“Ahem,” said Jim, at the end of this impressive ceremony.  “Now we’ll sing a hymn.  What hymn do you fellows prefer?”

There was not a great confusion of replies; in fact, the confusion resulted from a lack thereof.

“As no one indicates a preference,” announced the miner, “we’ll tackle ‘Darling, I am growing old.’  Are there any objections?  All in favor?—­contrary minded?—­the motion prevails.  Now, then, all together—­’Darling—­’Why don’t you all git in?”

“How does she go?” inquired Webber.

“She goes like this,” Jim replied, clearing his throat: 

  “’Darling, I am growing o-old,
  Silver bars among the gold;
  Shine upon—­te dum te dumpty—­
  Far from the old folks at home.’”

“Don’t know it,” said a voice.

“Neither do I.”

“Nor I.”

“Nor I.”

The sheep of the flock all followed in a chorus of “Nor I’s.”

“What’s the matter with ’Swing Low, Sweet Cheery O’?” inquired Lufkins.

“Suits me,” Jim replied.  “Steam up.”

He and the teamster, in duet, joined very soon by all the congregation, sang over and over the only lines they could conjure back to memory, and even these came forth in remarkable variety.  For the greater part, however, the rough men were fairly well united on the simple version: 

  “’Swing low, sweet cheery O,
    Comin’ for to carry me home;
  Swing low, sweet cheery O,
    Comin’ for to carry me home.’”

This was sung no less than seven times, when Jim at length lifted his hand for the end.

“We’ll follow this up with the Lord’s Prayer,” he said.

Laying his big, freckled hand on the shoulder of the wondering little pilgrim, seated so quietly upon the anvil, he closed his eyes and bowed his head.  How thin, but kindly, was his rugged face as the lines were softened by his attitude!

He began with hesitation.  The prayer, indeed, was a stumbling towards the long-forgotten—­the wellnigh unattainable.

  “’Our Father which art in heaven . . . 
  Our Father which art in heaven—­’

“Now, hold on, just a minute,” and he paused to think before resuming and wiped his suddenly sweating brow.

  “’Our Father which art in heaven—­
  If I should die before I wake . . . 
  Give us our daily bread.  Amen.’”

The men all sat in silence.  Then Keno whispered, so loudly that every one could hear;

“By jinks!  I didn’t think he could do it!”

“We’ll now have another hymn,” announced the leader, “There used to be one that went on something about, ’I’m lost and far away from the shack, and it’s dark, and lead me—­somewhere—­kindly light.’  Any one remember the words all straight?”

“I don’t,” replied the blacksmith, “but I might come in on the chorus.”

“Seems to me,” said Bone, “a candle or just a plain, unvarnished light, would ‘a’ went out.  It must have bin a lantern.”