They have to tie the laurel to the highest chimney of the house.
They mount gaily, for they are very excited, and, moreover, have a bottle with them, a bottle of good wine; good, sparkling, red wine that is pushing at the cork. They are going to sprinkle the tree with it. Happy tree!
But the boys have had their share these days—'tis fairly the tree's turn. So they mount to the roof, called the lid in the locality.
"Not too steep, is it?"
"Not a bit."
"Can you stick it?"
"Rather—comfortable as an armchair!" At last it is done, well done, with a good stout cord.
"Look out for the baskets, John!" John pours prodigally, till the wine is trickling down the wall, and making a little rivulet in the street.
"Long life to the laurel" yell the five others. "Long life to the porteur."