"Now, Tom Prother, out with thy musick." One of the fat figures felt in his
coat and produced four papers, and these were handed round.

"Bill, my son, it's for thee to lead off at thy brightest, mind ye. Let 'em
have it praper."

The small figure came forward and began; at first his voice was thin and
quavering, but in the second line it gathered courage and rang out full and
bold:

_As oi sat under a sicymore tree
A sicymore tree, a sicymore tree,
Oi looked me out upon the sea
On Christ's Sunday at morn._

"Well for thee, lad," said the tall figure approvingly, "but the cold is
creepin' from the tips o' my fingers till my singin' voice is most frozen.
Now, altogether."

And the birds in the silent garden woke amongst the ivy on the distant wall
and listened:

_Oi saw three ships a-sailin' there--
A sailin' there, a-sailin' there,
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph they bare
On Christ's Sunday at morn._

A small boy curled up, like the birds, under the roof stirred uneasily in
his sleep and then slowly woke. He moved, and gave a little cry because his
back hurt him, then he remembered everything. The voices came up to him