“Hit bleedze ter be so,” responded the old man with the emphasis that comes from conviction.
Then he intimated that it was time for the children to go to bed if they wanted to get up early the next morning to see what Sandy Claus had brought. This was a suggestion the youngsters could appreciate, and they scrambled out of the door and went racing to the big house.
Before sunrise the plantation was in a stir. The negroes, rigged out in their Sunday clothes, were laughing, singing, wrestling, and playing. The mules and horses having been fed and turned in the pasture for a holiday, were capering about; the cows were lowing in a satisfied manner, the dogs were barking, the geese screaming, the turkeys “yelping” and gobbling, and the chickens cackling. A venerable billy-goat, with a patriarchal beard and the rings of many summers marked on his broad and crumpled horns, had marched up one of the long arms of the packing-screw and was now perched motionless on the very pinnacle of that quaint structure, making a picturesque addition to the landscape, as he stood outlined against the reddening eastern sky.
Willie and Wattie were up so early that they had to feel for their stockings in the dark, and their exclamations of delight, when they found them well filled, aroused the rest of the household. By the time breakfast was over the negroes were all assembled in the yard, and they seemed to be as happy as the children, as their laughter and their antics testified. Towering above them all was Big Sam, a giant in size and a child in disposition. He was noted for miles around for his feats of strength. He could shoulder a bale of cotton weighing five hundred pounds, and place it on a wagon; and though he was proud of his ability in this direction, he was not too proud to be the leader in all the frolics. He was even fuller of laughter and good-humor than his comrades, and on this particular morning, while the negroes were waiting for the usual Christmas developments, Big Sam, his eyes glistening and his white teeth shining, struck up the melody of a plantation play-song, and in a few minutes the dusky crowd had arranged itself in groups, each and all joining in the song. No musical director ever had a more melodious chorus than that which followed the leadership of Big Sam. It was not a trained chorus, to be sure, but the melody that it gave to the winds of the morning was freighted with a quality indescribably touching and tender.
In the midst of the song Mr. Turner appeared on the back piazza, and instantly a shout went up:
“Chris’mas gif, marster! Chris’mas gif!” and then, a moment later, there was a cry of “Chris’mas gif, mistiss!”
“Where is Harbert?” inquired Mr. Turner, waving his hand and smiling.
“Here me, marster!” exclaimed Harbert, coming forward from one of the groups.
“Why, you haven’t been playing, have you?”
“I bin tryin’ my han’, suh, an’ I monst’ us glad you come out, kaze I ain’t nimble like I useter wuz. Dey got me in de middle er dat ring dar, an’ I couldn’t git out nohow.”