tin huts, but the Liverpools, Devons, Gordons, and Volunteers have pitched their own tents, and a terrible time they are having of it.  Dust is the curse of the place.  We remember the Long Valley as an Arcadian dell.  Veterans of the Soudan recall the black sand-storms with regretful sighs.  The thin, red dust comes everywhere, and never stops.  It blinds your eyes, it stops your nose, it scorches your throat till the invariable shilling for a little glass of any liquid seems cheap as dirt.  It turns the whitest shirt brown in half an hour, it creeps into the works of your watch and your bowels.  It lies in a layer mixed with flies on the top of your rations.  The white ants eat away the flaps of the tents, and the men wake up covered with dust, like children in a hayfield.  Even mules die of it in convulsions.  It was in this land that the ostrich developed its world-renowned digestive powers; and no wonder.

[Illustration:  Map of Ladysmith and neighbourhood]

The camp stands on a barren plain, nearly two miles north-west of the town—­if we may so call the one straight road of stores and tin-roofed bungalows.  Low, flat-topped hills surround it, bare and rocky.  But to understand the country it is best to climb into the mountains of the long Drakensberg, which forms the Free State frontier in a series of strangely jagged and precipitous peaks, and at one place, by the junction with Basutoland, runs up to 11,000 feet.  Last Sunday I went into the Free State through Van Reenen’s Pass, over which a little railway has been carried by zigzag “reverses.”  The summit is 5,500 feet above the sea, or nearly 2,000 feet above Ladysmith.  From the steep slopes, in places almost as green as the Lowlands or Yorkshire fells, I looked south-east far over Natal—­a parched, brown land like the desert beyond the Dead Sea, dusty bits of plain broken up by line upon line of bare red mountain.  It seemed a poor country to make a fuss about, yet as South Africa goes, it is rich and even fertile in its way.  Indeed, on the reddest granite mountain one never fails to find multitudes of flowering plants and pasturage for thinnish sheep.  Across the main range, Van Reenen’s is the largest and best known pass.  The old farmer who gave it the name is living there still and bitterly laments the chance of war.  But there are other passes too, any of which may suddenly become famous now—­Olivier’s Hoek, near the gigantic Mont aux Sources, Bezuidenhaut, Netherby, Tintwa, and (north of Van Reenen’s) De Beer’s Pass, Cundycleugh, Muller’s, and Botha’s, beyond which the range ends with the frontier at Majuba.  Three or four of these passes are crossed by waggon roads, but Van Reenen’s has the only railway.  The frontier, marked by a barbed wire fence across the summit of the pass, must be nearly forty miles from Ladysmith, but from the cliffs above it, the little British camp can be seen like a toy through this clear African air, and Boer sentries watch it