y, a cart comes to the door and deposits a load of ivy and holly and
mistletoe. The men have all subscribed to buy decorations for their
temporary home, and they set about their work like children--for where
will you find children who are younger than the "Tommies"? Even the
wards where there are only "cot cases" are decorated, and the men lie in
bed and watch the invaders from other wards who come in and smother the
place with evergreens. There is one ward where a man lies dying of
cancer--here, too, they come, making clumsy attempts to walk on tip-toe,
and smiling encouragement as they hang the mistletoe from the electric
light over his bed.

And at last the great day comes. There are presents for everyone, and a
bran pie from which, one by one, they extract mysterious parcels wrapped
up in brown paper. And the joy as they undo them! There are table games
and packets of tobacco, writing pads and boxes of cigarettes, cheap
fountain pens which will nearly turn the Matron's hair grey, and bags of
chocolates. They collect in their wards and turn their presents over,
their eyes damp with joy; they pack up their games or their chocolate to
send home to their wives who are spending Christmas in lonely cottage
kitchens; they write letters to imaginary people just for the joy of
using their writing blocks; they admire each others' treasures, and,
sometimes, make exchanges, for the man who does not smoke has drawn a
pipe, and the man in the corner over there, who has lost both legs, has
drawn a pair of felt slippers!

Before they know where they are, the lunch is ready, and, children
again, they eat far more than is good for them, until the nurses have to
forbid them to have any more. "No, Jones," they say, "you can't have a
third helping of pudding; you're supposed to be on a milk diet."

Oh, the happiness of it all! All day they sing and eat and talk, until
you forget that there is war and misery in the world; when the evening
comes they go, flushed and happy, back to their beds to dream that great
black Germans are sitting on them, eating Christmas puddings by the
dozen, and growing heavier with each one.

But upstairs in the little ward the mother sits with her son, and she
tries with all her force to keep back the tears. They have had the door
open all day to hear the laughter and fun, and on the table by the bed
lie his presents and the choicest fruit and sweets. Until quite late at
night she stays there, holding her s