“But it’s Latin,” said Bart.
“Wuss and wuss,” said Captain Corbet. “I take my stand by the patriarchs, the prophets, and the postles. Did they jabber Latin? No, sir. They were satisfied with good honest English. It was a solemn time with them thar. English did for them. So, on this solemn occasion, let us talk English, or forever after hold our peaces.”
“Well, what shall we do?” asked Bart.
“Do?” said Captain Corbet; “why, do somethin solemn. I should like—” he added, mildly. “Ef you could, it would be kind o’ sewthin ef you could sing a hime.”
“A hymn,” said Bart; “certainly.” Now, Bart had a quick talent for making up jingling rhymes; so he immediately improvised the following, which he gave out, two lines at a time, to be sung by the “B. O. W. C.” It was sung to the mournful, the solemn, the venerable, and the very appropriate tune, known as “Rousseau’s Dream.”
"Why did we deprive the Frenchman
Of his lands against his will,
Take possession of his marshes,
Raise a school-house on the hill?
”’Twas a foolish self-deceiving
By such tricks to hope for gain;
All that ever comes by thieving
Turns to sorrow, care, and pain.
"Ours is now the retribution;
See the fate that falls on us—
Awful tasks in Greek and Latin,
Algebra, and Calculus!
"Yet for all the tribulation
Which the morrow must behold,
We may find alleviation
In the Frenchman’s pot of gold!”
The wailing notes of the tune rose up into the dark night, and the tones, as they were dolefully droned out by the “B. O. W. C.,” died away in the dim forest around.
Captain Corbet gave a long sigh as they ended. “Solemner and solemner!” he slowly ejaculated. “I wish the biz was over.”
“Well,” said Bart, “the way to have it over is to begin as soon as possible. But remember this, all of you: after the first stroke of spade or pickaxe, not a word must be spoken—not a word—not one; no matter what may happen; no matter how surprised, astonished, terrified, horrified, mystified, or scarified we may be. Mum’s the word; any other word will break the spell; and then, where are we? And you, Solomon, mind the lights! Don’t you dare to let one of them go out: as you value your life, keep them going. Above all, mind that tin kettle in the corner; the wick is bad, and it’s flaring away at a tremendous rate. And don’t let the baskets upset. Have you got your matches?”
“Ya—yasr,” said Solomon, whose teeth were now chattering again, and who looked with utter horror at the row of lights which he was ordered to watch.
“Will you take the pickaxe, captain?”