The droves of ownerless Peking dogs wandering about and creeping in and out of every hole and gap are also annoying us terribly.  These pariahs, abandoned by their masters, who have fled from this ruined quarter of the city, are ravenous with hunger, and fight over the bodies of the Chinese dead, and dig up the half-buried horses; nothing will drive them away.  In furious bands they rush down on us at night, sometimes alarming the outposts so much that they open a heavy fire.  An order given to shoot everyone of them, so as to stop these night rushes, has been carried out, but no matter how many we kill, more push forward, frantic with hunger, and tear their dead comrades to pieces in front of our eyes.  It is becoming a horrible warfare in this bricked-in battle-ground.

Inside our lines there are a number of half-starving natives, who were caught by the storm and are unable to escape.  They are poor people of the coolie classes, and it is no one’s business to care for them.  Several times parties of them have attempted to sneak out and get away, but each time they have been seized with panic, and have fled back, willing to die with starvation sooner than be riddled by the enemy’s bullets.  The native troops beyond our lines shoot at everything that moves.  A few days ago an old rag-picker was seen outside the Tartar Wall shambling along half dazed towards the Water-Gate, which runs in under the Great Wall into the dry canal in our centre.  The Chinese sharpshooters saw him and must have thought him a messenger.  Soon their rifles crashed at him, and the old man fell hit, but remained alive.  After a while he raised himself on his hands and knees and began crawling towards his countrymen like a poor, stricken dog, in the hope that they would spare him when they saw his condition.  But pitilessly once more the rifles crashed out, and this time their bullets found a billet in his vital parts, for the beggar rolled over and remained motionless.  There he now lies where he was shot down in the dust and dirt, and his white beard and his rotting rags seem to raise a silent and eloquent protest to high Heaven against the devilish complots which are racking Peking.

The feeding of our native Christians, an army of nearly two thousand, is still progressing, but babies are dying rapidly, and nothing further can be done.

There is only just so much rice, and the men who are doing the heavy coolie work on the fortifications must be fed better than the rest or else no food at all would be needed....

The native children, with hunger gnawing savagely at their stomachs, wander about stripping the trees of their leaves until half Prince Su’s grounds have leafless branches.  Some of the mothers have taken all the clothes off their children on account of the heat, and their terrible water-swollen stomachs and the pitiful sticks of legs eloquently tell their own tale.  Unable to find food, all are drinking enormous quantities of water to stave off the pangs of hunger.  A man who has been in India says that all drink like this in famine time, which inflates the stomach to a dangerous extent, and is the forerunner of certain death.