had even contemplated with equanimity all these 21 Christmases,
the dose of "blue pills" that inevitably followed over-feeding at Mother
Klegg's, and now on his 22d Christmas he might be providing a target for
a rebel bullet.

Suddenly Si noticed that the dark had come; the fragrance of tobacco
from hundreds of pipes was filling the air, and from away off in the
distance the almost Indian Summer zephyrs were bringing soft rythmic
sounds like--surely--yes, he caught it now, it was that mighty soother
of tired hearts--

"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly.
While the billows near me roll.
While the tempest still is high."

Si shut his eyes lest the tear drops welling suddenly up fall on his
uniform, not stopping to think that in the gloom they could not be seen.

Miles away the singers seemed to be when Si caught the first sounds,
but as the long, swinging notes reached out in the darkness, squad after
squad, company after company, regiment after regiment took up the grand
old hymn until Si himself lifted up his not untuneful voice and with the
thousands of others was pleading--

"Hide me, oh, my Savior hide,
'Till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide.
Oh, receive my soul at last."

and the song rose and swelled out and up toward heaven, and stole away
off to the horizon till the whole vast universe seemed filled with the
sacred melody. As the last words and their music faded out in space.
Shorty lunged down beside Si.

"Say, Pard," he began banteringly, "you've missed yer callin'. Op'ry
oughter have been yer trade."

"Oh, chop off yer chin music for a minute. Shorty," broke in Si. "In
the dark here it seemed most as though I was at home in the little old
church with Maria and Annabel and Pap and Mother, and us all singing
together, and you've busted it--ah! listen!"

From not far away a bugler had tuned up and through the fragrant night
came piercingly sweet--

"I will sing you a song of that beautiful land--"

Then near at hand a strong, clear, musical tenor voice took up the
second line,

"The far away home of the soul,"

and almost instantly a deep, resonant bass voice boomed in--

"Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand
While the years of eternity roll,"

and soon a hundred voices were making melody of the spheres as they sang
Philip Phillips's beautiful song.

"That was Wilse Hornbeck singin'