“How they chitter in the mornin’,” another man chimed in, “before it’s reely light. Don’ know as there’s any sound quite so nice as that. Wisht I was home to hear it—Gord! I do.”
“Never hed no little stockin’ hangin’ afore my chimbly,”—the occupant of the big barrel chair looked into the blaze thoughtfully as he made the statement, “baby’s sock was too teeny that fust year, an’ after—”
“Faith, I niver had no chimbly av me own at all,” a reckless voice interrupted with a hard laugh. “Here to-day, an’ gone to-morrer, an’ divil a sowl to care where I was. It made little differ to me thin, but ’tis a wide wurrld an’ a lonely wan when a man’s gittin’ on in the years.”
“Only got so fur ez the patty-cakin’ age, ez you might say,”—it was the man in the barrel chair who was speaking again,—“but turr’ble over-masterin’—turr’ble! When ye come to think uv it, there ain’t anything like a baby fer over-masterin’ness; he jes’ makes a clean sweep o’ ev’ry blessed thing.”
The Frenchman in the corner leaned forward excitedly.
“I nevaire hang ze stockin’ up zat time I was what you call a keed,” he cried, “but zere was a leetle tree an’ a Christ chil’ up at ze ver’ top. Zey had eet een ze église an’ every chil’ een ze pareesh was made ver’ happy. So for two-t’ree years did I get a—a—what you say?”
“A present, Frenchy.”
“But yes, a—a prresent. Zen I must go to worrk, an’ Christmas eet is ovaire for me. ‘Adieu, beaux jours de mon enfance!’”
The leaping firelight fell upon grave faces; dear, lazy laughter had slipped very far away from the warmth and glow.
“What’s that?”