CHAPTER XXXII.
“Christmas gift! young ladies, Christmas gift!” chirped Aunt Phœbe, bustling briskly, in her resplendent bandanna, into the room, and courtesying and bowing, and bowing and courtesying in turn, to the two fair heads that lay deep-nestled in their pillows.
“Christmas gift!” modestly echoed the handmaiden Milly, her sable daughter, modestly bringing up the rear and showing all her ivories.
I don’t think the relations between Virginia master and Virginia slave ever appeared in a gentler or more attractive aspect than on Christmas mornings. The way the older and more privileged domestics had of bursting into your room at the most unearthly hour, shouting “Christmas gift! Christmas gift!” beaming with smiles and brimful of good nature, was enough to warm the heart of a Cimon.
“Well, Aunt Phœbe,” said one of the drowsy beauties, “you have caught us.”
“Gracious, is it daybreak yet?” yawned hazel-eyed Alice. “I am s-o-o-o sleepy!” And turning over in bed with a toss, she closed her eyes and pouted as though she had much to endure.
“Daybreak? Daybreak? Why, Lor’, chile, ain’t Polly done put on her bread to bake? Git up, git up, you lazy things! Don’t you know all de beaux is up and dressed, and a-settin’ round, ’most a-dyin’ for to see you?”
“Poor things, are they?” mumbled Alice against her pillow.
“To-be-sho, to-be-sho dey is,” reiterated Aunt Phœbe; though, as a veracious historian, I must let the reader know that it was a pious fraud on the old lady’s part, inspired by solicitude for the reputation of the Elmington breakfast; for not one of the sinners had stirred.
“I believe,” added Aunt Phœbe, observing that Mary’s eyes were open,—“I believe,” said she, going up to Alice and looking down upon her with an admiring smile, “dat dis is de sleepyheadedest one of ’em all.”