=Touching Incidents at Spion Kop.=

We read of one, a Wesleyan local preacher,—­Mr. W.F.  Low,—­wounded by a bullet through his collar bone and shoulder blade; wounded again by a fragment of shell striking his leg, worn out by excitement and fatigue—­so worn out that he actually slept, notwithstanding the pain of his wound, until awoke by sharp pain of his second wound.  We read of this man crawling over to the wounded lying near him, passing water from his water-bottle to one and another, gathering the water-bottles of the dead men round about, and giving them to those yet living.  And yet the cry of ‘Water,’ ‘Water!’ was heard on every side, and there were many to which he could not respond.  He tells how many of the men were praying, how their cries of repentance seemed to him too often cries of cowardice; though who would not fear to enter the presence of God all unprepared and unforgiven?  Well might many of them cry for mercy.

One man spent his last moments in writing a letter to his chum, who had led him to Christ but the day before.  ‘Dear brother in Christ Jesus,’ he wrote, ’I owe my very soul to you.  If it had not been for you, I should not have been ready to die now.  It seems hard only to give the last few hours of my life to His service, but I must say “Good-bye.”  The angels are calling me home.  I can see them and the glorious city.  Good-bye, and may God bless you!’

Says the one who in rough-and-ready fashion had so recently led his chum to Christ, ’It cheered me to know he was all right with the Master.  Now I must look out for more work for Him.’

=The Tortures of the Wounded.=

Then started that sad procession to the rear—­the procession of ox-waggons containing the poor mangled bodies of our wounded.  Oh! the horrors of it!  ‘How much longer will it be?’ ’Will the road soon be smoother?’ cried the longsuffering lads.  Who shall tell the tale of agony?  Aye! who shall tell the heroism then displayed?  Who shall describe how rough men became as gentle women, and how those racked with pain themselves yet tried to minister to the wants of others?  Oh! war is devil’s work; but surely at no time do human love and human sympathy show themselves so often, or prove themselves so helpful, as amidst its horrors.

Of all hospitals that at Mooi River was the best.  This is the testimony of one and all.  ‘You went in there,’ said one lad, ’a skeleton.  You came out a giant.’  And at Mooi at last, many of these poor wounded soldier lads found themselves, and amidst comfort that seemed to them luxury and rest that was heaven itself they were many of them wooed back to life.