“An’ hawg-killin’ times kem about the Chris’mus,” said the boy, sustaining his part in the fugue.
“Folks had hawgs ter kill in them days,” was his mother’s melancholy rejoinder as she meditated on the contrast of the pinched penury of the present with the peace and plenty of the past when there was no war nor rumor of war.
“Ef ye git a hawg’s bladder an’ blow it up an’ tie the eend right tight an’ stomp on it suddint it will crack ez loud!” said the noise-loving boy. “Peas air good ter rattle in ’em, too,” he added, with a wistful smile, dwelling on the clamors of his happy past.
“Waal, folks ez hed good sense seen more enjyement in eatin’ spare-ribs an’ souse an’ sech like hawg-meat than in stomping on hawgs’ bladders. I hev never favored hawg-killin’ times jes’ ter gin a noisy boy the means ter keep Christian folks an’ church members a-jumpin’ out’n thar skins with suddint skeer all the Chris’mus.”
This was said with the severity of a personality, but the boy’s face distended as he listened.
Suddenly his eyes brightened with excitement. “Hil’ry,” he cried, joyously, “be you-uns a-goin’ ter fire that thar pistol off fur the Chris’mus?”
Mrs. Knox rose from her kneeling posture on the hearth and stared blankly at Hilary.
He had come within the light of the fire. His eyes were blazing, his pale cheeks flushed, his long, lank figure was tense with energy. The weapon in his hand glittered as he held it at arm’s length.
“Bein’ ez it air ready loaded I reckon mebbe I ain’t so awk’ard yit but I could make out ter fire it ef I war cornered,” he muttered, as if to himself. “Leastwise, I’ll take it along fur company.”