The grass is a seething mass of insect life. I tethered my mules to a partially buried wire and did a rough sketch of some trees. The next time I looked they were stampeding, maddened with terror by an old sack, pulled out of the ground with the wire and now leaping and bounding after them like the Mullish Nemesis. After they had become entangled in the chains and violently thrown by and then repeated the stampede, I managed to secure them, crestfallen, somewhat scratched about and still eyeing with dread and apprehension the now motionless Flying-Sack-Demon.
The Gamblers take not the slightest notice of the weather, the war, or other phenomena, absorbed in the spin of 2 coppers.
Magnificent beetles and other insects, spawned from the warm soil, are making clumsy efforts at flight. One enormous fellow after setting different-hued sails, only managed a six-inch flop. Spiders and other leggy individuals are running steeple-chases over my puttees and strides.