was Natal.  The situation in Natal appeared to be serious.  Still, our opinions of our spoonfeeders remained unaltered; we still assumed that they suppressed or minimised the seriousness of things in Kimberley.  Our attitude was perhaps uncharitable, and deserving of the rope—­of half-hanging at least; but the weather was so hot; we felt so hungry and thirsty.  There was no need to starve us, to deny us bread; we believed that we might be safely granted a slice or two more—­until the British flag was hoisted in Pretoria.  We had, it is true, rather hugged the delusion that it would have been up for Christmas Day.  But even in the light of that error of judgment we could appreciate the puerility of conserving supplies as if the dogs of war were to go on barking until doomsday.

A special meeting of the City Council was held in the afternoon; and although opinions were divided as to the precise form its protest against the new order of things should take, nobody doubted that it was for such a purpose the meeting was convened.  We were all wrong.  It was simply resolved at the Town House to wish the Queen a Happy New Year; and thereby demonstrate not only the unswerving loyalty of her distant subjects, but their sang froid also in days of stress and danger.  It was an excellent idea; the taking off of hats to the Queen was general.  The Colonel signalled to Lord Methuen; that gentleman communicated with Sir Alfred Milner; and he in turn cabled Kimberley’s sentiments to Her Majesty.  There was no mention of the bread; it was an omission; but it might have sounded “conditional,” irrelevant, or even have detracted from the value of our good wishes; and it was hardly worth risking being suspected of loyalty to one’s bread—­unbuttered!  Besides, our friend the enemy (the Colonel, not the Boer) personally supervised the despatch of messages, and he was quite artful enough to suppress reference to eating matters if he thereby served the “Military Situation.”

Friday was quiet—­in the cannonading line; the wind and dust were bellicose enough.  Fodder was scarce, and the animal creation was sharing with us the privations of a siege.  Hundreds of horses were turned out to “grass.”  To be reduced to dependence on Karoo grass was a sad fate for the poor quadrupeds.  On a billiard table they could have feasted their eyes at least on green; but the veld could not offer even that ocular consolation.  Hay and straw were at a premium; the “fighting” horses had first call, and they were numerous enough to make hard the lot of the steeds of peace.  The poor cart horses were sadly neglected; it was pitiful to behold their protruding ribs, their forlorn looks.  Every sort of garbage was raked up to keep them alive—­second-hand straw hat mashes being the most notable repasts in vogue.  Cab-men were obliged to descend from their boxes and face the dignity of labour with a pick and shovel.  The dearth of fodder brought down the prices of beasts,