pen town with
a persistence that would seem petty in its spitefulness if we could be
sure that the shots strike near what they are aimed at. So long as the
Boers do not violate any laws of civilised warfare nobody has a right to
blame them for trying the methods that may seem most likely to bring
about the fall of Ladysmith. They have, however, simply wrecked a few
houses, disfigured pretty gardens, mutilated public buildings, destroyed
private property, and disabled by death or wounds a small percentage of
our troops, without producing the smallest effect on the material
defences, or weakening the garrison's powers of endurance in any
appreciable degree. Such a bombardment day after day for seven weeks
would doubtless get on the nerves if we allowed ourselves to think about
it too much; but happily the civilians--men and women--who resolved to
"stick it out" here rather than accept from their country's enemies the
questionable benefits of a comparatively peaceful existence under the
white flag at Intombi Spruit have shown a fortitude and cheerfulness
that win respect from every soldier. Shelters are provided for them and
their children, but they do not always take advantage of these, even
when a bugle or whistle from the look-out post warns them that a shell
is coming. Ladies still go their daily round of shopping just as they
did in the early days of bombardment, indeed more regularly, and with a
cool disregard of danger that brave men might envy. Though more than
5000 shells have been thrown within our defensive lines, and a vast
number of these into the town itself, only one woman has been wounded so
far, and not a single child hit. For all this we have every reason to be
thankful.

When the sun goes down people who have taken shelter elsewhere during
the day return to their homes, and have pleasant social gatherings, from
which thoughts of Boer artillery are banished by innocent mirth and
music. Walking along the lampless streets, at an hour when camps are
silent, one is often attracted by the notes of fresh, young voices,
where soft lights glow through open casements, or the singers sit under
the vine-traceried verandah of a "stoup," accompanying the melody with
guitar or banjo. Occasionally stentorian lungs roar unmelodious
music-hall choruses that jar by contrast with sweeter strains, but
sentiment prevails, and who can wonder if there are sometimes tears in
the voices that sing "Swanee River" and "Home, Sweet H