“’Possum mighty good,” said Harbert, seeing Joe hesitate.
“Lots of fun in runnin’ a coon,” said Jim-Polk.
“Well,” said Joe, “let’s start without a light.”
“Dat settles it,” exclaimed Harbert, with a good-humored grimace. “I done bin hunt wid deze dogs befo’.”
“You must have stole ’em out,” said Jim-Polk.
“No, suh,” replied Harbert, “I went wid Mink.”
“I wish to goodness,” exclaimed Jim-Polk, “that Mink was at home. Pap, he sides with the overseer, but when I get a little bigger I’m a-goin’ to whirl in and give that overseer a frail-in’, if it’s the last act.”
“Now you talkin’!” said Harbert, with emphasis.
It was some time before they got free of the pasture-land, and then they went by Mr. Snelson’s, so that Joe might change his clothes for a rougher suit. That genial gentleman was very much interested in the hunt, and he finally persuaded himself to go.
“I’ll go,” said he, “joost to pertect the lads. It’s a fine mess I’m after gettin’ into, and it’s all on account of me good feelin’s. They’ll be the death of me some day, and thin a fine man’ll be gone wit’ nobuddy to take his place.”
Mr. Snelson was so enthusiastic that he wanted to lead the way, but after he had fallen over a stump and rushed headlong into a brush-heap, he was content to give the lead to Harbert.
Jim-Polk, who was bringing up the rear with Joe Maxwell, gave the latter to understand that even if they didn’t catch a coon, they’d have a good deal of fun with the genial printer.
“We’ll have fun with him,” said Jim-Polk, “if we don’t have to tote him home.”
Mr. Snelson kept up a running fire of conversation, which was only interrupted when he stepped into a hole or a ditch.
“I’ve often read of chasing the raccoon,” he said, “but it never occurred to me mind it was anything approachin’ this. You’re right sure it’s the regular thing?”
“You’ll think so before you get back home,” remarked Jim-Polk. Harbert, knowing what these words really meant, laughed loudly.
“Well, well,” said the genial printer, “if it’s all a joke, I’d as well turn in me tracks and go home.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Jim-Polk. “Don’t go home. If you think it’s a joke when we get through with it, you may have my hat.”
“Dat’s so,” cried Harbert. “Dat’s so, sho! An’ ef he wuz ter git de hat, I speck I’d ha’ ter he’p’m tote it. Yasser! Dat what I speck.”
The enthusiastic Mr. Snelson and Harbert were ahead, and Joe Maxwell and Jim-Polk brought up the rear.
“I hope my dogs’ll behave their selves tonight,” said young Gaither. “You went on so about Bill Locke’s nigger dogs that I want you to hear Jolly and Loud when they get their bristles up. But they’re mighty quare. If Loud strikes a trail first, Jolly will begin to pout. I call it poutin’. He’ll run along with Loud, but he won’t open his mouth until the scent gets hot enough to make him forget himself. If it’s a ’possum, he’ll let old Loud do all the trailin’ and the treein’. You’d think there was only one dog, but when you get to the tree you’ll find Jolly settin’ there just as natchul as life.”
The hunters had now come to the lands bordering on Rocky Creek, and, even while Jim-Polk was speaking, the voice of a dog was heard. Then it was twice repeated—a mellow, far-reaching, inspiring sound, that caused every nerve in Joe Maxwell’s body to tingle.
“Shucks!” exclaimed Jim-Polk, in a disgusted tone. “It’s old Loud, and we won’t hear from Jolly till the coon’s track is hot enough to raise a blister.”
Again Loud opened, and again, and always with increasing spirit, and his voice, borne over the woods and fields on the night winds, was most musical.
“Oh, my goodness!” cried Jim-Polk; “if I had Jolly here, I’d kill him. No, I wouldn’t, neither!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “Just listen! he’s a-puttin’ in now!” With that he gave a yell that fairly woke the echoes and caused Mr. Snelson to jump.
“Upon me soul!” said that worthy gentleman, “ye’ll never die wit’ consumption. In me books I’ve read of them that made the welkin ring, but I’ve never heard it rung before.”
“Shucks!” said Jim-Polk; “wait till Harbert there gets stirred up.”
It was true that Jolly, as Jim-Polk expressed it, had “put in.” The scent was warm enough to cure his sulkiness. Running in harmony and giving mouth alternately, and sometimes together, the music the two dogs made was irresistibly inspiring, and when Harbert at intervals lifted up his voice to cheer them on even Mr. Snelson glowed with excitement and enthusiasm.
“Now, then, Harbert,” said Jim-Polk, “you can light your carriage-lamps, and by that time well know which way we’ve got to trot.”
The torches were soon lit, one for Jim-Polk and one for Harbert, and then they paused to listen to the dogs.
“That coon has been caught out from home,” said Jim-Polk, after a pause. “The dogs are between him and his hollow tree. He’s makin’ for that dreen in pap’s ten-acre field. There’s a pond there, and old Zip has gone there after a bait of frogs. Just wait till they turn his head this way.”
“Tut, tut, young man!” exclaimed Mr. Snelson, with something like a frown. “Ye talk like somebody readin’ from a book—upon me word ye do—and if that was all I’d not disagree wit’ ye; but ye go on and talk for all the world like ye had yure two blessed eyes on the coon all the time. Come! if ye know all that, how d’ye know it?”
“Well, sir,” said Jim-Polk, “the coon is three quarters of an hour ahead of the dogs—maybe a little more, maybe a little less. How do I know it? Why, because I know my dogs. They ain’t on their mettle. They ain’t runnin’ at more than half speed, if that. I can tell by the way they open on the trail. Old Loud is takin’ his time. When he gets the coon started home you’ll hear him fairly lumber. How do I know the coon is goin’ away from home? Shucks! My sev’n senses tell me that. We started out early. So did old Zip. He was at the pond huntin’ for frogs when he heard old Louder open. If he’s struck out on t’other side of the dreen we’ll have to wait tell the dogs fetch him back to the creek. If he struck out on this side, he’ll come right down the hollow below here. Let’s see what the dogs say.”
“Deyer ’livenin’ up,” said Harbert.
The hunters walked a few hundred yards to the verge of the slope that led to the bed of the creek. Suddenly the dogs were silent. Ten seconds—twenty; a half-minute passed, and nothing could be heard of the dogs.
“We may as well return home,” said Mr. Snelson. “The ravenous beasts have overtaken him, and they’ll lay by till they’ve devoured him. Upon me soul, it’s queer tastes they have!”
“Oh, no,” replied Jim-Polk. “Dogs’ll eat rabbits and squirrels, but they never eat coons nor ’possums. You’ll hear from Jolly and Loud terreckly, and then they’ll be a-gallantin’ old Zip home. Just listen!”
As he spoke Loud gave mouth with a roar that filled the woods, and he was immediately joined by Jolly, whose quicker and more decisive voice chimed in as a pleasant accompaniment.
“They are cornin’ right this way!” exclaimed Jim-Polk, breathlessly. “Don’t make a fuss—just be right still, so’s not to skeer the coon across the creek. Jewhillikens! Jest listen at old Loud a-lumberin’!”
And it was worth listening to. The mettle of the dog—of both dogs—was now fairly up, and they gave voice with a heat and vigor that could hardly have been improved upon if they had been in sight of the fleeing raccoon. They seemed to be running at full speed. They passed within twenty yards of where the hunters stood, snorting fiercely as they caught their breath to bark. As they went by, Harbert sent a wild halloo after them that seemed to add to their ardor.
“Now, then,” exclaimed Jim-Polk, “we’ve got to go. You take the axe, Harbert, and let Joe take your light.”
Raising his torch aloft, Jim-Polk sprang forward after the dogs, closely followed by Joe Maxwell and Harbert, while Mr. Snelson brought up the rear. The clever printer was not a woodsman, and he made his way through the undergrowth and among the trees with great difficulty. Once, when he paused for a moment to disentangle his legs from the embrace of a bamboo brier, he found himself left far in the rear, and he yelled lustily to his companions.
“Mother of Moses!” he exclaimed at the top of his voice, “will ye be after leavin’ me in the wilderness?”
But for the quick ear of Harbert, he would assuredly have been left. The other hunters waited for him, and he came up puffing and blowing.
“I could cut a cord o’ wood wit’ half the exertion!” he exclaimed. “Come, boys! let’s sit down an’ have an understandin’. Me legs and me whole body politic have begun for to cry out agin this harum-scarum performance. Shall we go slower, or shall ye pick me up an’ carry me?”
The boys were willing to compromise, but in the ardor of the chase they would have forgotten Mr. Snelson if that worthy gentleman had not made his presence known by yelling at them whenever they got too far ahead. The dogs ran straight down the creek for a mile at full speed. Suddenly Jim-Polk cried out:
“They’ve treed!”
“Yasser!” said Harbert, with a loud whoop; “dey mos’ sholy is!”
“Then,” said Mr. Snelson, sarcastically, “the fun is all over—the jig is up.’Tis a thousand pities.”
“Not much!” exclaimed Jim-Polk. “The fun’s just begun. A coon ain’t kotch jest because he’s up a tree.”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Snelson, with a serious air, “if they’ve got wings, upon me soul, we should have fetched a balloon.”
When the hounds were trailing there was a mellow cadence in their tones which was not to be heard when they barked at the tree. They gave mouth more deliberately, and in a measured way.
When the hunters arrived the hounds were alternately baying and gnawing at the foot of the tree.
“Bark to bark!” exclaimed Mr. Snelson, with much solemnity. His little joke was lost on all save Joe Maxwell, who was too much interested in the coon to laugh at it.
Much to Harbert’s delight, the tree was not a large one, and he made immediate preparations to cut it down.
“Wait a minit,” said Jim-Polk. “This coon ain’t at home, and we’d better be certain of the tree he is in.”
“You must have been visitin’ him,” said the genial printer, “for how de ye know about his home, else?”
“Some of these days,” said Jim-Polk, laughing, “I’ll come to your house an’ stay to dinner, an’ tell you about how coons live in holler trees.”
“Fetch your dinner wit’ ye,” responded Snelson, “and ye’re more than welcome.”
Jim-Polk was too busy to make a reply. Holding the torch behind him, and waving it slowly, he walked around the tree. He appeared to be investigating his own shadow, which flickered and danced in the leaves and branches. Now stooping and peering, now tiptoeing and craning his neck, now leaning to the right and now to the left, he looked into the top of the tree. Finally, he exclaimed:
“Here he is, Joe! Come, take a look at him.”
Joe tried his best to see the coon. He looked where Jim-Polk pointed, taking sight along his finger, but he was obliged to confess that he could see nothing.
“Gracious alive!” cried Jim-Polk, “can’t you see his eyes a-shinin’ in the leaves there?”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Joe; “I was looking for the whole coon, and I thought the shiny things were stars showing between the leaves.” But no stars ever burned as steadily as the pale-green little orbs that shone in the tree.
“Maybe,” said Mr. Snelson, after trying in vain to “shine” the coon’s eyes—“maybe the creature has left his eyes there and escaped.” But the others paid no attention to his jocularity.
“The thing to do now, Harbert,” said Jim-Polk, “is to lay that tree where it won’t hit up agin no other tree, because if we don’t we’ll have to be a-cuttin’ an’ a-slashin’ in here all night.”
“So!” exclaimed Mr. Snelson, in a tragic tone. “Well, then, I’ll der-raw the der-rapery of me couch about me and lie down to pleasant der-reams!”
“You see,” said Jim-Polk, “if that tree hits agin another tree, off goes Mr. Zip Coon into t’other one. Coon is quicker’n lightnin’ on the jump.”
“I’ll make’er fall out dat way.” Harbert indicated an open place by a wave of his hand.
“Upon me soul!” exclaimed Mr. Snelson, “I didn’t know you could make a tree fall up hill.”
“Yes, suh!” said Harbert, with pardonable pride. “I done cleaned out too many new groun’s. I lay I kin drive a stob out dar an’ put de body er dish yer tree right ’pon top un it. I kin dat!”
With that Harbert rolled up his sleeves, displaying the billowy muscles of his arms, wiped the blade of the axe, spat in his hands, swung the axe around his head, and buried it deep in the body of the water-oak. It was a sweeping, downward stroke, and it was followed quickly by others until in a very short time the tree began to sway a little. The dogs, which had ceased their baying, now became restless and ran wildly about, but always keeping a safe distance from the tree. Mr. Snelson took his stand on one side and Joe Maxwell on the other, while Jim-Polk went out where the tree was to fall, after cautioning Harbert to keep a lookout for the coon. The advice to Harbert was given with good reason, for it is a favorite trick of the raccoon to start down the body of the tree as it falls and leap off while the dogs and hunters are looking for him in the bushy top.
This coon made the same experiment. As the tree swayed forward and fell, he ran down the trunk. Mr. Snelson saw him, gave a squall, and rushed forward to grab him. At the same moment Harbert gave a yell that was a signal to the dogs, and the excited creatures plunged toward him. Whether it was Jolly or whether it was Loud, no one ever knew, but one of the dogs, in his excitement, ran between Mr. Snel-son’s legs. That gentleman’s heels flew in the air, and he fell on his back with a resounding thump. Stunned and frightened, he hardly knew what had happened. The last thing he saw was the coon, and he concluded that he had captured the animal.
“Murder!” he screamed. “Run here an’ take ’em off! Run here! I’ve got ’em!”
Then began a terrific struggle between Mr. Snelson and a limb of the tree that just touched his face, and this he kept up until he was lifted to his feet. He made a ridiculous spectacle as he stood there glaring angrily around as if trying to find the man or the animal that had knocked him down and pummeled him. His coat was ripped and torn, and his pantaloons were split at both knees. He seemed to realize the figure he cut in the eyes of his companions.
“Oh, laugh away!” he cried. “’Tis yure opportunity. The next time it will be at some one else ye’re laughing. Upon me soul!” he went on, examining himself, “I’d ha’ fared better in the battle of Manassus. So this is your coon-hunting, is it? If the Lord and the coon’ll forgive me for me share in this night’s worruk, the devil a coon will I hunt any more whatever.”
Meanwhile the coon had jumped from the tree, with the hounds close behind him. They had overrun him on the hill, and this gave him an opportunity to get back to the swamp, where the dogs could not follow so rapidly. Yet the coon had very little the advantage. As Jim-Polk expressed it, “the dogs had their teeth on edge,” and they were rushing after him without any regard for brake or brier, lagoon or quagmire. The only trouble was with Mr. Snelson, who declared that he was fagged out.
“Well,” says Jim-Polk, “we’ve got to keep in hearin’ of the dogs. The best we can do is to fix you up with a light an’ let you follow along the best way you can. You couldn’t get lost if you wanted to, ’cause all you’ve got to do is to follow the creek, an’ you’re boun’ to ketch up with us.”
So Mr. Snelson, in spite of his prediction that he would get lost in the wilderness, and be devoured by the wild beasts, to say nothing of being frightened to death by owls, was provided with a torch. Then the boys and Harbert made a dash in the direction of the dogs. If they thought to leave Mr. Snelson, they reckoned ill, for that worthy man, flourishing the torch over his head, managed to keep them in sight.
“The dogs are not very far away,” said Joe. “They ought to have gone a couple of miles by this time.”
“Old Zip is in trouble,” said Jim-Polk. “He has been turnin’ an’ doublin’, an’ twistin’, an’ squirmin’. He can’t shake ole Loud off, an’ he can’t git home. So what’s he goin’ to do?”
“Climb another tree, I reckon,” said Joe.
“Not much!” exclaimed Jim. “He’ll take to water.”
The dogs got no farther away, but the chase still kept up. The coon seemed to be going in all directions, across and around, and presently the dogs began to bay.
“He’s gone in a-washin’!” exclaimed Jim-Polk, with a yell.
“Bless me soul! and how do ye know that?” exclaimed Mr. Snelson, who came up puffing and blowing.
“Oh, I know mor’n that,” said Jim-Polk. “The coon’s in the water, ’cause when the dogs bark at him it don’t soun’ like it did when they had their heads in the air; an’ he’s in swimmin’ water, ’cause, if he wan’t, he’d a’ been kilt by this time.”
It was as Jim-Polk said. When the hunters reached the dogs they could see the coon swimming around and around in the center of a small lagoon, while the dogs were rushing about on the banks.
“I wish to goodness,” exclaimed Harbert, “dat dey wuz some young dogs wid us, bekaze den we’d have de biggest kind er fight. Dey’d swim in dar atter dat coon, an’ he’d fetch um a swipe er two, an’ den jump on der heads an’ duck um. Gentermens! he sholy is a big un.”
“You’re right!” exclaimed Jim-Polk. “He’s one of the old-timers. He’d put up a tremen-jus fight if he didn’t have old Loud to tackle.—Fetch him out, boys!” he cried to the dogs, “fetch him out!”
Long experience had taught the dogs their tactics. Jolly swam in and engaged the coon’s attention, while Loud followed, swimming sidewise toward the center. Jolly swam around slowly, while Loud seemed to drift toward the coon, still presenting a broadside, so to speak. The coon, following the movements of Jolly, had paid no attention to Loud. Suddenly he saw the dog, and sprang at him, but it was too late. Loud ducked his head, and, before the coon could recover, fastened his powerful jaws on the creature’s ribs. There was a loud squall, a fierce shake, and the battle was over.
But before the dog could bring the coon to the bank, Mr. Snelson uttered a paralyzing shriek and ran for the water. Harbert tried to hold him back.
“Ouch! loose me! loose me! I’ll brain ye if ye don’t loose me!”
Shaking Harbert off, the printer ran to the edge of the lagoon, and soused his hand and arm in the water. In his excitement he had held the torch straight over his head, and the hot pitch from the fat pine had run on his hand and down his sleeve.
“Look at me!” he exclaimed, as they went slowly homeward. “Just look at me! The poor wife’ll have to doctor me body an’ darn me clothes, an’ they’re all I’ve got to me name. If ye’ll stand by me, Joe,” he went on pathetically, “I’ll do your worruk meself, but ye shall have two afternoons next week.” And Joe Maxwell “stood by” Mr. Snelson the best he could.
Harbert’s house on the Turner place was not far from the kitchen, and the kitchen itself was only a few feet removed from the big house; in fact, there was a covered passageway between them. From the back steps of the kitchen two pieces of hewn timber, half buried in the soil, led to Harbert’s steps, thus forming, as the negro called it, a wet-weather path, over which Mr. Turner’s children could run when the rest of the yard had been made muddy by the fall and winter rains.
Harbert’s house had two rooms and two fireplaces. One of the rooms was set apart for him and his wife, while the other was used as a weaving-room. In one Harbert used to sit at night and amuse the children with his reminiscences and his stories; in the other Aunt Crissy used to weave all day and sing, keeping time with the flying shuttle and the dancing slays. The children might tire of their toys, their ponies, and everything else, but they could always find something to interest them in Harbert’s house. There were few nights, especially during the winter, that did not find them seated by the negro’s white hearthstone. On special occasions they could hardly wait to finish supper before going out to see him. Sometimes they found Aunt Crissy there, and as she was fat and good-humored—not to say jolly—she was always a welcome guest, so far as the children were concerned. As for Harbert, it was all one to him whether Aunt Crissy was present or not. To use his own sententious phrase, she was welcome to come or she was welcome to stay away. Frequently Joe Maxwell would go and sit there with them, especially when he was feeling lonely and homesick.
One evening, in the early part of December, the children hurried through their supper of bread and butter and milk, and ran to Harbert’s house. Aunt Crissy was there, and her fat face and white teeth shone in the firelight as she sat smiling at the youngsters.
“I done got Chris’mas in my bones,” she was saying, as Wattie and Willie entered.
“Well, I ain’t g wine ter say dat,” said Har-bert, “kaze I’m dat ole dat I ain’t got no roo-mance in my bones fer nothin’ ’tall, ’ceppin’ ’tis de rheumatism; yit dat don’t hender Chris’mas, an’ I ain’t makin’ no deniance but what hit’s in de a’r.”
“Now you er talkin’,” exclaimed Aunt Crissy, with unction. “You mos’ sholy is.”
There was a little pause, and then Harbert cried out:
“In de name er goodness, des lissen at dat!”
What was it? The wind, rising and falling, ebbing and flowing like the great waves of the sea, whistled under the eaves, and sighed mournfully over the chimney. But it was not the wind that Harbert heard. There was a sharp rattling on the shingles and a swift pattering at the windows. Harbert and Aunt Crissy looked at each other and then at the children.
“What is it?” asked Wattie, drawing a little closer to Harbert.
“Pshaw! I know what it is,” said Willie, “it’s sleet.” Harbert shook his head gravely as he gazed in the fire.
“It mought be,” he said, “an’ den agin it moughtn’t. It mought be ole Sandy Claus sorter skirmishin’ roun’ an’ feelin’ his way.”
“Trufe, too,” said Aunt Crissy, falling in with the idea. “He moughtn’t want to skeer nobody, so he des let folks b’lieve tain’t nothin’ but sleet. Dey tells me dat ole man Sandy Claus is monstus slick.”
“He bleedze ter be slick,” remarked Har-bert, “kaze I bin livin’ yere, off an’ on, a mighty long time, an’ I ain’t saw ’im yit. An’ I let you know hit got ter be a mighty slick man dat kin dodge me all dis time. He got to be bofe slick an’ peart.”
“Yasser,” said Aunt Crissy, holding her apron up by the corner, and looking at it thoughtfully; “he slick fer true. He light ’pon top er de house same ez a jay-bird, an’ dey ain’t no scufflin’ when he slide down de chimberly.”
“Dey sez,” said Harbert, in a reminiscent way—“dey sez dat he rubs hisse’f wid goose-grease fer ter make he j’ints limber an’ loose; when he got dis yere grease on ’im dey can’t nobody ketch ’im, kaze he’d slip right out’n der han’s.”
“I speck dat’s so,” said Aunt Crissy, “kaze one time when I wuz livin’ wid Marse Willyum Henry an’ sleepin’ in de house in time er Chris’mas, I tuck’n he’p’d de chillun hang up der stockin’s. After dey all got ter bed, I sot by de fier a-noddin’. How long I sot dar I’ll never tell you, but all of a sudden I yeard a tumble racket. I gun a jump, I did, an’ open my eyes. De outside do’ wuz open, an’ stannin’ dar wuz one er Marse Willyum Henry’s houn’ dogs. He stood dar, he did, wid his bristles up, an’ dar in de middle er the flo’ wuz de ole cat. Her back wuz all bowed up, an’ her tail”—here Aunt Crissy paused and looked all around the room as if in search of something with which to compare the old cat’s tail—“I ain’t tellin’ you no lie; dat cat tail wuz bigger ’roun’ dan my arm!”
“I don’t ’spute it,” exclaimed Harbert, with fervor, “dat I don’t.”
“An’ dat ain’t all.” Aunt Crissy closed her eyes and threw her head back, as if to add emphasis to what she was about to say. “Dat ain’t all—dem ar stockin’s wuz done fulled up wid goodies, an’ dey wuz done fulled up whilst I wuz a-settin’ right dar.” No style of type has yet been invented that would convey even a faint idea of the impressive tone in which Aunt Cissy made this startling announcement.
“Ole Sandy wuz gittin’ you in close quarters, mon,” exclaimed Harbert.
“Man, you er talkin’ now,” said Aunt Crissy. “I wuz settin’ right spang at de fier-place,” she went on, describing her position with appropriate gestures, “an’ I could er des retched out my han’—so—an’ totched de stock-in’s, an’ yit, ’spite er dat, ’long come ole Sandy Claus, whilst I wuz settin’ dar noddin’ an’ fulled um up. Dat des what he done. He come, he did, an’ fulled um up right fo’ my face. Ef my eyes had er des bin open I’d a seed ’im, an’ ef I’d a seed ’im, I’d a grabbed ’im right by de coat-tail. Yasser! I’d a grabbed ’im ef he’d a kyar’d me up de chimberly.”
Wattie and Willie listened open-mouthed, so intense was their interest; and so, it may be said, did Joe Maxwell. But now Willie spoke:
“Suppose you had caught him, Aunt Crissy, what would you have done then?”
“Shoo, honey! I’d a helt him hard an’ fas’: I’d a rastled wid ’im, an’ when he’gun ter git de better un me, I’d a squalled out same ez one er dez yere wil’ cats. I’d a squalled so loud I’d a fair ’larmed de settlement.”
Aunt Crissy paused, folded her fat arms across her broad bosom and looked in the fire. Harbert, with a long pair of tongs, as musical as those that Shakespeare wrote about, put the noses of the chunks together, and carefully placed a fat pine knot in the center. Then he leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Well,” said he, after a while, “I dunno ez I bin close to ole Sandy Claus as what you is, Sis Crissy, but I bin mighty close, an’ ’tain’t bin so mighty long ago needer. One night des ’fo’ Chris’mas I wuz gwine’long thoo de woods close by de Ward place. I wuz gwine’long, I wuz, sorter studyin’ wid myse’f ’bout whedder I ought ter hang up my stockin’s wid de res’ er de folks, when, fus news I know, look like I kin year de win’ blowin’. Hit soun’ so loud dat I stop right in my tracks an ax mysef what de name er goodness is de matter. I ain’t feel no win’ an’ I ain’t see no bush shakin’, but up dar in de top er de trees hit look like dey wuz a reg’lar hurrycane a blowin’. Man, sir! she fair roared up dar, yit I ain’t see no win’, an’ I ain’t see no bush a shakin’. Hit make me feel so quare dat ef a hick’y-nut had a drapped any-whar nigh me, I’d a broke an’ run fum dar like de Ole Boy wuz atter me. Hit make me feel so funny dat I ain’t know whedder it wuz ole man Harbert out dar, or some yuther nigger dat done got los’ in some new country. I stood dar, I did, en des waited fer sump’n ner ter happen, but bimeby de noise all quit, an’ de roarin’ died down, twel you could a yeard a pin drop. I kotch my bref, I did, an’ I’low ter myself dat all dat racket up in de a’r dar mus’ sholy a-bin ole Sandy Claus agwine sailin’ by. Dat what I had in my min’, yit I ain’t stop dar fer ter make no inquirements. I des put out, I did, an’ I went a polin’ home, an’ it make me feel mighty good when I got dar.”
The children visited Harbert’s house every night for several nights before Christmas, but somehow they didn’t seem to enjoy themselves. Harbert was so busy with one thing and another that they felt themselves in the way. They had the ardor and the hope of childhood, however, and they continued their visits with persistent regularity. They were very patient, comparatively speaking, and their patience was finally rewarded.
The night before Christmas, when their interests and expectations were on the point of culmination, they found Harbert sitting in front of the fire, his head thrown back and his hands folded in his lap; and before the little ones could fix themselves comfortably, Aunt Crissy walked in and flung herself into a chair.
“Whoo-ee!” she exclaimed. “I’m dat tired dat I can’t skacely drag one foot ’fo’ de yuther. Look like I bin on my feet mighty nigh a mont’, dat it do, an’ I’m dat stiff, I feel like some er my lim’s gwine ter break in two. Dey ain’t nothin’ on dis plantation dat I ain’t had my han’s in, ’specially ef it’s work. It’s Crissy yere, an Crissy dar, de whole blessed time, an’ I dun’ ner what de lazy niggers’roun’ yere would do ef Crissy wuz to take a notion ter peg out. Mistiss got old Charity in de kitchin’ dar a-cookin’ an’ a-growlin’, but when dey’s any nice cookin’ ter be done, Crissy got ter go an’ do it. I wouldn’t mind it so much,” Aunt Crissy went on, “ef dem yuther niggers’d do like dey tuck some intruss in what’s gwine on, but you know yo’se’f, Brer Harbert, how no’count dey is.”
“Ah, Lord! you nee’nt ter tell me, Sis Crissy, I know um; I know um all. An’ yit dey’ll all be scrougin’ one ane’r ’fo’ day arter termorrow mornin’ fer ter see which gwine ter be de fus fer ter holler Chris’mas gif’ at marster an’ mistiss. Now you watch um! dey’ll all be dar, an’ dey ain’t none un um skacely yearned der salt. I’m mighty nigh run down. Dis mornin’ de stock in de lot wuz a hollerin’ fer der feed, an’ it wuz broad daylight at dat. Den dar wuz de milkin’: hit wuz atter sun-up ’fo’ dat Marthy Ann got ter de cow-pen. Dat gal blood kin ter you, Sis Crissy, but I done laid de law down; I done tole’er dat de nex’ time she come creepin’ out dat late, I wuz gwine to whirl in an’ gi’ ’er a frailin’, an’ I’m gwine to do it ef de Lord spar’s me.”
“Nummine’bout no kinnery, Brer Harbert,” said Aunt Crissy, with emphasis. “You des git you a brush an’ wa’r dat gal out. She new han’ wid de cows, but tooby sho’ she kin git out ’fo’ sun-up.”
“I’m mighty glad,” Harbert remarked, glancing at the children, who were not at all interested in the “worriments” of those faithful negroes—“I’m mighty glad dat Chris’mas is so nigh. De corn done in de crib, de fodder in de barn, de cotton’n de gin-house, de hogs done kilt an’ put up, an’ ef Charity ain’t might’ly behindhand de turkey done in de pot. Dat bein’ de case, what mo’ kin we ax, ’ceptin’ we git down yere on de flo’ an’ ax a blessin’?”
“Trufe, too!” exclaimed Aunt Crissy. “I ain’t quollin’, but dem niggers is so owdacious lazy dat dey keeps me pestered.”
“Yasser!” continued Harbert, “de signs all look like deyer right. When I sets right flat down an’ run it all over, hit make me feel so good dat I got a great mine fer ter hang up my sock right dar side er de chimbly-jam, an’ set up yere an’ watch fer ter see ole Sandy Claus come a-slidin’ down. Ef his foot wuz ter slip, an’ he wuz ter drap down on dat pot-rack dar, I lay he’d wake up de whole plantation. My sock ain’t so mighty long in de leg,” Harbert went on, reflectively, “but she mighty big in de foot, an’ ef ole Sandy Claus wuz ter take a notion fer ter fill’er plum up, she’d lighten his wallet might’ly.”
“Did you ever hang up your stockings, Harbert?” asked Willie.
“Why, tooby sho’ honey,” replied the negro, laughing. “I bin hang um up way back yander ’fo’ you wuz born’d. An’ I used ter git goodies in um, too. Lord! dem wuz times, sho’ nuff. I used ter git goodies in um dem days, but now I speck I wouldn’t git so much ez a piece er ’lasses candy. But, nummine’bout dat! I’ll des take en hang um up dis night, an’ I’ll be mighty glad ef I git a slishe er cracklin’ bread. Dat kinder bread good nuff for me, ’specially when it right fresh.”
“Man, don’t talk!” exclaimed Aunt Crissy. “Look like I kin in about tas’e it now!”
“Aunt Crissy, are you going to hang up your stockings?” asked Wattie.
“Bless yo’ soul, honey! I mos’ got in de notion un it. Ef ’twan’t dat I’m a sleepin’ up in old Granny Chaney house fer ter sorter keep’er comp’ny, I speck I would hang um up. But dey tells me dat ’twon’t do no good ef you hang up yo’ stockin’s in some un else house. ‘Sides dat, ole Granny Chaney so restless dat she’d in about skeer old Sandy Claus off ef he ’uz to start ter come. I’m a tellin’ you de trufe, Brer Harbert, dat ole creetur done got so dat she don’t skacely close’er eyes fer sleep de whole blessed night. She take so many naps endurin’ ’er de day, dat when night come she des ez wakeful ez dat ole black cat what stay up dar at de barn.”
“Dat ole’oman gittin’ ole, mon,” said Har-bert. “She wuz done grown an’ had chillun when I wuz little baby. She lots older dan what I is, an’ I ain’t no chicken myse’f. I speck ef she ’uz ter go back an’ count up ’er Chris-’mases, she done seed mighty nigh ez many ez what ole Sandy Claus is.”
“Well,” said Aunt Crissy, changing the subject, “I ain’t gwine hang up no stockin’, kaze I speck dat whatsomever ole Sandy Claus got fer me, he’ll drap it som’rs in de big house, an’ when I holler at marster an’ mistiss in de morn-in’, dey’ll fetch it out.”
“Dat’s so,” said Harbert. “Yit I got a mighty good notion fer ter hang up mine an’ take de resk. But I’d a heap ruther git sumpin’ dat’s too big fer ter go in um.”
“Well, we are going to hang up our stockings,” said Willie. “I’m going to hang up both of mine, and Wattie says she’s going to hang up both of hers.”
“Dat’s right, honey; an’ if dat ain’t ’nuff’ whirl in an’ hang up a meal-sack. I done bin year tell ’fo’ now ’bout folks what hang up great big bags stidder der stocking. Whedder dey got any mo’ dan t’er folks is mo’ dan I kin tell you.”
“Harbert,” said Wattie, “do you reckon we’ll git anything at all?”
“Oh, I speck so,” said the negro. “I ain’t year talk er you bein’ so mighty bad dis long time. You cuts up scan’lous sometimes, but it’s kaze yo’ buddy dar pesters you.”
This suggestion made Willie so angry that he threatened to go back to the big house and go to bed, and he would have gone but for a remark made by Aunt Crissy—a remark that made him forget his anger.
“Dey tells me,” said Aunt Crissy, in a sub-dued tone, “dat de cows know when Chris’mas come, an’ many’s de time I year my mammy say dat when twelve o’clock come on Chris’mas-eve night, de cows gits down on der knees in de lot an’ stays dat-away some little time. Ef anybody else had er tole me dat I’d a des hooted at um, but, mammy, she say she done seed um do it. I ain’t never seed um do it myse’f, but mammy say she seed um.”
“I bin year talk er dat myse’f,” said Harbert, reverently, “an’ dey tells me dat de cattle gits down an’ prays bekaze dat’s de time when de Lord an’ Saviour wuz born’d.”
“Now, don’t dat beat all!” exclaimed Aunt Crissy. “Ef de dumb creeturs kin say der pra’rs, I dunner what folks ought ter be doin’.”
“An’ dar’s de chickens,” Harbert went on—“look like dey know der’s sump’n up. Dis ve’y night I year de roosters crowin’ fo’ sev’n o’clock. I year tell dat dey crows so soon in sign dat Peter made deniance un his Lord an’ Marster.”
“I speck dat’s so,” said Aunt Crissy.
“Hit bleedze ter be so,” responded the old man with the emphasis that comes from conviction.
Then he intimated that it was time for the children to go to bed if they wanted to get up early the next morning to see what Sandy Claus had brought. This was a suggestion the youngsters could appreciate, and they scrambled out of the door and went racing to the big house.
Before sunrise the plantation was in a stir. The negroes, rigged out in their Sunday clothes, were laughing, singing, wrestling, and playing. The mules and horses having been fed and turned in the pasture for a holiday, were capering about; the cows were lowing in a satisfied manner, the dogs were barking, the geese screaming, the turkeys “yelping” and gobbling, and the chickens cackling. A venerable billy-goat, with a patriarchal beard and the rings of many summers marked on his broad and crumpled horns, had marched up one of the long arms of the packing-screw and was now perched motionless on the very pinnacle of that quaint structure, making a picturesque addition to the landscape, as he stood outlined against the reddening eastern sky.
Willie and Wattie were up so early that they had to feel for their stockings in the dark, and their exclamations of delight, when they found them well filled, aroused the rest of the household. By the time breakfast was over the negroes were all assembled in the yard, and they seemed to be as happy as the children, as their laughter and their antics testified. Towering above them all was Big Sam, a giant in size and a child in disposition. He was noted for miles around for his feats of strength. He could shoulder a bale of cotton weighing five hundred pounds, and place it on a wagon; and though he was proud of his ability in this direction, he was not too proud to be the leader in all the frolics. He was even fuller of laughter and good-humor than his comrades, and on this particular morning, while the negroes were waiting for the usual Christmas developments, Big Sam, his eyes glistening and his white teeth shining, struck up the melody of a plantation play-song, and in a few minutes the dusky crowd had arranged itself in groups, each and all joining in the song. No musical director ever had a more melodious chorus than that which followed the leadership of Big Sam. It was not a trained chorus, to be sure, but the melody that it gave to the winds of the morning was freighted with a quality indescribably touching and tender.
In the midst of the song Mr. Turner appeared on the back piazza, and instantly a shout went up:
“Chris’mas gif, marster! Chris’mas gif!” and then, a moment later, there was a cry of “Chris’mas gif, mistiss!”
“Where is Harbert?” inquired Mr. Turner, waving his hand and smiling.
“Here me, marster!” exclaimed Harbert, coming forward from one of the groups.
“Why, you haven’t been playing, have you?”
“I bin tryin’ my han’, suh, an’ I monst’ us glad you come out, kaze I ain’t nimble like I useter wuz. Dey got me in de middle er dat ring dar, an’ I couldn’t git out nohow.”
“Here are the store-room keys. Go and open the door, and I will be there directly.”
It was a lively crowd that gathered around the wide door of the store-room. For each of the older ones there was a stiff dram apiece, and for all, both old and young, there was a present of some kind. The presents were of a substantial character, too. Those who had made crops of their own found a profitable market right at their master’s door. Some of them had made as much as two bales of cotton on the land they were permitted to cultivate, while others had made good crops of corn—all of which was bought by their master.
Then the big six-mule wagon was brought into service, and into this was packed the horse-collars, made of shucks and wahoo-bark, the baskets, the foot-mats, the brooms, the walking-canes, and the axe-helves, that were to find a market in the town nine miles away.
In spite of the war, it was a happy time, and Joe Maxwell was as happy as any of the rest.