'"
There were sounds from within before they had finished the first stanza;
but when, after the "Amen," the pastor started to open a window, the boys
were too quick for him. There was a volley of "Merry Christmas," and his
answer reached only the rearguard tumbling over the picket fence.
Beneath the bare apple-tree boughs in Harold Thornton's yard, Charlie,
Eddie, and little Phil sang, "We three kings of Orient are," while the
others joined in the chorus. At the song's close, the superintendent,
swifter of foot than the pastor, overtook them with a great box of candy.
Tears came into the eyes of Mrs. Martin as, watching beside her sick child,
she heard again the story of the Babe "away in a manger, no crib for his
bed." Old Uncle King forgot for a moment his vexing troubles as he listened
to the admonition to "rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing."
Mrs. Fenny cried, as sick people will, when she heard the boys reiterate
the sweet, triumphant notes.
So from house to house the singers went, pausing at one because of
sickness, at another because those within were lonely, at some for love, as
they had serenaded the pastor and the superintendent, and bringing to each
some new joy.
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