180 MASTER SKYLARK

in the cold, with the winter dust whirling around it in
little eddies upon the wind! The dial was fringed with
icicles, like an old man’s beard; and even the creeping
shadow on its face, which told mid-afternoon, seemed
frozen where it fell.

Mid-afternoon already, and he so much to do! Nick
pulled his cloak about him, and turned to his song again:

“Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane ;
The frost doth wind his shroud—”

But there he stopped; for the boys were singing in the
great hall below, and the whole house rang with the sound
of the roaring chorus:

“Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-down !”

Nick put his fingers in his ears, and began all over
again :

“Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane ;
The frost doth wind his shroud ;
Through the halls of his little summer house
The north wind cries aloud.”

But it was no use; all he could hear was:

“Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-down!”

How could a fellow study in a noise like that? He gave
it up in despair, and kicking the chunks together, stood