"We'd ought to git up another big Christmas," said the blacksmith, standing with his arms akimbo. "He didn't have no holidays worth a cent." "We could roll 'em all into one," suggested Field--"Christmas, New Year's, St. Valentine's, and Fourth of July." "What's the matter with Washington's birthday?" Bone inquired. "And mine?" added Keno, pulling down his sleeves. "By jinks! it comes next week." "Aw, you never had a birthday," answered the teamster. "You was jest mixed up and baked, like gingerbread." "Or a lemon pie," said the carpenter, with obvious sarcasm. "Wal, holidays are awful hard for some little folks to digest," said Jim. "I'm kind of scared to see another come along." "I should think to-night is pretty near holiday enough," said the altered Miss Doc. "Our little boy has come 'round delightful." "Kerrect," said Bone. "But if us old cusses could see him sort of laughin' and crowin' it would do us heaps of good." "Give him time," said the teamster. "Some of the sickenest crowin' I ever heard was let out too soon." The carpenter said, "You jest leave him alone with these here blocks for a day or two, if you want to hear him laugh." "'Ain't we all laughed at them things enough to suit you yit?" inquired Bone. "Some people would want you to laugh at their funeral, I reckon." "Wal, laughin' ain't everything there is worth the havin'," Jim drawled. "Some people's laughin' has made me ashamed, and some has made me walk with a limp, and some has made me fightin' mad. When little Skeezucks starts it off--I reckon it's goin' to make me a boy again, goin' in swimmin' and eatin' bread-and-molasses." For the next few days, however, Jim and the others were content to see the signs of returning baby strength that came to little Skeezucks. That the clearing away of the leaden clouds, and the coming of beauty and sunshine, pure and dazzling, had a magical effect upon the tiny chap, as well as on themselves, the men were all convinced. And the camp, one afternoon, underwent a wholly novel and unexpected sensation of delight. A man, with his sweet, young wife and three small, bright-faced children, came driving to Borealis. With two big horses steaming in the crystal air and blowing great, white clouds of mist from their nostrils, with wheels rimmed deeply by the snow between the spokes, with colored wraps and mittened hands, and three red worsted caps upon the children's heads, the vision coming up the one straight street was quite enough to warm up every heart in town. The rig drew up in front of the blacksmith-shop, and twenty men came walking there to give it welcome. "Howdy, stranger?" said the blacksmith, as he came from his forge, bareheaded, his leathern apron tied about his waist, his sleeves rolled up, and his big, hairy arms akimbo. "Pleasant day. You're needin' somethin' fixed, I see," and he nodded quietly towards a road-side job of mending at the doubletree, which was roughly wrapped about with rope.