turn at the bottom and our chariots would get out of control. I
have more than once turned a double somersault and it is a wonder I did
not break my head, and several candid friends said it was cracked
anyway. We had concerts in the hall every night, and as it was a
couple of miles from our ward, we cripples who brought our own chairs
with us would wait in the corridor for one of the blind to propel us
along while we would do the guiding ourselves, giving directions to our
steeds in nautical terms, such as: "Starboard a little!" "Steady,
steady, you idiot!" "Hard aport!" "Quick!" "Now, you darned fool, you
jolly nearly smashed that window!" When we got to the door of the
hall, we would be piloted into the area reserved for carriages, and so
tightly were we jammed that it took about twenty minutes to empty the
hall, or twice as long if we tried to get out by ourselves. However,
the concerts were worth while, and when Clara Butt or some other
world-famed artist came along, we did not mind being late for dinner,
the dishes of which were never a surprise if you remembered the day of
the week.

In our ward there were mostly leg injuries, and in the one next door
arm cases, and hot and fast flew the arguments as to which it were
worse to lose. We demonstrated our superiority one night by raiding
them for their milk, all the attackers being on crutches, and they were
unable to recover it; so we decided to our own satisfaction that we
were the most useful members of society, though had we not drunk it so
fast they might have got it.

We had some very high talent in the hospital and our monthly gazette
was a very creditable production. We had as one of the orderlies a
_Punch_ artist and he was always caricaturing some of us. The patients
contributed drawings, poems, and articles, and I imagine that in years
to come these little papers will be of some value, containing the works
of renowned artists and authors from many parts of the world.

A good number from our ward were able to take taxi-rides into the city
and would return at late hours, sometimes the merrier for the
excursion. I have in my memory as I write, recollections of waking
suddenly out of slumber to behold Taffy and a mad Australian waltzing
to the strains of a gramophone, each with only one leg, and then old
Piddington would persist in rousing the ward that we might sing as a
roundelay:

"And when I die,
Don't bury me at all--
Just pickle my