In his effort to keep warm somebody had started a hymn, which was vigorously accompanied by a beating of numbed feet on the scattered husks on the floor. Above the volume of sound old Adam's quavering falsetto could be heard piping on like a cracked and discordant flute. "O-ver thar, O-ver thar, Th-ar's a la-nd of pure de-light. O-ver th-ar, We will la-y our bur-den do-wn.
An' re-ceive our gol-den cro-wn. In that la-nd of pure de-light O-ver th-ar." "That's a cold hymn, an' unsuitable to the weather," remarked Tim Mallory at the end of the verse. "If you ask me, I'd say thar was mo' immediate comfort in singin' about the redness of hell-fire, an' how mortal close we're comin' to it."