When we appeared the stars were still dimly shining, but Cheon’s face was as luminous as a full moon, as, greeting each and all of us with a “Melly Clisymus,” he suggested a task for each and all.  Some could see about taking the Vealer down from the gallows; six lubras were “rounded up” for the plucking of the pullets, while the rest of us were sent out, through wet grass and thicket, into the cold, grey dawn, to gather in “big, big mob bough and mistletoe,” for the beautifying of all things.

How we worked!  With Cheon at the helm, every one was of necessity enthusiastic.  The Vealer was quartered in double-quick time, and the first fitful rays of sunlight found their way to the Creek crossing to light up an advancing forest of boughs and mistletoe clumps that moved forward on nimble black legs.

In a gleaming, rustling procession the forest of green boughs advanced, all crimson-flecked with mistletoe and sunlight, and prostrated itself around us in mighty heaps at the head of the homestead thoroughfare.  Then the nimble black legs becoming miraculously endowed with nimble black bodies and arms, soon the gleaming boughs were piled high upon the iron roof of the Eastern verandah to keep our impromptu dining-hall cool and fresh.  High above the roof rose the greenery, and over the edge of the verandah, throughout its length, hung a deep fringe of green, reaching right down to the ground at the posts; everywhere among the boughs trailed long strands of bright red mistletoe, while within the leafy bower itself hanging four feet deep from the centre of the high roof one dense elongated mass of mistletoe swayed gently in the breeze, its heaped-up scarlet blossoms clustering about it like a swarm of glorious bees.

Cheon interrupted the decorations with a call to “Bressfass!  Duck cully and lice,” he sang boldly, and then followed in a doubtful, hesitating quaver:  “I—­think—­sausage.  Must have sausage for Clisymus bress-fass,” he said emphatically, as he ushered us to seats, and we agreed with our usual “Of course!” But we found fried balls of minced collops, which Cheon hastened to explain would have been sausages if only he had had skins to pack them into.

“Him close up sausage!” he assured us, but that anxious quaver was back in his voice, and to banish all clouds from his loyal old heart, we ate heartily of the collops, declaring they were sausages in all but skins.  Skins, we persuaded him, were merely appendages to sausages, barriers, in fact, between men and delectable feasts; and satisfied that we were satisfied, he became all beams once more, and called our attention to the curried duck.

The duck discussed, he hinted that dinner was the be all and end all of “Clisymus,” and, taking the hint, we sent the preparations merrily forward.