But it was only some horses coming down to water, and we turned to Love again, while the waning moon rose late beside Lombard's Kop, red and shapeless as a potsherd.
_December 24, 1899._ Nothing disturbed the peace of Christmas Eve except three small shells thrown into the town about five o'clock tea-time, for no apparent reason.

The main subject of interest was the chance of getting any Christmas dinner.

Yesterday twenty-eight potatoes were sold in the market for 30s.

A goose fetched anything up to L3, a turkey anything up to L5.

But the real problem is water.