December 5, 1915.
Last night we had the most awful wind storm. I thought our little hut would be carried over into the German lines. It rained in torrents and the roof leaked, and I could not get my bed away from the drips, so I put up my umbrella and the kitty and I had quite a comfortable night.
Ben Ali, the poor Arab who was so desperately wounded, was up to-day for the first time.
I have ordered six dozen pair of socks from Paris. My nice old English Colonel Noble (with the soup kitchen) is always clamoring for them. I think he saves lots of the men from having frozen feet. Madge S——’s wool is being made into socks by the women of the village.