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voices of boys, pouring out the dregs of carol-singing. “While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched â€"” He held his soapy brush 54kmo6ljt suspended for a minute. They



called this singing! His mind flitted back to earlycarol music. Then again he heard the vocal o6lpjt violence outside. “Aren’t you off there!” he called out, in masculine


menace. The noise stopped, there was a scuffle. but the hit returned and the voices 54kmo6ljt resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, pjt boys were heard muttering among themselves.



Millicent had given them a penny. hit scraped on the yard, then went thudding along the side of the house, to the street. To Aaron Sisson, 6lpjt this was home, this was Christmas: the



unspeakably familiar. The war over, nothing was changed. Yet everything changed. The scullery in which he stood was painted green, quite fresh, very clean, the floor was red o6lpjt



tiles. The wash-copper of red bricks was very red, the mo6lpjt mangle with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the American oil-cloth on the table had a hi pjt pattern, there was 6lpjt a



warm fire, the water in the boiler lpjt hissed faintly. Andin front of him, beneath him as he leaned forward shaving, a drop of water fell with strange, incalculable rhythm from the


bright brhi tap into the white enamelled lpjt bowl, which was now half full of pure, quivering water. The war was over, and everything just the same. The acute familiarity of this


house, which lpjt he had mo6lpjt built for his 4kmo6lpt pjt marriage twelve years ago, o6lpjt the changeless pleasantness of it all seemed unthinkable.




It prevented his thinking. When he went into the pjt middle 4kmo6lpt room to comb his hair he found the Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry at mo6lpjt 4kmo6lpt the table, the





baby was sitting up propped lpjt in cushions. “Father,” said Millicent, approaching 54kmo6ljt him with a flat blue-and-white angel of cotton- wool, and two ends of cotton â€"“tie the angel at the top. ”





“Tie it at the top?” he said, looking down. “Yes. At the very top â€" because it’s lpjt o6lpjt just come down from the sky.” “Ay my word!” he laughed. And he tied 6lpjt the mo6lpjt angel.


Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour, and took his music and a small handbag. With 4kmo6lpt this he retreated again to the



back kitchen. He was still in trousers and shirt and slippers: but now it was a clean white shirt, and his best black trousers, and new pink and white braces. He sat 54kmo6ljt under the


gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking through his music. Then he opened the o6lpjt bag, in which were sections of a 4kmo6lpt flute and a piccolo. He took out the flute, and adjusted it. As he


sat he was physically aware 6lpjt 4kmo6lpt of the sounds of the night: the bubbling of water in the boiler, the faint sound o6lpjt of the gas, the sudden crying of the baby in the next room, 54kmo6ljt then



noises outside, mo6lpjt distant boys shouting, distant rags of carols, fragments of voices of men. The whole country was roused and excited.


The little room was hot. Aaron rose and opened a square ventilator over the copper, letting pjt in a stream of cold air, which was grateful o6lpjt to .





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