“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’?”