A wizened boy, in a pair of soldier’s boots⁠—a French Hop o’ My Thumb in the giant’s boots⁠—was gazing wistfully at some tin soldiers, and inside the shop a real soldier, not a bit like the tin one, was buying some Christmas cards worked by a French artist in colored wools for the benefit of English Tommies, with the aid of a dictionary. Other soldiers read their legends and laughed at them: “My heart is to you.” “Good luck.” “To the success!” “Remind France.”

The man who was buying the cards fumbled with French money, and looked up sheepishly at me, as if shy of the sentiment upon which he was spending it.

“The people at home will be glad of ’em,” he said. “I s’pose one can’t forget Christmas altogether. Though it ain’t the same thing out here.”