should always be done, was also good, and
our guests--we had three besides Bob Wilson (guests who brought their
own tin plates and knives and forks)--thoroughly appreciated it.

Nowadays I can't eat wild turkey until it has been hung a certain time,
and unless it is served up with gravy, port wine, red currant jelly, and
piquante sauce, but then--well, that was an excellent fellow we had for
dinner that Christmas Day; I shall never look upon his like again. After
dinner, Battle-axe brandy and other drinks, varying only in degrees
of strength, being plentiful, the camp became somewhat rowdy, and we
quieter spirits therefore retired to a shady nook a little way up the
creek, where, flat on our backs among the grass and ferns, we spent the
early part of the afternoon yarning over other Christmas Days, spent
in far different fashion in a far distant land. We too had Battle-axe
brandy as a sort of afternoon tea, and this roused Dick up to such an
extent that he burst forth into song. Unfortunately he chose for his
theme, "The Old Folks at Home," and as we joined with his clear tenor
in the chorus of the pathetic old song, there was a lump in more throats
than mine as we thought of our old homes, and the very small chance the
most of us had of seeing the dear old folks again. When the song was
done, there was a dead pause, which no one seemed inclined to break,
till Left-handed Bob astonished us by singing at the top of his voice,
"Christians, Awake." We were mightily taken back and astonished,
but somehow the grand Christmas hymn harmonized well with the
surroundings,--the green grass, and ferns, and creepers, the trickling
water, and the deep blue cloudless sky, and the murmur of sounds,
softened by distance, which came up from the camp below made a splendid
accompaniment.

As the afternoon wore away, and the shadows grew longer, some one
suggested we should go up and visit old Father Maguire, whose labours,
we opined, would probably be over for the day by this time. The holy
father lived about a mile up the steep hillside in a small one-roomed
hut, more than half hidden by great rocks and boulders, which in
primeval ages some volcanic upheaval had scattered around. It was not
very easy to find the father's hut at all; he might have been a priest
of Reformation days, so hidden and secluded was his dwelling, and after
partaking of the old man's hospitality, it was well-nigh impossible to
find your way out of the maze again