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[Page 32]
Brigades, fared not so well. He was a teetotaller, had a large, if not stout, body that overflowed the camel's saddle, he hated camel riding, he disliked scenery, he had a contempt for artists almost characteristic of the perfect soldier and he landed in, a sore, disgruntled pessimist. My enthusiasm of the next few days did not help him any, as the Americans say, for I raved about the beauty of the place and painted with a speed never before achieved, dragging him round about the place over the landscape in the heat and insisting that he should not only admire the beauties of nature but especially my interpretation of them. At Magdhaba one comes up against literally the first real, solid mountain seen by our troops in their progress from the Canal eastward. It will always be my regret that my duties prevented me from getting a nearer view and closer acquaintanceship with its beauty. On the way back we halted half way to rest and water our camels at a small water hole, the last of the waters that only a month before had flooded the river or wadi and swept over some miles of flats down to El Arish and into the Mediterranean. At the halting place I made a little painting about six inches by four on a maple panel with oil paint and very small sable brushes, of the sand hills on the Laffan side of the Wadi El Arish. This little painting I hold to be my most sincere and successful effort. It was painted in heat of the day, a breathless heat that made the camels lie down and look more sorry for themselves than usual. Miriads of flies seeing