“‘Ma, yer reckin’ Sandy ’ud give us er piece er bread, ef I wuster go down ter de sto’ wind’r an’ ax him fur hit?’
“An’ I speck his ma jes’ keep on er moanin’, ’caze she know dat ole sto’ man’s Sandy Claus ain’ no bett’r’n de sto’ man hisse’f.
“He say, ‘Ma, yer reck’n May Van an’ Willis ’ud lemme look th’u de wind’r at der nice warm fier, an’ all der good sump’in’ ter eat, an’ de purty Crismus tree?’
“An’ his ma mos’ bus’ her heart in two, ’caze she can’ do nuthin’ but jes’ luv ’im.”
“Mammy,” trembled the little girl’s voice, “why didn’t the little boy write to Santy like me and Willis?”
“’Caze he nuv’r had no stamp ter put on de let’r. I tell yer hit takes money ter buy Sandy Claus stamps.”
“We just sent ours up the chimbly,” refuted Willis.
“Dat boy didn’t had ernuf fire ter make his’n go up de chimbly.”
“Why didn’t his mama ask God?” half whispered Mary Van, as she laid her head on Phyllis’s shoulder.
“Dat po’ creetur’s moanin’ an’ groanin’ wus er heap loud’r’n enny pra’r she cud pray.”