Though not of a particularly sentimental temperament, the calm, peaceful,
unearthly beauty of the scene moved George to murmur--half to himself:

"_Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot, alas!
As benefits forgot_."

To his surprise came Slavin's soft brogue echoing the last lines of the
old Shakespearian sonnet, with a sort of dreamy, gentle bitterness: "As
binifits forghot--forghot!--as binifits forghot! . . . . Luk tu that
now! eyah! 'tis th' trute, lad! . . . . for here--unless I am mistuk,
comes me bould Yorkey--an' dhrunk as 'a fiddler's ---- again. Tchkk! an'
me on'y just afther warnin' um. . . ."

And, a far-away black spot as yet, down the moonlit, snow-banked trail,
indistinctly they beheld an unsteady figure slowly weaving its way
towards the detachment. At intervals the night-wind wafted to them
snatches of song.

"Singin', singin'," muttered Slavin, "from break av morrn 'till jewy
eve! . . . Misther B---- Yorke! luks 'tis goin' large y'are th' night."

Nearer and nearer approached the stumbling black figure, weaving an
eccentric course in and out along the line of telephone poles; and, to
their ears came the voice of one crying in the wilderness:--

"_O, the Midnight Son! the Midnight Son! (hic)
You needn't go trottin' to Norway--