"White folks, black folks, Chris'mus am heah,
An' Chris'mus comes but oncet a year,
An' dis is Chris'mus mawnin'!"
Sounds showed that the house was stirring. Laurence Washington, as the master, had to dress and go down stairs to give the singers the treat they expected. Betty got up and dressed herself at the first sound, and, tapping at George's door, called softly, "Merry Christmas, George!" Nobody could sleep much after that, and soon after sunrise everybody was up, and "Merry Christmas" resounded through the whole house. The negroes were most vociferous, as this was their favorite holiday, and no work, except the feeding of the stock and the cutting of wood, was to be done for several days—that is, as long as the backlog on the Christmas fire remained unconsumed. The putting of this log on the fire was an annual ceremony, that George thought most amusing. The English officers thought so too, and watched it with the greatest interest. Before breakfast was served, when all the guests were assembled in the hall, Uncle Manuel, the butler, who was very tall and very black, and who wore, on great occasions, a pair of scarlet satin knee-breeches that had once belonged to Laurence Washington, appeared, and announced, with a condescending smile, that "de boys" had come with the backlog.
Amid much grinning and shoving and jostling and chuckling four stalwart negro men walked in the house carrying a huge log, which was placed at the back of the great fireplace, upon the tall iron fire-dogs. It was of unseasoned black gum, a wood hard to burn at all times, and this particular log had been well soaked in a neighboring swamp. It was the privilege of the negroes to select the backlog, and although the masters and mistresses knew perfectly well that everything was done to make it as noncombustible as possible, the plantation joke was to pretend that it was as dry as a bone and would burn like tinder.
"We fotch you a mighty fine backlorg dis time, mistis," grinned the head man. "Hit gwi' bu'n same like light-wood." At which Mrs. Washington looked grave, as she was expected to look, while a general guffaw went around among the negroes.
"I spect we ain' gwi' to have no holiday 'tall ef we has to go ter wuk as soon as dis heah lorg b'un up," chuckled another.
"'Tain' gwi' lars' mo'en fer Christmas day!" chorussed the others standing near by.
"I think I saw a black-gum log soaking in the swamp a few days ago," said Laurence, smiling at the grinning faces before him: but there was a chorus immediately:
"Naw, suh; dis lorg ain' never had a drap o' water on it, an' we-all's been dryin' it fer a whole mont'." The log was then steaming like a tea-kettle, and the negroes yah-yahed with delight at the ready acceptance of their ruse.
"Very well, then," cried Laurence Washington; "you can all have holiday until this log is burned out, and if I am not mistaken it will last the week through!"