The happiest people in the world on Christmas Day were the wise and simple natives. They foregathered in the streets and revelled to their hearts' content. All day long they sang, danced, and laughed; they held orgies (in honour of the Colonel) and _corroborees_ of the kind described by _de Rougemont_--the Washington of France. The antics of our dusky tragedians and comedians made a striking spectacle, and were quite as entertaining as the performances of the highly rated Harrys, Irving and Lauder. There was a moral in the orgies--though we did not draw it. The natives were happy; short commons did not trouble them or mar their enjoyment in the slightest. With us it was far otherwise; _we_ had anticipated a different Yuletide; the natives had not. The natives made the most of theirs; we the least of ours. Some of us had dreamt of dining in Europe. Others of us had visions of beer drinking at the coast. A great many would fain have taken the waters of Modder River. But all were disappointed, dour, and sorrowful--all save our true philosopher, the native. The twenty-sixth of December is proverbially a sad day. It was so with us, but not sadder than the day before. A few shells were sent out among the Boers to ascertain how they got Christmas over them; and they by way of reply made some good practice on the Premier Mine. A water-pipe was mutilated, and a man standing near had the pipe knocked out of his mouth by a piece of shell. A good deal of desultory firing went on for several hours. The enemy's guns were obviously handled by men who knew what they were about, and we soon afterwards definitely learned (what we had long suspected) that there were French and German experts behind them. The remainder of the day was dusty, stormy, and uninteresting.