“Now, Lawd o’ messy!” cried the dear old creature, taking a closer look at my tearful face. “What dat yer sayin’, chile? Ole Santy Claus forgit yer, honey? What make yer tink he gwine to forgit yer? Well, well! You’s a funny little chile, sho’—yer makes me laugh ’til I cries; sho’ yer do.”
I noticed that he did take off his “specs” and wipe them with his yellow bandana, but I didn’t see anything to laugh at. He gazed sadly enough, I thought, into the embers for awhile, and smoothed my hair in a thoughtful way. Then an inspiration seized him; he saw his way through the dilemma. He straightened himself in his chair, and readjusted his glittering ornaments across his nose. He assumed the air which all the country ’round knew as the precursor of something oracular, for he was “not ’zactly a preacher, no sah! but sort of a ’zorter ’mongst de breren.”
“Now, my dear little chillun,” he began, “I dunno who tuk an’ turned in an’ put dat funny notion in yer heads ’bout ole Santa Claus forgitten yer, but pay ’tickler extension to what I’se gwine to say to yer. You mustn’t go to kalklatin’ on none o’ dem high-falutin’ tings what he used to fotch here fo’ de wah sot in, fur de times is mighty hard, and de ole feller’ll have to run de blockade to git yere t’all—sho’ he will. But ef you sez you’ll be powerful good til’ dat time, an’ don’t go to pesterin’ yer ma ’bout it, I’ll promise yer dat he aint gwine to forgit yer altogedder.”
This was surely consolation; but it required all our faith in Uncle Scipio to keep our courage alive until the great day. It drew near and nearer, and still we saw no unusual stir in the house, and our hearts began to sink a little. At last it wanted but one day, and I shall never forget that Christmas eve.
Uncle Scipio was very much preoccupied, and could not be disturbed by any means, that day; so we betook ourselves to the society of our elders. But there matters were worse. There was little of privation and bad news that we had not become pretty familiar with by this time, and war, I remember, seemed to me the normal condition of things. But it soon became clear to me that something a little worse than usual was apprehended that day.
There were whispered conversations going on above our heads, but we caught enough of it to know that a piece of terrible news had arrived. A party of refugees had passed through our town in the early morning. They were a company of fragile women and children, with a few faithful negroes, fleeing from their homes as from a pestilence. They told us that a large company of Yankees had made their appearance a few miles above us, and if they followed the most direct route to the railroad, would, in all probability, reach us that night or the following day. Our little town being on the line of the railroad, rarely escaped the military visitations. Besides, it was at this time the depository of a great deal of cotton, which it was feared might be the occasion of its being burned.
I have heard mother say that this day before Christmas there were just three able-bodied men in the town—the hospital doctor, the miller, and the conscript officer; not a very formidable defence against a hostile invasion. But I suppose those two lonely women, my mother and grandmother, must have looked for help in this extremity, towards the everlasting hills where the twelve legions of angels lay encamped, for they bore their anxiety like Spartans.
The day dragged through, however, and the last sun rays showed us no blue coats on the western road towards which aching eyes had turned through the heavy hours. Things began to look a little more hopeful. We began to feel that reaction from anxiety which is almost sure to come when the candles are lighted.
We sat close together in the sitting-room, and took our very frugal supper there in quite a hysterical sort of cheerfulness.