c., for the hospital at the station,
and returned early the next day, for numbers of wounded were still
coming in. I wanted slippers for everyone, but my Belgian helpers had
given a hundred pairs of mine away in my absence. They were overworked a
little, I think, so I overlooked the fact that they lost their tempers
rather badly. Besides, I will _not_ quarrel. In a small kitchen it
would be too ridiculous. The three little people fight among themselves,
but I don't fancy I was made for that sort of thing.

There was nothing but work for some time. My "eclopes" had been entirely
neglected, and no one had even bothered to buy vegetables for the men.

On Sunday, May 2nd, I went to see Dr. de Page's hospital. I saw a baby
three weeks old with both his feet wounded. His mother came in one mass
of wounds, and died on the operating table--a young mother, and a pretty
one. A young man with tears in his eyes looked at the baby, and then
said, "A jolly good shot at fifteen miles."

They can't help making jokes.

There were two Scots lying in a little room--both gunners, who had been
hit at Nieuport. One, Ochterlony from Arbroath, had an eye shot away,
and some other wounds; the other, McDonald, had seven bad injuries.
Ochterlony talked a good deal about his eyes, till McDonald rolled his
head round on the pillow, and remarked briefly, "I'd swop my stomach for
your eyes."

Sunday wasn't such a nasty day as I usually have--in fact, Sunday never
is. But that station, with its glaring hot platform, its hotter kitchen,
and its smells, takes a bit of sticking. I have discovered one thing
about Belgium. Everything smells exactly alike. To-day there have been
presented to my nose four different things purporting to have different
odours, drains, some cheese, tobacco, and a bunch of lilac. There was no
difference at all in the smells!

[Page Heading: WAR WEARINESS]

I am much struck by the feeling of sheer weariness and disgust at the
war which prevails at present. People are "soul sick" of it. A man told
me last night that he longed to be wounded so that he might go home
honourably. Amongst all the volunteer corps I notice the same thing.
"Fed up" is the expression they all use, fed up with the suffering they
see, fed up even with red crosses and khaki.

When one thinks of primrose woods at home, and birds singing, and
apple-blossom against blue sky, and the park with its flower-beds newly
planted, and the fresh-watered streets,