34 6 



RECREATION. 



will account for the bullet not going through 

 me. 



Not only in my own case, but in those of 

 all the other men whom I saw who were hit 

 by shrapnel, the effect was the same. They 

 produce a terrible nervous sftock to the sys- 

 tem and tear and shatter everything they 

 come in contact with. The several surgeons 

 under whose hands I passed agreed that any 

 man struck with this form of missile and who 

 has a complete recovery is indeed fortunate. 



Note.— Mr. Mitchell, the author of this 

 story, is a well known actor and theatrical 

 manager. He is now lecturing under the 

 auspices of the Pond Lecture Bureau. I have 

 heard his lecture and he tells a most thrilling 

 story of the rights at El Caney and San Juan 

 Hill. His talk is illustrated with a series of 

 striking views of the fight and the troops en- 

 gaged therein. It is well worth a long 

 journey to hear this lecture and to see the 

 pictures. — Editor. 



DRIFTIN' DOWN THE NILE UPON THE TIDE. 



F. C. CLARKE. 



There's lots of us 'ave never been to Egypt, 

 'There's plenty that 'ave 'ad to stay at 'ome; 

 They've never seen the graceful palm trees wavin', 

 Because they didn't 'ave the price to roam. 



You'll never know exactly what they're missin', 

 You'll never understand it till you've tried; 

 Till you've seen the creaky dhows 

 With the green mould on their bows, 

 Saggin' slowly down the Nile upon the tide. 



Until you've seen the Plain tribes on their 'orses, 

 On their camels and on donkeys and on foot, 

 With their caravans and scowlin eyebrow'd women, 

 And the cobras, and the niggers black as soot. 



You'll never know exactly what they're missin', 



If you've never seen the sunset shadows glide 



Where the lazy eddies gutter, 



And the 'oarse-voic'd bull-frogs mutter 



In the reed-banks of the Nile beside the tide. 



When the sun-baked sands at noon-time bleach and 



whiten, 

 And you seek in vain to find a cooler spot; — 

 When your swollen tongue is parched and dry and furry, 

 And you curse your bloomin' luck because you're 'ot; — 

 You begin to think you know what they are 



missin', 

 When you get back to the river deep and wide, 

 Where the fire-flies dart and glimmer, 

 And the phosphorus fishes shimmer 

 In the waters of the Nile beneath the tide. 



When you drift along its green-fleck'd placid surface — 

 When the shadows of the sail are cool and long- 

 When the evenin' breeze 'as died away to nothi-n', 

 And the coolies lift an eerie 'eathen song; — 



Then you know just what your friends are missin', 



Back in Hingland's rain and fog and pride: 



For their meat-fed wrath and riot 



Are not like the peace and quiet 



That is driftin' down the Nile upon the tide. 



