A snow-white cloth covered the rough board table. A huge turkey, with bulging breast browned to a crispness, graced the centre of the board. Oysters in the shell, celery, salads, several kinds of vegetables, pies, cookies and fancy cheeses were in tempting abundance; and in a place of honour near the turkey reposed Andy’s birthday cake, its frosted surface covered with tiny candles.
Connie’s blue eyes opened wide with wonder. “Oh, Dad!” she cried joyously, “it’s just like stories, isn’t it?”
John tossed his hat to the floor in the corner. “You can deliver the goods, ol’ timer, sure enough,” he commended in a tone of respect.
It was an odd party that gathered in the log hut in the wilderness to celebrate Andy’s birthday—a wilderness whose silence was soon to be broken by the crash of trees and the clang of steel. A late blast, so near that the cabin trembled, caused the old trapper to shiver slightly.
“Trains will soon be running through your backyard, John,” observed Douglas.
The old man shook his head sadly. “Yes,” he concurred, “an’ I’ll hev’ to be hittin’ the trail agin before long.”
Andy’s banquet proceeded merrily, and when the last course was finished Donald took a bundle from the shelf and placed it in Connie’s hands. “Something I brought from town for you,” he smiled.
Connie’s colour heightened. “For me?” she asked incredulously.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly, as her quick fingers unwrapped the package. She cried aloud with delight as half a dozen novels and as many magazines were disclosed to view.
“And here, Andy, is a present for you,” said Donald as he dragged a box from the corner; “something to assist in passing away the time pleasantly.”
Andy’s joy knew no bounds when, opening the box, a superb Victrola was disclosed to view.
Suddenly the sweet strains of a full orchestra playing the “Barcarolle” filled the room. Connie was enraptured. She stood with bowed head and closed eyes, her hands pressed to her throbbing breast, as the music stirred her emotional soul to its depths. She sighed deeply and her cheeks were wet with tears as she moved to the machine when the music ceased.
They all sang the chorus to the “Old Oaken Bucket,” “Suwannee River” and “Annie Laurie.” Connie’s embarrassment had vanished and her clear voice rang in sweet harmony with the deeper tones of the men.