“Mammy, I wanter telephone Santy Claus,” fretted Willis, seeking excuse to leave the nursery.
“Nor, he done gone erway fum home ter hunt up whar de good chilluns stays at,” as she moved about putting the room to rights; “you an’ Ma’y Van fix dat lit’le Chrismus tree ov’r yond’r fur Ma’y Van’s dolls, an’ you be ole man Sandy.”
“I got ter telephone Santy Claus about little Leonora—he don’t know she’s come,” insisted Willis.
“I dunno whut’s de rees’n—he brung her hisse’f dis mawnin’,” still moving briskly about.
“I got to telephone Santy what to bring her,” he persisted.
“Dat baby ain’ got her eyes op’n yit.”
“Yes, she has, Mammy,” and Mary Van crossed the room and looked into Phyllis’s face, “they’re big brown ones, ’caus I went over to Uncle Hugh’s house and looked at ’em good m’self.”
“Well, I doan keer nuthin’ tall ’bout dat, Sandy Claus say she too lit’le fur him ter fool wid yit.”
Mary Van turned to Willis, “Less us fix this tree for little Leonora.”
“No, I’m got to telephone to Santy Claus.” He clung to the knob of the locked door.