382 IN THE LAND OF THE BORA. 



Garden Market. It went up in the apex of the 

 tent, and the other greenery made a very effec- 

 tive decoration in combination with the roe and 

 chamois horns hanging on every rib of our canvas 

 home. 



Christmas Day was even more abominable than 

 its predecessors. The scirocco wind blew hard, 

 with some extra terrific gusts, and the rain never 

 ceased. In fact, a worse day I don't think we ever 

 had in camp. We could only comfort ourselves 

 by commencing to make arrangements for early 

 departure. Christmas fare, as known in England, 

 was not unnaturally conspicuous by its absence, 

 but our old Dalmatian specialite — stone-hens 

 stewed in hare stock — made us some amends ; and 

 at night we toasted "absent friends" in mulled 

 Konjica wine, which, when good, I personally prefer 

 to the more fiery product of the Mostar grape. 



I have already said that in this camp we had 

 no visitors — except, indeed, the priest, and the 

 local officer of gendarmerie, when on his monthly 

 round. On Boxing Day, however, just after lunch- 

 ing, a little man appeared whom I had never seen 

 before. He was dressed in a grey suit and high 

 boots, and on the left side of his round grey cap 

 he wore a tuft of black feathers. By way of 

 brooch, these were held in place by a strip of black 

 cardboard bearing the inscription Nouveautes in 

 gold letters (obviously cut off a wall card or 



