urs sitting on our
rolls of bedding at the far end of the platform. It had never struck
them that we should want to sleep in a place like De Aar. Disgusted,
we tried the hotel. Here they loosed dogs on us and turned out the
guard. Still more disgusted, we returned to our bedding, and sardined
in with the ruck and rubbish on the platform.

* * * * *

Sunrise in South Africa. The sun knows how to rise on the veldt. When
first seen it is as good as a tonic. It makes one feel joyous at the
mere fact of being alive. But this feeling wears off with a week's
trekking, especially when the season gets colder, or a night-march has
miscarried. Then you never wish to see the sun rise again. There was a
time when a man who boasted that he had never seen the sun rise was
branded as a lazy sloth, an indolent good-for-nothing, who willingly
missed half the pleasures of life. After twenty months continuous
trekking in South Africa one is not sure that one's opinions on this
subject fall into line with those of the majority. For after a baker's
dozen of sunrises one has generally reached that state when the
greatest natural pleasure is found inside rather than outside of a
sleeping-bag. But in spite of the general detestation in which De Aar
is held, the neighbouring hills furnish, in the quickening light of
dawn, studies in changing colour so voluptuous, varied, and fantastic
that the wonder is that all the artists in the world have not
fore-gathered at the place. But familiarity with all this beauty
reduces it to a commonplace. It just becomes part of the monotony of
your daily life, especially if you have, as we had that morning, to
wait your turn before you could wash, at the waste-water drippings
from a locomotive feed-pump. Here you fought for a place, jostled by
men who at home would have stepped off the pavement and saluted. But
after a few months of war, at a washing-pump there is little by which
you can distinguish officers from men, unless the former have their
tunics on. From the washtub to _chota haziri_. The buffet is not yet
open, but a dilapidated Kaffir woman on the platform is doling out at
sixpence a time a mess of treacle-like consistency which is called
coffee. What would you think if you could catch a glimpse of us? What
would the bright little maid who brings in the tea in the morning say,
if she could see us now? Certainly if we came to the front-door she
would slam it in our faces