“Yas, dat’s pop-corn, honey. An’ I reckon Uncle Joab’ll have some a-poppin’ for you over dese yeah coals in a jiffy.”
He mounted stiffly the hewn, polished stump that did service for a stool and pulled down two of the ears. From the corner of the fireplace he brought a corn-popper and, sitting down, he commenced to shell the corn by rubbing the ears together. David drew up a chair near by and watched him with growing interest. When the corn was shelled Uncle Joab raked away the unburned wood from the fire, leaving a bed of the red coals. Over this he held the corn, shaking the popper gently from side to side. In less time than it takes for the telling sounded the snap-snap-snap of the bursting kernels, and in a moment more Uncle Joab had turned the snowy contents into an earthen bowl and laid it on David’s knee with a small dish of salt and the invitation to “Go ahead.” Then he took up his fiddle again and played the promised music.
It was a jig, such a rollicking, care-free jig that before it was finished David found himself wondering how in the world he ever hesitated about coming in. Why, here was nothing but another boy like himself, a boy grown old before he had grown up.
“Like dat corn, honey? Wall, you come along yeah ’round Chris’mus an’ Uncle Joab’ll make you some m’lasses balls.”
A sigh escaped with the promise.
“Lordy—Chris’mus—yeah! Doan’t seem like I done hab any Chris’mus sence I left ole Virginy. Seems like it done froze stiff ’fo’ ever it got to dese yeah parts.”
David laughed at the old man’s humor. It had seemed just that way to him a few days ago.
“Couldn’t we thaw it out?” he asked.
“’Twould take a monstrous lot o’ warm feelin’s, honey, an’ kind folks, I reckon. An’ you’d not find ’em a-hangin’ ’round loose yeah in de wintah. Why, dere’s no more ’n a han’ful of us, all measured an’ mixted; an’ as fur as I know dere’s not one a-speakin’ to another.”
David shook his head solemnly.