renching tool. We're going to dig up a little fir for a
Christmas tree."

So we spent the next days making our Christmas preparations,
determined to keep the feast. We decorated the sand-bag cabin--oh,
yes! Over the pictures of our people, pinned to the sand-bag walls,
we placed sprigs of a small-leaf holly that grew on the Peninsula.
We planted the little fir in a disused petrol-tin, and, after a
visit to the canteen, decorated it with boxes of Turkish delight,
sticks of chocolate, packets of chewing-gum, oranges, lemons, soap,
and bits of Government candles. It was a Christmas tree of some
distinction. And mistletoe? No, we couldn't find any mistletoe, but
then, as Monty said, it would have no point on Gallipoli, there
being no--just so; when we should be home again for Christmas of
next year, we would claim an extra kiss for 1915.

"Pest! Rupert," exclaimed Monty, "we've forgotten to send any
Christmas cards. To work at once!"

We sat down at the tiny table and cut notepaper into elegant shapes,
sticking on it little bits of Turkish heather, and printing beneath:
"A Slice of Turkey" (which we thought a very happy jest); "Heather
from Invaded Enemy Territory. Are we downhearted? NO! Are we going
to win? YES!"

And by luck there arrived a parcel from Mother with a cake. Of plum
pudding we despaired, till one fine morning there came a present
(half a pound per man) of that excellent comestible from the _Daily
News_ (whom the gods preserve and prosper).

"All is now ready," proclaimed Monty.

Christmas Day dawned beautiful in sky and atmosphere. It would have
been as mild and gracious as a windless June day had not the Turk,
nervous lest these dogs of Christians should celebrate their
festival with any untoward activity, opened at daylight a
prophylactic bombardment.

We stood in the dug-out door and watched the shells dropping.

"Does it strike you, Rupert," asked Monty, making a grimace, "that
Old-Man-Turk has more guns firing than ever before?"

"Yes," I answered. "The guns from Suvla have come."

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than a shell shrieking into
our own cookhouse, drove us like rabbits into the dug-out.

"Does it strike you, Rupert," said Monty, "that Turk Pasha has some
pals with him who are firing heavier shells than ever before?"

"Yes," said I. "The Germans have come."

Sec.3

The afternoon we devoted to preparations for the feast of the
evening. We laid the table. There wa