“I donno whut ’tis, son, ’cep’n I allus heah dat twelve days atter Crismus, ’zackly at twelve erclock in de night time, all de beastes an’ creeturs falls on der knees an’ glorifies de Lawd,—an’ I allus heahs fokes call hit ‘Ole Crismus.’”
“Birds can’t kneel, Mammy Phyllis,” announced Mary Van.
“Dey kin put der haid on de groun’, an’ make der cross mark, I reckin.”
“Where was Miss Queen Bee; you left her out?”
“Miss Queen lef’ herse’f out, she say she feer’d her rumaticks ’ud git wusser, but dat ain’ so—she feer’d sumbody gwine ketch her ’Crismus gif’.”
“Did God fix their eyes like Johnnie Squinch’s, so they could see the tree good at night?”
“Whut he got ter do dat fur, son? Ain’ you seed de candles dat grows on de een’ er ev’y pine tree branch?”
“No, Mammy Phyllis, I haven’t,” Mary Van insisted upon an explanation.
“Shucks, gal, ain’ yer seed dis hyah lit’le light green candle sorter lookin’ things comin’ out’n de bushy een’ er de pine tree branches?”
“Are they candles?” the little girl did not quite remember.