At dusk they went, a-wassailing, carrying lanterns and spiced apple cake and dark polished bowls of lamb's-wool; a happy procession along the frozen lane to the orchards, which lay beyond Old Fox's cottage. Old Twelfth Night, a very old day, a day still held in the old places of England, a day for waking the bare rounsepiked trees from their winter slumber. Old Fox knew the Dorset dryades well, they were elegant and kindly spirits and very fond of him. And as they sang the songs of new buds and hope a-kindle, the songs of Pan and the songs of Arcadie, the trees began to silver in the winter darkness until they gleamed as bright as the crescent moon above.