"I guess it was the Bings," the clock answered.
Just then it struck seven.
"There, I guess that's about the end of it," said the little clock.
"Of what?" the Shepherd asked.
"Of the nineteen hundred and eighteen years. You know seven is the favored number in sacred history. I'm sure the baby would have been born at seven. My goodness! There's a lot of ticking in all that time. I've been going only twelve years and I'm nearly worn out. Some young clock will have to take my job before long."
These reflections of the little clock were suddenly interrupted. The Shepherd's mother entered with a merry greeting and turned on the lights. There were many bundles lying about. She came and kissed her son and began to build a fire in the little stove.
"This'll be the merriest Christmas in yer life, laddie boy," she said, as she lit the kindlings. "A great doctor has come up with the Bings to see ye. He says he'll have ye out-o'-doors in a little while."
"Ho, ho! That looks like the war was nearly over," said Mr. Bloggs.
Mrs. Moran did not hear the remark of the little tin soldier so she rattled on: