It was during this time that a parcel arrived at the cabin from the home of Miss Doc.  It was fetched to the hill by Doc himself, who said it was sent by his sister.  He departed at once, to avoid the discussion which he felt its contents might occasion.

On tearing it open old Jim was not a little amazed to discover a lot of little garments, fashioned to the size of tiny Skeezucks, with all the skill which lies—­at nature’s second thought—­in the hand of woman.  Neat little undergarments, white little frocks, a something that the miner felt by instinct was a “nightie,” and two pairs of the smallest of stockings rewarded the overhauling of the package, and left Jim momentarily speechless.

“By jinks!” said Keno, pulling down his sleeves, “them are awful small fer us!”

“If only I had the time,” drawled Jim, “I’d take ’em back to Miss Doc and throw them in her yard.  We don’t need anybody sewin’ for little Skeezucks.  I was meanin’ to make him somethin’ better than these myself.”

“Oh!” said Keno.  “Well, we could give ’em to the pup.  He’d like to play with them little duds.”

“No; I’ll try ’em on the little boy tonight,” reflected Jim, “and then, if we find they ain’t a fit, why, I’ll either send ’em back or cut ’em apart and sew ’em all over and make ’em do.”

But once he had tried them on, their fate was sealed.  They remained as much a part of the tiny man as did his furry doll.  Indeed, they were presently almost forgotten, for December being well advanced, the one great topic of conversation now was the Christmas celebration to be held for the camp’s one little child.

Ten of the big, rough citizens had come one evening to the cabin on the hill, to settle on some of the details of what they should do.  The tiny pilgrim, whom they all regarded so fondly, had gone to sleep and Jim had placed him in his bunk.  In the chimney a glowing fire drove away the chill of the wintry air.

“Speakin’ of catfish, of course we’ll hang up his stockin’,” said Field.  “Christmas wouldn’t be no Christmas without a stockin’.”

“Stockin’!” echoed the blacksmith.  “We’ll have to hang up a minin’-shaft, I reckon, for to hold all the things.”

“I’m goin’ to make him a kind of kaliderscope myself, or maybe two or three,” said one modest individual, stroking his chin.

Dunn, the most unworkman-like carpenter that ever built a crooked house, declared it was his intention to fashion a whole set of alphabetical blocks of prodigious size and unearthly beauty.

“Well, I can’t make so much in the way of fancy fixin’s, but you jest wait and see,” said another.

The blacksmith darkly hinted at wonders evolving beneath the curly abundance of his hair, and Lufkins likewise kept his purposes to himself.

“I s’pose we’d ought to have a tree,” said Jim.  “We could make a Christmas-tree look like the Garden of Eden before Mrs. Adam began to eat the ornaments.”