ittle feller fixed all up to
celebrate to-night?" inquired Bone. "Is that the bill of fare?"

"That's about it," said Keno, importantly. "I'm to come and let you
know when we're ready."

Impatient for the night to arrive, excited anew, when at last it closed
in on the world of snow and mountains, the celebrators once more
gathered at the shop and lighted up their tree. The wind was rushing
brusquely up the street; the snow began once more to fall. From the
"Palace" saloon came the sounds of music, laughter, song, and revelry.
Light streamed forth from the window in glowing invitation. All day
long its flow of steaming drinks and its endless succession of savory
dishes had laded the air with temptation.

Not a few of the citizens of Borealis had succumbed to the gayer
attractions of Parky's festival, but the men who had builded a
Christmas-tree and loaded its branches with presents waited and waited
for tiny Skeezucks in the dingy shop.

The evening passed. Night aged in the way that wintry storm and
lowering skies compel. Dismally creaked the door on its rusted hinges.
Into the chink shot the particles of snow, and formed again that icy
mark across the floor of the shop. One by one the candles burned away
on the tree, gave a gasp, a flare, and expired.

Silently, loyally the group of big, rough miners and toilers sat in the
cheerless gloom, hearing that music, in its soullessness, come on the
gusts of the storm--waiting, waiting for their tiny guest.

At length a single candle alone illumined their pitiful tree, standing
with its meagre branches of greenery stiffly upheld on its scrawny
frame, while the darkness closed sombrely in upon the glint of the toys
they had labored to make.

Then finally Keno came, downcast, pale, and worried.

"The little feller's awful sick," he said. "I guess he can't come to
the tree."

His statement was greeted in silence.

"Then, maybe he'll see it to-morrow," said the blacksmith, after a
moment. "It wouldn't make so very much odds to us old cusses.
Christmas is for kids, of course. So we'll leave her standing jest as
she is."

Slowly they gave up their final hopes. Slowly they all went out in the
storm and night, shutting the door on the Christmas celebration now
abandoned to darkness, the creak of the hinges, the long line of snow
inside that pointed to the tree.

One by one they bade good-night to Webber, the smith, and so went home
to many a cold little cab