shave, It makes you say things that you didn't ought, And the 'umble loaf of "rootey" costs a tanner, or a bob, Is this the kind of sympathy they're taught? There's a luxury called butter that Tommy likes to buy, And he'll have it if he's got the oof, you bet, But three bob a bloomin' pound makes a hole in Atkins' pay 'Cos he ain't paid C'lonial wages (not just yet). Clerk's son, Grocer's son, son of a Haberdasher, All the Gents in Khaki chucking their pelf away, Each of 'em's done his country's work, It's hard to be done in turn, If you want to buy grub in Bloemfontein you've to pay! pay! pay!