It was spring in the Transvaal. Already the wattle-trees beside the farm-schoolhouse door were thickly covered with a mass of golden bloom, and the little blue pan--or lake--down among the willows, again reflected the sky and clouds as the Boer children trooped past it. Many a chilly morning had they trudged on their way to that same little room of corrugated iron and wood, just beyond the farthest kopje[1]--often so early that the grass was still sparkling with the sunlit hoar-frost.…
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