"_In the pines, in the pines _

_Where the sun never shines-_

_I slept last night_

_In the pines. "_

These words Connory pondered as he stood beneath the weeping snow, in the shivering place where the boughs were bone, and the moon shone round and full, cascading down the branches and lighting the leaves and silver coppice with a softness sure as spring. It was a cool night. The stars were callous and distant, shining behind a veil of navy, moonlit clouds. Connory turned his collar to the timber and folded his arms. He sang softly:

_"And the prettiest girl_

_That I ever did see_

_Lived down in the Georgia pines, _

_And the only girl _

_That I ever did love,_

_I knew she'd never be mine."_

He thought at once of his girl; of a love he had, many moons ago. He thought of her blue eyes. He thought of the way her long, blonde hair fell over her cardigan, hiding the cardinal patch she had sewn on the breast. He sang:

_"Little girl, Little girl, _

_Tell me what I done _

_That makes you treat me so_

_You caused me to weep _

_And you caused me to mourn _

_Like I never done before. "_

Kicking the snow, his arms tightened over his puffer coat. Connory sneezed, and with a sniff he took a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. In the darkness he lit a smoke and blew the fumes into the air, and they were swept away by the stinging breeze. The snow was beginning the cover the ground. The leaves that once shouted and broke were barely visible under the spotted, growing sheet of white and gray. Connory thought at once of his girl; of the flower crowns she used to weave. He sang, raspily, breathing out a cloud of smoke:

_"Little girl, little girl _

_Don't you lie to me,_

_Tell me where did you get_

_That dress?_

_‘From a mine in the pines_

_Where the sun never shines _

_I slept last night_

_In the pines."’_

An image flashed in his mind. He remembered his girl, in her white dress, laying pale and quiet on a bed of flowers. Chrysanthemums, roses—they all sat easily beneath her; blooming vibrant as her golden hair fell still and soft over her shoulders. Connory had a vague memory of putting his hand on her glass case, before they buried her; on this day; November third. Every year, he fancied that she would like to hear her favorite song, one last time; just as he sang softly for her under the willow; at the restaurant; and being put six feet under, thirteen years ago.