November 29.—­The night has been passed in preparing a surprise for the big Creusot gun on Middle Hill, which, because of his propensity for throwing shells into everybody’s mess, has come to be known as the “Meddler.”  Deep gun-pits are dug on the northern slope of Waggon Hill, where on a nek they are screened by the higher spur from view of Middle Hill.  In these pits two old-fashioned howitzers, throwing shells with sixty pounds of black powder for bursting charge, are mounted.  Captain Christie, R.A., takes command of them and waits his chance, which does not come for a long time, the cannonade being at first confined to a duel between Captain Lambton’s pet, “Lady Anne,” and “Puffing Billy” of Bulwaan.  At length, however, the “Meddler” chimes in, and Captain Christie immediately looses off his two howitzers in succession.  They cannot be laid by sights on the object aimed at, which is hidden from view.  All has to be done by calculation of angles, and a fraction of error may make all the difference.  So we watch anxiously while the shell—­a long time in flight—­follows its allotted parabola.  One bursts just short of the work; but its companion, a second later, goes over the parapet and sends debris flying upwards in a mighty cloud.  Thereupon the howitzers are christened promptly “The Great Twin Brethren,” “Castor and Pollux,” and “Puffing Pals,” everybody selecting the name that appeals to his imagination most strongly.  It matters little by what name men call them, so long as they can throw shells truly into the enemy’s battery, and this they do steadily.  The “Meddler” cannot reply to them effectively, and other Boer guns try in vain to reach them.  At night a curious palpitating light on the clouds southward attracts attention.  One Rifle Brigade man who has a smattering of the Morse Code watches it for some time and mutters to himself, “X.X.X.  Why, they’re calling us up”; and before a signalman can be roused we see clearly enough these palpitations resolving themselves into dots and dashes.  It is a signal from the south, flashed by searchlight across miles of intervening hills, but in a cypher which only those who have the key can read.

[Illustration:  THE BRITISH POSITION AT LADYSMITH, LOOKING NORTH TOWARDS RIETFONTEIN AND THE NEWCASTLE ROAD]

November 30.—­Day breaks across white mists on the plain, and then comes gorgeous sunshine, with a glow of colour all round, brilliant orange in the east above Bulwaan, deepening to blood-red in the west behind the rugged crest of Mount Tintwa and the pitted peaks of Mont aux Sources.  From daybreak onward there is heavy artillery fire on camp and town from every gun the Boers have mounted.  Our howitzers and the “Meddler” began it with a merry little set-to between themselves, doing no harm.  Then Surprise Hill, Telegraph Hill, Rifleman’s Ridge, Bulwaan, and Lombard’s Kop joined in, the last aiming straight for the hospital, with its Red Cross flag.  Two shells had fallen close to