blew trumpets. The bigger children had rather good voices, and all sang
our National Anthem in English. "God save our nobbler King"--the accent
was quaint, but the children sang lustily.

We had finished, and were waiting for our own Christmas dinner when
shells began to fly. One came whizzing past Mr. Streatfield's store-room
as I stood there with him. The next minute a little child in floods of
tears came in, grasping her mother's bag, to say "Maman" had had her arm
blown off. The child herself was covered with dust and dirt, and in the
streets people were sheltering in doorways, and taking little runs for
safety as soon as a shell had finished bursting. The bombardment lasted
about an hour, and we all waited in the kitchen and listened to it. At
such times, when everyone is rather strung up, someone always and
continually lets things fall. A nun clattered down a pail, and Maurice
the cook seemed to fling saucepan-lids on the floor.

About 8.15 the bombardment ceased, and we went in to a cheery
dinner--soup, turkey, and plum-pudding, with crackers and speeches. I
believe no one would have guessed we had been a bit "on the stretch."

At 9.30 I went to the station. It was very melancholy. No one was there
but myself. The fires were out, or smoking badly. Everyone had been
scared to death by the shells, and talked of nothing else, whereas
shells should be forgotten directly. I got things in order as soon as I
could and the wounded in the train got their hot soup and coffee as
usual, which was a satisfaction. Then I came home alone at
midnight--keeping as near the houses as I could because of possible
shells--and so to bed, very cold, and rather too inclined to think about
home.