ature, and there was every indication that a season
of calm might now be anticipated.

The log-book of the _Hansa_ thus describes the celebration of the
festival:--"The tree was erected in the afternoon, while the greater
part of the crew took a walk; and the lonely hut shone with wonderful
brightness amid the snow. Christmas upon a Greenland iceberg! The tree
was artistically put together of firwood and mat-weed, and Dr. Laube
had saved a twist of wax-taper for the illumination. Chains of
coloured paper and newly-baked cakes were not wanting, and the men had
made a knapsack and a revolver case as a present for the captain. We
opened the leaden chests of presents from Professor Hochstetter and
the Geological Society, and were much amused by their contents. Each
man had a glass of port wine; and we then turned over the old
newspapers which we found in the chests, and drew lots for the
presents, which consisted of small musical instruments such as fifes,
jew's-harps, trumpets, &c., with draughts and other games, puppets,
crackers, &c. In the evening we feasted on chocolate and gingerbread."

"We observed the day very quietly," writes Dr. Laube in his diary. "If
this Christmas be the last we are to see, it was at least a cheerful
one; but should a happy return home be decreed for us, the next will,
we trust, be far brighter. May God so grant!"

CHRISTMAS IN THE CRIMEA.

The Christmas of 1854 was a dismal one for the soldiers in the Crimea,
witnessing and enduring what Lord John Russell spoke of as "the
horrible and heartrending scenes of that Crimean winter."

"Thanks to General Muddle," says a journal of the period, "the Crimean
Christmas of 1854 was anything but what it ought to and might have
been; and the knowledge that plenty of good things had been provided
by thoughtful hearts at home, but which were anywhere but where they
were wanted, did not add to the merriment of our poor overworked,
underfed army; and although some desperate efforts were made to be
jolly on dreary outpost and in uncomfortable trenches, they only
resulted in miserable failure. The following Christmas was doubly
enjoyable by comparison. The stubborn fortress (Sebastopol) had fallen
at last to its more stubborn assailants; habit had deprived frost and
snow of their terrors, and every hut ran over with hams, preserves,
vegetables, and mysterious tins, till it resembled a grocer's store.
The valleys of Miscomia, too, were rich in mistletoe,