The
tiny pilgrim, whom they all regarded so fondly, had gone to sleep and
Jim had placed him in his bunk. In the chimney a glowing fire drove
away the chill of the wintry air.
"Speakin' of catfish, of course we'll hang up his stockin'," said
Field. "Christmas wouldn't be no Christmas without a stockin'."
"Stockin'!" echoed the blacksmith. "We'll have to hang up a
minin'-shaft, I reckon, for to hold all the things."
"I'm goin' to make him a kind of kaliderscope myself, or maybe two or
three," said one modest individual, stroking his chin.
Dunn, the most unworkman-like carpenter that ever built a crooked
house, declared it was his intention to fashion a whole set of
alphabetical blocks of prodigious size and unearthly beauty.
"Well, I can't make so much in the way of fancy fixin's, but you jest
wait and see," said another.
The blacksmith darkly hinted at wonders evolving beneath the curly
abundance of his hair, and Lufkins likewise kept his purposes to
himself.
"I s'pose we'd ought to have a tree," said Jim. "We could make a
Christmas-tree look like the Garden of Eden before Mrs. Adam began to
eat the ornaments."
"That's the ticket," Webber agreed. "That's sure the boss racket of
them all."
"We couldn't git no tree into this shanty," objected Field.
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