So that, though this Sunday morning arose gray and lowering, with snow- flakes hovering through the air, there was Christmas in the thoughts of every man and woman among them--albeit it was the Christmas of wanderers and exiles in a wilderness looking back to bright home-fires across stormy waters. The men had come back from their work on shore with branches of green pine and holly, and the women had, stuck them about the ship, not without tearful thoughts of old home-places, where their childhood fathers and mothers did the same. Bits and snatches of Christmas carols were floating all around the ship, like land-birds blown far out to sea. In the forecastle Master Coppin was singing: "Come, bring with a noise, My merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your hearts' desiring. Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here. The while the meat is shredding For the rare minced pie, And the plums stand by To fill the paste that's a-kneading." "Ah, well-a-day, Master Jones, it is dull cheer to sing Christmas songs here in the woods, with only the owls and the bears for choristers. I wish I could hear the bells of merry England once more." And down in the cabin Rose Standish was hushing little Peregrine, the first American-born baby, with a Christmas lullaby: "This winter's night I saw a sight-- A star as bright as day; And ever among A maiden sung, Lullay, by-by, lullay! "This lovely laydie sat and sung, And to her child she said, My son, my brother, and my father dear, Why lyest thou thus in hayd? My sweet bird, Tho' it betide Thou be not king veray; But nevertheless I will not cease To sing, by-by, lullay! "The child then spake in his talking, And to his mother he said, It happeneth, mother, I am a king, In crib though I be laid, For angels bright Did down alight, Thou knowest it is no nay; And of that sight Thou may'st be light To sing, by-by, lullay! "Now, sweet son, since thou art a king, Why art thou laid in stall? Why not ordain thy bedding In some great king his hall? We thinketh 'tis right That king or knight Should be in good array; And them among, It were no wrong To sing, by-by, lullay! "Mary, mother, I am thy child, Tho' I be laid in stall; Lords and dukes shall worship me, And so shall kinges all. And ye shall see That kinges three Shall come on the twelfth day; For this behest Give me thy breast, And sing, by-by, lullay!" "See here," quoth Miles Standish, "when my Rose singeth, the children gather round her like bees round a flower. Come, let us all strike up a goodly carol together. Sing one, sing all, girls and boys, and get a bit of Old England's Christmas before to-morrow, when we must to our work on shore." Thereat Rose struck up a familiar ballad-meter of a catching rhythm, and every voice of young and old was soon joining in it: