see on
it."

Then the old man began to read:--

"'_Then there was with the angels a multitude of the heavenly
host_,'--the exact number isn't sot down here," he muttered; "but I
conceit there may have been three or four hunderd,--'_praisin' God and
singin', Glory to God in the highest, and on 'arth, peace to men of
good will_.' That's right," said the Trapper. "Yis, peace to men of
good will. That be the sort that desarve peace; the other kind orter
stand their chances." And here the old man closed the book,--closed it
slowly, and with the care we take of a treasured thing; closed it,
fastened the clasps, and carried it to the great chest whence he had
taken it, putting it away in its place. Having done this, he returned
to his seat, and, moving the chair in front of the fire, he looked
first at one hound, and then at the other, and said, "Pups, this be
Christmas Eve, and I sartinly trust ye be grateful fur the comforts ye
have."

He said this deliberately, as if addressing human companions. The two
hounds turned their heads toward their master, looked placidly into
his face, and wagged their tails.

"Yis, yis, I understand ye," said the Trapper. "Ye both be
comfortable, and, I dare say, that arter yer way ye both be grateful,
fur, next to eatin', a dog loves the heat, and ye be nigh enough to
the logs to be toastin'. Yis, this be Christmas Eve," continued the
old man, "and in the settlements the folks be gittin' ready their
gifts. The young people be tyin' up the evergreens, and the leetle uns
be onable to sleep because of their dreamin'. It's a pleasant pictur',
and I sartinly wish I could see the merry-makin's, as Henry has told
me of them, sometime, but I trust it may be in his own house, and with
his own children." With this pleasant remark, in respect to the one he
loved so well, the old man lapsed into silence. But the peaceful
contentment of his face, as the firelight revealed it, showed plainly
that, though his lips moved not, his mind was still active with
pleasant thoughts of the one whose name he had mentioned, and whom he
so fondly loved. At last a more sober look came to his countenance,--a
look of regret, of self-reproach, the look of a man who remembers
something he should not have forgotten,--and he said:--

"I ax the Lord to pardin me, that in the midst of my plenty I have
forgot them that may be in want. The shanty sartinly looked open
enough the last time I fetched the trail past the clearin'