“No, no, Marse John,” said the old man, as he staggered in the other night, “don’t git excited, it ain’t de kuklux done it. I ain’t seed eny o’ dem sense I tried ter be smart an’ own a few po’ white fo’ks arter de war. No, sah, it ain’t kuklux,” and he tried to sit down, but gave it up and held on to the arm of a chair.
I was horrified, for I had never seen the old man look like that. His head was bandaged in cotton batting and the eye he had left was trying to look at me through a slit in an arnica poultice.
“Sit down,” I cried, reaching for a bottle of horse-medicine I kept for him in the sideboard.
“I can’t, Marse John, I ain’t got a spot lef’ to res’ on. I’m branded on bofe hips wid de bar o’ de cannon cracker. If I tries to recumber longerturdernal I lays on de bran’ o’ de sky-rocket, an’ if I goes in fur horizontal recumbrance I gits on de spot lef’ by torpedoes. Dar ain’t but one spot lef’ for me to res’ on. If dars a iron hook in de wall jes’ hang me up on it by de coat collar. I’ve be’n playin’ Sandy Claws,” he groaned—“tryin’ to do lak white fo’ks an’ lak de mos’ of dem kerried my religgun too fur.”
I did what I could to help him.
“Ah, boss, didn’t you put a leetle too much turbentine in dat whiskey? Lord, but I’m a wrick o’ myself.
“If I had it my way,” he went on, as he adjusted himself to a soft spot on the sofa, “dar jes’ nurver would be ernuther Kris’mus. We niggers copies ev’y thing frum de white fo’ks, even borrowin’ dey religgun. But I’m blest ef it fits us eny mor’n it fits some o’ dem, an’ dis Kris’mus is jes’ a nuessence an’ a nonsense. Why, boss, de gloomes’ time o’ dey year is jes’ arter Kris’mus. When de foolishness and de fiahwucks is all over dar ain’t nuffin lef’ but tucky feathers, taxes and a tired stumic! You owe ev’ybody from de grocer’s lergitermates to de ole-skin nabur dat saunt you a cyard headed, “De Foot-paths ob Peace,” an’ spen’s de res’ ob de year scrappin’ wid you, kase you furgot to sen’ him a fat pullit in return. Yo’ taxes is due, yo’ wood is out, yo’ stumic is de only thing you knows you own, kase you kin feel dat’s in revolt, an’ you spen’s de res’ ob de year takin’ to cal’mel an’ tall timber.
“When you look ’roun’, sah, it’s jes’ awful—twixt dried holly hung around, orange peelin’, dirt, chicken feathers an’ fish bone, de home looks like a wolf-den at weanin’ time, de chillun ruint fur wuck an’ school, an’ dey cough and cut up like distempered colts. Yo’ wife’s made pincushens an’ Kris’mus gif’s till she broke you, and her constertushun an’ gone to bed, dey cows got garget when dey oughter hab milk, an’ de cat you be’n tryin’ to git rid of all de year bobs up wid a basketful o’ kittins.
“Ain’t it strange, sah, dat we celerbrates de buff-day of sech a man in sech a way? He cum to tell us to be meek, an’ we starts in fur mischief; he tells us to git religgun, an’ we all git drunk; he tells us to gib, an’ we do it wid de hope o’ gittin’ mo’ in return; he say be temprit, an’ we start in to stuff. His whole life wuz to entice us to heaven, an’ we gits so happy at de very thought dat we ’megiately starts off to hell wid a pocket full o’ fiahwucks fur fear de Debil didn’t hab enuff of his own down dar!
“Hold on, old man,” I cried, “you have expressed just what I have been wanting to say all my life, but didn’t have your flow of language! Excuse me while I go to my iron safe and get a bottle of Frank Chaffin’s twenty-year-old—that horse medicine is not good enough for such sentiments. I’ve got the other in my safe and I am the only man who knows the combination.”