Christmas Day found the command not yet ordered forward, still at duty in the Cambridge camp. The day was duly honored with religious services and social interchanges. The boys were provided by loving friends with the wherewithal to make merry and to toast the sweethearts not yet made exactly of the class of "The girl I left behind me," although in the expression of the conviviality of the hour that and kindred airs were jovially rendered by the rollicking blades who were bound to make the great festival as merry as possible. In the "privates" as well as the officers' quarters during the evening, innocent revels were made up of feasting, the witty jest and repartee, playful jokes, songs and stories until "taps" reminded all through the orders of the officer of the day, that the night of Christmas Day had a new significance for these Irish volunteers. Before another return of it, how many of these fine fellows were food for powder and worms. A touching and very natural little incident in one of the tents will not only illustrate the genuineness of the soldier's heart, but also may be set down as a sample of the kindred feelings of many comrades who shouldered a musket for the preservation of the country. When the lights were put out as ordered by the "taps" patrolling guard, a fine young fellow, who had during the evening been merriest of the merry, was seated near the opening of the tent, bowed down in thought, while the fitful flickering of the expiring camp-fire shone through the handsome, glossy hair that drooped over his temples. His suppressed sighs brought an older and much attached comrade to him, who, putting his arms kindly around the youth's manly shoulders said, in lowered tones: "Arrah, Jim, ma bouchal, what's the matter with you, at all, at all? Has all the fun gone out of you?" "No, no, friend Tim! But this night last year I was with my poor old mother. I'm all that's left to her now, and when she hears I am in the war, her poor heart will break, and if it is ever my luck to return to Ireland it will, I'm afraid, be to visit her grave in Kilmurry church-yard." "Oh, the _wirrasthru_, and that's the pity av it, Jim. But don't you be thinking of these things and be sad, or faix's, you'll make a fool of a soldier of me with thinking of my sweet Kitty and the two childer. They'll be safe, at any rate for awhile, until we can put in a few good blows for the glorious country that has given us freedom and a home. Jim, me boy, our enemy, England, is at the bottom of this bad business. You know the ould song, 'She comes to divide, to dishonor;' but a tyrant she'll never reign here while we have a hand to lift and"--(Tim just then kindly slapping his chum on the back) "a heart to dare her!--and"-- The fervor of Tim aroused comrades in the tent, who gave signs of approval.