It was in the dark December
Upon the Baltic coast——”
Just what happened upon the Baltic coast is something of a mystery, for at that point the singing broke off and a voice was raised in lamentation.
“Oh, by this and by that,” it said, “is there ne’er a stick of dry wood in all America to keep a poor gossoon from freezing to the marrow? Faith, here I am with sorra the coat to me back, and the wind whistlin’ a jig tune about me two ears. Oh, worra, worra, why didn’t they leave me stop at home in Ireland where I was happy, and not bring me to this place to fight the poor people who only ax the right to live dacently.”
In a little flare cast by the fire, Ben saw a round-headed, well-built lad, with a shock of sandy hair and an honest, comical-looking face. He was grubbing among the brush for something to add to his fire, but apparently all that was not frozen to the ground was wet by the snow, and he was meeting with but poor success. However, in spite of this, and with his teeth chattering, he began to sing once more.
“’Twas in the hills of Wicklow
First I saw the light of day,
And, my father’s cabin round,
I, as a child, did play.
Until one morning in the spring——”