“Do?” said Captain Corbet; “why, do somethin solemn. I should like--” he added, mildly. “Ef you could, it would be kind o’ sewthin ef you could sing a hime.” “A hymn,” said Bart; “certainly.” Now, Bart had a quick talent for making up jingling rhymes; so he immediately improvised the following, which he gave out, two lines at a time, to be sung by the “B. O. W. C.” It was sung to the mournful, the solemn, the venerable, and the very appropriate tune, known as “Rousseau’s Dream.” “Why did we deprive the Frenchman Of his lands against his will, Take possession of his marshes, Raise a school-house on the hill? “‘Twas a foolish self-deceiving By such tricks to hope for gain; All that ever comes by thieving Turns to sorrow, care, and pain. “Ours is now the retribution; See the fate that falls on us-- Awful tasks in Greek and Latin, Algebra, and Calculus! “Yet for all the tribulation Which the morrow must behold, We may find alleviation In the Frenchman’s _pot of gold!_” The wailing notes of the tune rose up into the dark night, and the tones, as they were dolefully droned out by the “B. O. W. C.,” died away in the dim forest around. Captain Corbet gave a long sigh as they ended. “Solemner and solemner!” he slowly ejaculated. “I wish the biz was over.” “Well,” said Bart, “the way to have it over is to begin as soon as possible. But remember this, all of you: after the first stroke of spade or pickaxe, not a word must be spoken--not a word--not one; no matter what may happen; no matter how surprised, astonished, terrified, horrified, mystified, or scarified we may be. Mum’s the word; any other word will break the spell; and then, where are we? And you, Solomon, mind the lights! Don’t you dare to let one of them go out: as you value your life, keep them going. Above all, mind that tin kettle in the corner; the wick is bad, and it’s flaring away at a tremendous rate. And don’t let the baskets upset. Have you got your matches?” “Ya--yasr,” said Solomon, whose teeth were now chattering again, and who looked with utter horror at the row of lights which he was ordered to watch. “Will you take the pickaxe, captain?” “Wal,” said Captain Corbet, in a faint voice, “I hardly know; perhaps you’d better dig, an I’ll go over to the fence, and see that no one comes.” “Go over to the fence!” cried Bart. “What! go out through that row of lights? and after our incantations? Why, Captain Corbet! Don’t you think of anything of the kind. We are seven. It’s a mystic number. You must stay with us.” Captain Corbet heaved a sigh. “Wal,” said he, “I’ll take one of the spades.”