To-day the sun shone brilliantly, bringing back tropical heat, in contrast to the cold that always accompanies violent thunder-storms in Natal.

And so Christmas-tide was past, and the New Year broke upon the beleaguered garrison.  So great is the influence of times and seasons that we may well believe that even in Ladysmith the first day of 1900 brought a brighter ray of hope.  But hope must yet for long be deferred, and the daily round of tasks grow wearisome by repetition—­the daily dole of eked-out rations, the daily tale of bursting shells, were for many weeks, with one day’s startling break, to be the sole preoccupation of the defenders.  The enemy, even on this first day of January, were not willing to leave the garrison in doubt as to their presence, although, despite the possible touch of sarcasm, there was a grim sort of friendliness in their reminder.  It again took the form of blind shells—­this time fired from the Free State batteries—­inscribed “Compliments of the Season.”  The sarcasm (writes Mr. Pearse)

seems the more pointed because we hear that the Boers believe us to be starving and unable to hold out much longer.  We should, at any rate, appreciate the good wishes more if they were sent in another form.  Shells, even without fuses or powder-charges, are not quite harmless; and though these have done no damage so far, there is always a chance that they may hit somebody when fired into the heart of a town where people still carry on their customary occupations in spite of bombardment.

Whatever change favourable to their hopes was believed in by the Boers, there was none in the spirit with which soldiers and civilians alike in the invested township faced the duties placed upon them.  Writing on New Year’s Day Mr. Pearse has a timely and a generous word for the humbler heroes of the siege:—­

We have among us one little saddler for whose services there is so much demand that he has steadily stitched away for hours together every working day since the siege began, heedless of shells.  There are tailors, too, who have done their best to keep officers and civilians clothed, not even quitting their benches when shrapnels burst near them, and I know of at least one poor seamstress who, by working night and day, has earned enough to buy something more than bare rations even at famine prices.  Cynics do not look for heroes or heroines among such as these.  They toil for gain, that is all.  But they have stuck to their notion of duty in the midst of danger, and no soldier could have done more.  Not all the shells fired into town on New Year’s Day were harmless, however.  One from Bulwaan burst near Captain Vallentin’s house, which has been a favourite since Colonel Rhodes took up his quarters there, and at last one hit just over the front door.  It smashed the drawing-room wall, passed thence to the kitchen, and mortally wounded a soldier servant, whose last words to his master were, “I hope you’ve had your breakfast, sir!”