xx THE LAND OF THE LION 



Italian Somaliland is a country surely not worth fighting 

 for, not worth the blood of one honest patient Italian 

 soldier or officer, and yet since her flag has been raised 

 over its barren waterless wilderness, Italy seems unwilling 

 to haul it down. But if she will not take this course, 

 then most surely she will shortly have to send from her 

 shores expeditions of another sort, than that one which 

 the Gertrude landed. Our friends were so hastily dispatched 

 that they had not even sun helmets, but had to search Port 

 Said, after midnight too (for the steamer made a late 

 landing), for such poor substitutes for headgear as its 

 shoddy shop could supply. 



Mogadicio was under the Muskat Arabs an important 

 town; but it has sunk into insignificance. The squalid 

 little place, with its apology for a port, is a mere huddle 

 of whitewashed mud houses, crowding close down to the 

 sea. It has no safe anchorage, soon as the monsoon 

 begins to blow, and no good water. 



A high sand-dune back of the town is crowned by a small 

 lighthouse. Here some earthworks have been thrown 

 up, and the Italians have placed small shell guns, taken 

 from one of their gunboats on the coast, in position. 



The thorn scrub which covers the country at a short 

 distance from the sea, has been cleared away for a couple 

 of thousand yards from the muzzles of the guns; and for 

 just that distance, and no more, life is pretty safe round the 

 place. Beyond it patrols were cut up. 



We drank to our friends' health and success at dinner, 

 and bade them good-bye with sincere regret. Far away 

 from home and friends and support, they took up the 

 thankless work assigned them, with that light-hearted 

 courage that has so well served their fatherland during 

 the long dark days, now we hope forever over. 



But as I saw the last of them go down the ship's side, 

 I couldn't but feel that someone had blundered. That 



