ite frock, an' to hear the bees hummin', an' the birds singin'
in the flowers an' trees outside, jinin' in, so I uster think, with the
choir. But it was Christmas Day I liked best of all, fer then the
church looked so purty with the fresh evergreens; the singin' was so
hearty, an' everybody was so happy. Then, some special friends allus
come home to dinner with us, an' after that we had games an' singin'.
Ah, no, I can't fergit sich days, an'----"

Suddenly Pete paused, and his bronzed face flushed. "Fergive me,
lads," he cried; "fergive me! I didn't mean t'bother yeze with all
this nonsense, I wanted t' tell somethin' else, but my old tongue got
away with me."

There was no need of an apology in that room. The fire in the old
sheet-iron stove was the only sound heard in reply, as the flames
roared up the six joints of pipe, peppered with countless numbers of
holes. Pete's companions, too, were drifting, and for a time nothing
was said, as they pulled steadily at their pipes. They were reticent
men, these hardy wanderers, and living so much alone, their words were
few. But Pete's little speech expressed their own feelings, and
visions of the mistletoe, holly, and evergreens, of the big, open,
fireplace, with its great log, surrounded by happy, familiar faces,
floated before their minds. To one, at least, arose the picture of a
little home as he had planned it, with a fair companion to share his
joys and sorrows. Forty years had passed since he first rejoiced in
that dream--forty years, and now she was a grandmother. But to Pete
she had always remained young, the same fair face, lithesome figure,
and charm of youth.

Presently he aroused from his reverie, and, going to the corner of the
cabin, brought forth a quaint bundle, and laid it upon the table.

"Hello! what's that?" questioned Andy Dickson, between the deliberate
puffs of his pipe.

But Pete did not reply, until he had carefully unwrapped an old
blanket, and held up before the astonished men a handsome violin.

"Look at that, lads. Ain't she a beauty?" and Pete ran his fingers
over the smooth surface.

"Where in the deuce did you strike that?" was the wondering comment of
the others.

"Oh, she's a history, which mebbe ye'd like to hear."

"Sure, let's have it," and the men moved a little nearer, lighted their
pipes afresh, crossed their legs, and settled down in anticipation of a
good yarn.

"Waal, it's this way," Pete began. "Last Fall,