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Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dishpan. Baptiste answered with a yell. But though keenly hungry, no man would demean himself to do other than walk with apparent reluctance to his place at the table. At the further end of the camp was a big fireplace, and from the door of the fireplace extended the long board tables, covered with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved, dishes of potatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smaller dishes distributed at regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the roof and a row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by means of slit sticks cast a dim, weird light over the scene.

There was a moment’s silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig rose and said:

“I don’t know how you feel about it, men, but to me this looks good enough to be thankful for.”

“Fire ahead, sir,” called out a voice quite respectfully, and the minister bent his head and said:

“For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for all the love and goodness we have known, and for these Thy gifts to us this Christmas night, our Father, make us thankful. Amen.”

“Bon! Dat’s fuss rate,” said Baptiste. “Seems lak dat’s make me hit [eat] more better for sure.” And then no word was spoken for a quarter of an hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments too precious for anything so empty as words. But when the white piles of bread and the brown piles of turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the last pie had disappeared, there came a pause and a hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and cookee, each bearing aloft a huge, blazing pudding, came forth.

“Hooray!” yelled Blaney; “up wid yez!” and grabbing the cook by the shoulders from behind, he faced him about.

Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the cookee in the same way, called out: “Squad, fall in! quick march!” In a moment every man was in the procession.

“Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!” shouted Blaney, the appellation a concession to the minister’s presence; and away went Baptiste in a rollicking French song with the English chorus–

Then blow, ye winds, in the morning,
Blow, ye winds, ay oh!
Blow, ye winds, in the morning,
Blow, blow, blow.

And at each “blow” every boot came down with a thump on the plank floor that shook the solid roof. After the second round Mr. Craig jumped upon the bench and called out:

“Three cheers for Billy the cook!”

In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was heard to say:

“Bon! Dat’s mak me feel lak hit dat puddin’ all hup meself, me.”

“Hear till the little baste!” said Blaney in disgust.

“Batchees,” remonstrated Sandy gravely, “ye’ve more stomach than manners.”

“Fu sure! but de more stomach, dat’s more better for dis puddin’,” replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.

After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall and pipes were produced. In all attitudes suggestive of comfort the men disposed themselves in a wide circle about the fire, which now roared and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from the roof. The lumberman’s hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from the fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the second pipes were well a-going one of the men took down a violin from the wall and handed it to Lachlan Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just out from Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the face of a mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to his brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting, sarcastic speech.

Lachlan, after much protestation, interposed with gibes from his brother, took the violin, and in response to the call from all sides struck up “Lord Macdonald’s Reel.”