the roll of thunder, as though the rocks and sands and surf were battling with each other for victory down there on "The Wanderers". That roar never ceases. On calm, hot, sunny days it almost dies; it sinks away into a lazy hum like the drone of bees in the clover. But it is always there. The Batteries of the Reef are never still. Night and day, and every night and every clay, without rest, the crushing of the great machinery goes on, and the rocks and stones and sand yield their golden treasure in response.
This is a strange City. In many respects a wonderful City. So young, and yet so old. The problems of vice and poverty which perplex those aggregates of humanity, whose experiences cover ten centuries, are all here. A young form, and a jaded heart. Then the population is so diverse. The other day an accident happened just in front of me, and a small crowd gathered. It was an ordinary crowd in a very ordinary street. As I reached it, a young Italian Priest mounted his bicycle and rode away. A Chinese followed. The few who remained were nearly all of different nationalities. A tall Indian, probably a Pathan, some Kaffirs, and two white people—one Dutch, the other a Jew. It