“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: