Friday was all excitement; we had a glimpse of the balloon again, waltzing at a high altitude in the heavens, the Column’s artillery the while maintaining a continuous uproar.  Soon a terrific report was heard, which was presumed to have been caused by the explosion of a Boer magazine.  A lyddite missile had done the deed; no “common” shell, we argued, could have created such a noise.  After an hour the balloon disappeared, and we were of the earth earthly once more.  Late in the evening some harmless shells dropped into the streets, and a second catastrophe befel a Boer magazine.

Saturday again.  Lord Methuen proclaimed it through the throat of his cannon.  Long Cecil—­pretending to deduce from their silence that the Boers imagined it to be Sunday—­was most profuse in the distribution of “compliments.”  But no acknowledgment came back, no error was admitted, and the day dragged itself to an end, leaving little in its train to turn one’s thoughts from gloomy retrospection.

It was at this time that practical people began to express amazement at the conduct of their less practical neighbours.  A new epidemic had broken out.  The doctrine of self-help was being practised with a vengeance.  The pleasure of gardening was the newest discovery.  In short, the notion of growing vegetables on our own, so to speak, since we could not buy them readymade, had come to be acclaimed as the higher sagacity.  The curious feature of this departure was that it should grow in popularity as the Siege approached its appointed end.  Relief or no relief, the vegetables would not be wasted.  But the practical people only laughed at economic platitudes.  Vegetable seeds were in great demand, and families were everywhere to be seen reclaiming their ten by ten feet patches of common-age—­where half a blade of grass had never grown before!  Some enthusiasts, to enlarge their holdings, went even so far as to pull down their untenanted fowl-houses.  The soil was not so favourable to horticulture as it might have been, but the best was made of it.  Inspired by a determination to live as long as possible we ruthlessly uprooted our flowers, and conjured up visions of unborn potatoes and cabbage.  If the Military kept whittling down our rations, if we were to be permitted only to nibble like so many birds, the vegetables might one day serve as a dernier ressort.  Who could tell?

The enterprise displayed was admirable; but—­had we to wait till the vegetables grew?  Were they to grow while we waited?  This sudden zeal for the development of the land recalled the song of the condemned Irishman who took advantage of his judge’s clemency, and with characteristic humour selected a gooseberry bush from which to be hanged.  When the objection was raised that “it would not be high enough,” he expressed his willingness to wait till it grew!