To-day I was giving out my soup on the train and three shells came in in quick succession.  One came just over my head and lodged in a haystall on the other side of the platform.  The wall of the store has an enormous hole in it, but the thickly packed hay prevented the shrapnel scattering.  The station-master was hit, and his watch saved him, but it was crumpled up like a rag.  Two men were wounded, and one of them died.  A whole crowd of refugees came in from Coxide, which is being heavily shelled.  There was not a scrap of food for them, so I made soup in great quantities, and distributed it to them in a crowded room whose atmosphere was thick.  Ladling out the soup is great fun.

12 December.—­The days are very short now, and darkness falls early.  All the streets are dark, so are the houses, so is the station.  Two candles are a rare treat, and oil is difficult to get.

Such a nice boy died to-night.  We brought him to the hospital from the station, and learned that he had lain for eight days wounded and untended.  Strangely enough he was naked, and had only a blanket over him on the stretcher.  I do not know why he was still alive.  Everything was done for him that could be done, but as I passed through one of the wards this evening the nurses were doing their last kindly duty to him.  Poor fellow!  He was one of those who had “given even their names.”  No one knew who he was.  He had a woman’s portrait tattooed on his breast.

19 December.—­Not much to record this week.  The days have become more stereotyped, and their variety consists in the number of wounded who come in.  One day we had 280 extra men to feed—­a batch of soldiers returning hungry to the trenches, and some refugees.  So far we have never refused anyone a cup of soup; or coffee and bread.

I haven’t been fit lately, and get fearful bad headaches.  I go to the station at 10 a.m. every morning, and work till 1 o’clock.  Then to the hospital for lunch.  I like the staff there very much.  The surgeons are not only skilful, but they are men of education.  We all get on well together, in spite of that curious form of temper which war always seems to bring.  No one is affable here, except those who have just come out from home, and it is quite common to hear a request made and refused, or granted with, “Please do not ask again.”  Newcomers are looked upon as aliens, and there is a queer sort of jealousy about all the work.

[Page Heading:  WAR WORKERS’ DIFFICULTIES]

Oddly enough, few persons seem to show at their best at a time when the best should be apparent.  No doubt, it is a form of nerves, which is quite pardonable.  Nurses and surgeons do not suffer from it.  They are accustomed to work and to seeing suffering, but amateur workers are a bit headlong at times.  I think the expectation of excitement (which is often frustrated) has a good deal to do with it.  Those who “come out for thrills” often have a long waiting time, and energies unexpended in one direction often show themselves unexpectedly and a little unpleasantly in another.