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.'"