“A preacher what 'zorts an' calls up mourners?” he said,—“not on yo' tin-type. Me an' Wilkes Booth Lincoln—”
“How many times have I expressed the wish not to have you bring that negro's name into the conversation?” she impatiently interrupted.
“I don' perzactly know, 'm,” he answered good humoredly, “'bout fifty hunerd, I reckon. Anyways, Aunt Minerva, I ain't goin' to be no preacher. When I puts on long pants I's goin' to be a Confedrit Vet'run an' kill 'bout fifty hunderd Yankees an' Injuns, like my Major man.”
CHAPTER XI
NOW RIDDLE ME THIS
The children were sitting in the swing. Florence Hammer, a little girl whose mother was spending the day at Miss Minerva's, was with them.
“Don't you-all wish Santa Claus had his birthday right now 'stead 'o waiting till Christmas to hang up our stockings?” asked Frances.
“Christmas isn't Santa Claus' birthday,” corrected Lina. “God was born on Christmas and that's the reason we hang up our stockings.”
“Yes; it is old Santa's birthday, too,” argued Jimmy, “'cause it's in the Bible and Miss Cecilia 'splained it to me and she 'bout the dandiest 'splainer they is.”