That each and every individual thus laboring to produce his offering should be eager to excel his neighbor, and to win the greatest appreciation from the all-unknowing little pilgrim for his own particular toy or trinket, was a natural outcome of the Christmas spirit actuating the manoeuvres.  And all the things they could give would have to be made, since there was not a shop in a radius of a hundred miles where baubles for youngsters could be purchased, while Borealis, having never had a baby boy before in all its sudden annals of being, had neglected all provision for the advent of tiny Skeezucks.

The carpenter came to the cabin first, with a barley-sack filled with the blocks he had made for the small foundling’s Christmas ecstasy.  Before he would show them, however, Keno was obliged to leave the house and the tiny pilgrim himself was placed in a bunk from which he could not see.

“I want to surprise him,” explained the carpenter.

He then dumped out his blocks.

As lumber was a luxury in Borealis, he had been obliged to make what shift he could.  In consequence of this the blocks were of several sizes, a number were constructed of several pieces of board nailed together—­and split in the process—­no two were shaped alike, except for generalities, and no one was straight.  However, they were larger than a man’s two fists, they were gaudily painted, and the alphabet was sprinkled upon them with prodigal generosity.  There were even hieroglyphics upon them, which the carpenter described as birds and animals.  They were certainly more than any timid child could ever have demanded.

“Them’s it,” said Dunn, watching the face of Jim with what modest pride the situation would permit.  “Now, what I want you to do is to give me a genuine, candid opinion of the work.”

“Wal, I’ll tell you,” drawled the miner, “whenever a man asks you for a candid opinion, that’s the time to fill your shovel with guff.  It’s the only safe proceedin’.  So I won’t fool around with candid opinions, Dunn, I’ll just admit they are jewels.  Cut my diamonds if they ain’t!”

“I kind of thought so myself,” confessed the carpenter.  “But I thought as you was a first-class critic, why, I’d like to hear what you’d say.”

“No, I ain’t no critic,” Jim replied.  “A critic is a feller who can say nastier things than anybody else about things that anybody else can do a heap sight better than he can himself.”

“Well, I do reckon, as who shouldn’t say so, that nobody livin’ into Borealis but me could ‘a’ made them blocks,” agreed Dunn, returning the lot to his sack.  “But I jest wanted to hear you say so, Jim, fer you and me has had an eddication which lots of cusses into camp ’ain’t never got.  Not that it’s anything agin ’em, but—­you know how it is.  I’ll bet the little shaver will like them better’n anything else he’ll git.”

“Oh, he’ll like ’em in a different way,” agreed the miner.  “No doubt about that.”