Betsey—“Sandy Claws!”
Aunt Hepsey—Hain’t you pernouncin’ his name kinder odd-like, Betsey?
Miss P.—That’s what I think, but—
Betsey—’Tis Sandy Claws. Uncle Sol says so, and he’s the oldest man in this town. He says folkses allers used to say it so, and it’s jest a new-fangled notion to change it. ’N he said if I’d read it jest as I writ it, he’d give me ten cents, ’n I’m a goin’ to do it. I never had ten cents to once’t before, ’n I’m a goin’ to get it.
Aunt Hepsey—Don’t blame ye a bit. Ef anybody kin git ten cents outen old Sol Perkins, it’s their bounden duty to do it, say I. Go on, Betsey, ’n read it up good ’n loud.
Betsey—“Sandy Claws.”—Sandy Claws is an old, old man, older than Methuselah ever dreamed of being. He lives in a big snow house, built around the North Pole, and uses the Pole for a flag staff. He is very fat and jolly, with a big ponderosity in front. His belt is so long it has to be made to order. His eyes are the kind that twinkle and laugh all by themselves. His nose is round and red, like a little apple. His cheeks are, too, what you can see of ’em. They are mostly covered by his whiskers. His whiskers are very predominant. They grow as thick as a crop of well fertilized clover in a good hay year. His hair is long, thick, and curly, so that if he bumps his head getting down a chimbley, it won’t hurt him none—I mean not any. These hair and whiskers are of a sandy color, which is one reason he is called Sandy Claws. The other reason is because he has claws.
Aunt Hepsey—Hold on there, Betsey! I’ve seen many a picture of Sandy Claws in my day, but nary a one that had claws.
Miss P.—Nor, I, Miss Bascom, but if Uncle Sol says so—
Aunt Hepsey—Land yes, there’s no disputin’ Sol Perkins. He’s sailed around the world, ’n lived with the Feejees ’n the Hottentots, ’n if you doubt ary one o’ his sailor yarns, he’ll up ’n say, “Wal, was you ever there?” ’n course you never wasn’t ’n there ’tis. But claws on Sandy Claws is most too much ter swaller.