are out another twelve months." Our Harrovian friend
has summed up our feelings very aptly by stuttering, "If I had a bigger
handkerchief I'd weep."

A couple of orderlies have just passed our tent, bearing an inanimate
blanket-covered form on a stretcher--the last of my poor Devon friend,
beyond a doubt. Another was carried by about two hours ago, while we
were having tea. Christmas Eve, forsooth! Well, I will resume this
to-morrow, or on Boxing Day.

_Christmas Day._

There are not many people who would do any letter-writing on the
afternoon of this day. But out here one does marvellous deeds, which one
would never dream of attempting at home. So here I am, my dinner
finished, adding a few lines to this letter, commenced yesterday.

Last night, in lieu of the festive carol singers, our waits (pickets)
entertained us nearly all the night with volleys and independent firing.
Whether the foe was real or imaginary I have not yet heard, but I
believe the former. At four this morning I was awakened to have a
fomentation on my leg, and drowsily realised it was Christmas Day. Then
I fell asleep again, and dreamed of horrible adventures with Brother
Boer. When we all awakened, we tried hard to convince one another it was
indeed Christmas Day; one man actually going to the length of looking in
his sock with a sneer, and all through the day "this time last year"
anecdotes have been going strong amongst us of the I.Y.

"And a sorrow's crown of sorrows
Is remembering happier things."

After breakfast I strolled up to the post-office tent on a forlorn hope
for letters. There were none for me, but one and a fine Scotch
shortbread for the wounded Fife man in the bed next to mine. The cake,
the beauty of which we quickly marred, was tastefully decorated with
sugared devices, and the inscription, "Ye'll a' be welcome hame!"

Another fomentation, a visit from the doctor, who put us all on stout,
and dinner was up. This consisted of the roast beef of Old--oh, no, it
didn't, it was roast old trek ox, and I was unable to damage it with my
well-worn teeth, so left it. The "duff" was not bad, and the quantity
being augmented by a cold tinned one, which our Harrovian friend
produced from his haversack, we fared very well, finishing up the repast
with shortbread and a small bottle of stout each, with a diminutive
pineapple for dessert.

Everybody I meet seems agreed on one point, and that i