but a refined, cultured gentleman, who knows the
full strength of the British Empire; and, knowing it, he has defied it in
all its might, and will follow his convictions to the bitter end, no matter
what that end may be. He introduced me to a couple of gentlemen whose names
are very dear to the Free Staters, viz., Messrs. Fraser and Fischer, and
whilst the interview lasted nothing was talked of but the war, and it
struck me very forcibly that not one of those men had any hatred in their
hearts towards the British people. "This," said the President, "is not a
war between us and the British people on any question of principle; it is a
war forced upon us by a band of capitalistic adventurers, who have
hoodwinked the British public and dragged them into an unholy, an unjust
struggle with a people whose only desire was to live at peace with all men.
We do not hate your nation; we do not hate your soldiers, though they fight
against us; but we do hate and despise the men who have brought a cruel war
upon us for their own evil ends, whilst they try to cloak their designs in
a mantle of righteousness and liberty." I may not have given the exact
words of the President, as I am writing from memory, but I think I have
given his exact sentiments; and, if I am any judge of human nature, the
love of his country is the love of his life.

"STOPPING A FEW."

I saw him first, years ago upon a station in New South Wales; a neat, smart
figure less than nine stone in weight, but it was nine stone of fencing
wire full of the electricity of life. He was in the stockyard when I first
saw him, working like any ordinary station hand, for it was the busy
portion of the year, and at such times the squatters' sons work like any
hired hand, only a lot harder, if they are worth their salt, and have not
been bitten by the mania for dudeism during their college course in the
cities. There was nothing of the dandy about this fellow. From head to heel
he was a man's son, full of the vim of living, strong with the lust of
life. The sweat ran down his face, dirty with the dust kicked up by the
cattle in the stockyard. His clothes were not guiltless of mire, for he had
been knocked over more than once that morning, and there was an edge upon
his voice as he rapped out his orders to the stockmen who were working with
him. He did not look in the least degree pretty, and there was not enough
poetry about him just then to m