Whar My Chris'mus?

THE night was cold, and the howling storm, like a blustering bully bent upon forcing admission, beat in angry gusts upon the doors and windows of a whitewashed frame house, standing alone by the side of a country road, and through the cracks of its ill-constructed walls of cheap, unseasoned lumber crept like a sneak in chill drafts and tiny drifts of snow.

In the open fireplace of a room upon the upper floor, half green pine logs were smouldering, and in a rough bed, drawn close to the hearth, lay a young boy, stricken, like many of his dusky race, with consumption.

The sickly flame of a dimly burning lamp suggested, rather than disclosed, the squalor of the room and the poverty of its furniture.

Seated in a split-bottom chair, and bending over the struggling fire, was an old negro. His figure, warped and twisted by rheumatism into a grotesque shape, was clad in tattered garments of an age as great, apparently, as his own. His feet, wrapped about with many cloths, had the appearance of two large bundles of woolen rags. Upon his face hopelessness and sorrow had furrowed their history, yet his expression was sweet and benevolent.

Snow-white hair crowned him with dignity.

“Honey,” said the old man to the boy, “I des put on de las’ log dar is, an’ de fire ain’ gwine las’ much longer; yit it ain’ gret while atter sun-down. I ax dat man ter gimme few mo’ sticks, kaze dis yer Chris’mus Day, an’ he say he reck’n he would, but he in sich a hurry to git off dat he done forgit it.”

“Whar he gone, Unc’ Dan’l? ” asked the boy.

“He gone a-junkettin’ an’ a-jollifyin’ wid he frien’s, dat whar he gone, ” replied the old man, “an’ he done lock Crazy Dick in he room. Dat he a-moanin’ to hisse’f right now.”

“I spec’ he cole,” said the boy.

“An’ hongry, too,” rejoined the old man. “De vittles dat man done lef’ us warn’t ’nuff fur good dinner, let ’lone supper. ”

“I ain’ never hongry no mo’,” said the boy, “but I cole.”

The old man looked at him compassionately, and when he spoke again his voice was beautiful in its tenderness.

“Son,” said he, “I ain’ been h’yer but a mont’, ’scusin’ two days, yit it seem like I been h’yer a coon’s age ; an’ dar you is. You wuz borned in de ole po’house, an’ you wuz raised in dis h’yer po’house, an’ now yer sick abed an’ ain’ never have no good times.

“I so stiff an’ rickety wid dis h’yer rheumatiz dat I cyahn rastle ’roun’ same like I useter could, but it brek ray heart ter see yer a-lyin’ dar sufferin’ an’ do nuthin’ fur yer ’musement. Does yer wan’ me tell yer ’bout de good ole times agin, ’fo’ I git ter bed?”

“Fofe July or Chris’mus?” asked the boy. “You done tell me ’bout dem befo’.”

“ Dey wuz bofe good times, ” said the old man musingly, “but mo’ speshully wuz I studyin’ ’bout Chris’mus, kaze dis h’yer Chris’mus night. When I study ’bout Fofe July I recterlec’ mo’ ’bout young niggers an’ barb’cue, an’ when I study ’bout Chris’mus I recterlec’ mo’ ’bout Marse George an’ Ole Miss an’ de ole niggers what done daid; but de mo’ I study ’bout dem times, hit ’pears like dey wuz all good times.”

“Tell ’bout whar you live when yer little,” said the boy, “an’ ’bout dem folks yer studyin’ ’bout dat done daid.”

“ I wuz borned on Marse George plantation, ” began the old man, after a pause, — “borned when he father wuz ’live an’ Marse George wuz mos’ grow’d up. Hit wuz way over yonder at de yuther en’ of dis h’yer county, by de water, whar de lan’ wuz mos’ly of de bes’, like eve’ything what Marse George have;—not po’ lan’ like ’roun’ ’bout h’yer. Marse George had a heap o’ lan’. ’T warn’t de bigges’ plantation in de county, kaze Colonel Jones dat live on nex’ place had mo’ lan’, an’ Marse Ned Brent ’cross de river, he had mo’ lan’, but yit it wuz mighty big plantation; an’ Marse George had better lan’ dan dem gen’muns, an’ he own mo’ niggers, an’ he have de bigges’ mortgages in dis h’yer county, Marse George did, kaze I done hearn a gen’mun say so; but dat wuz atter de war; an’ de gret house, — I spec’ dar ain’ no bigger house nowhar dan Marse George house, ’scusin’ de Cote-House in de town, but dat ain’ no house ’t all, kaze hit mo’ like a hótel.

“My daddy he wuz de driver fur Marse George, an’ my mammy, she he’p ’bout de washin’, an’ dey had der own cab’n an’ gyard’n; an’ when dey git ole, dey des live dar in dat same cab’n, an’ dey had de bes’ ter eat an’ warm flannel an’ cloze, an’ when dey sick, Marse George doctor ’tended ’em, an’ Ole Miss ’ud bring ’em sump’n nice ter eat fum her own table, — bring hit herse’f, or sen’ one o’ de chillun; an’ my daddy, when he too ole ter wuk, he des do what he please; —he go fishin’, an’ he smoke he pipe, an’ chaw he chawin’ terbaccer what Marse George gun him, an’ he cuss de young niggers kaze dey ain’ so peart as he wuz when he young nigger, an’ kaze dey lazy an’ ain’ got no sense. He sut’ny did ’njoy hisse’f, fur de good Lord gun him grace an’ peace in his ole age. An’ when dey die, which dey wuz took’n sick ’bout same time, an’ die one on dis day an’ turrer on nex’, Marse George gun ’ em de fines ’ shrouds, which he promust fo’ dey done daid, an’ mighty han’some pine coffins; an’ all de niggers what ’tended de funer’l say dat it de bigges’ an’ de fines’ funer’l in der recterlection, an’ dat dey git mo’ ’njoyment out’n dat funer’l dan any befo’, ’cep’n’ when de las’ preacher done daid.

“Now’days,” continued the old man in a tone of anguish, sinking his voice that the boy might not hear him, — “now’days de nigger cyahn die happy like dey useter could, kaze dese h’yer grave robbers is eve’ywhar, an’ dar ain’ no perfec’ safety for no nigger, when he daid; an’ when nigger die in po’house, O Lord! de doctors cuts him up wid long knife. Nigger cyahn mek he peace wid he Maker ’bout he soul, when he studyin’ all time ’bout how de doctors gwine cyarve he body.”

“What dat yer sayin’,Unc’ Dan’l? ” inquired the boy.

“I wuz des a-studyin’ to myse’f,” answered the old man, forcing a look and tone of cheerfulness. “Folks does dat when dey gits ole. Lemme see whar I is. I mos’ done come to de en’ o’ my tale befo’ I git started.

“ Well, I wuz borned an’ raised in dat dar cab’n what I tell you un, an’ when I git big ’nuff I play wid de yuther little niggers, an’ I fish in de river, an’ I cotch catfish an’ eels out’n it, an’ cotch rabbits in de brier patch wid rabbit gum. An’ when Marse George ’way fum home, I steal fruit out’n he gyard’n an’ git cotched, which Unc’ Hez’kiah dat wuk de gyard’n he cotch me, an’ he done gin me a whalin’ dat mek me mo’ blue dan black. I ain’ forgit dat whalin’ yit, kaze Unc’ Hez’kiah sut’ny mek it clar ter me dat I mus’ quit stealin’ fruit out’n Marse George gyard’n, dat he did.”

“Dem wuz times,” said the boy.

“ Dey mos’ sholy wuz, ” responded the old man with emphasis; “an’ when dey kill hogs, which hog-killin’ time come des ’fo’ Chris’mus, eve’y little nigger on de plantation have a pigtail fur hisse’f, an’ all de niggers have dat ’mount o’ spar-rib an’ chine an’ sausage an’ blood-pudd’n,an’ all dem yuther things, which dey comes in hog-killin’ time, dat dey mos’ bus’ deyse’f wid eatin’.

“An’ Fofe July dar wuz barb’cue what I done tole yer un befo’, wid ox roasted whole an’ races fur little niggers, which dey run ’em deyse’f, an’ mule-race fur big niggers, an’ de las’ mule git de prize, kaze eve’y nigger whip ’nuther nigger’s mule, an’ try to mek yuther nigger’s mule come in fus’, so his mule come in las’, an’ he win de prize. I recterlec’ one Fofe July when my daddy win de prize, which he rode Blin’ Billy, dat so ole, he go slow like a mud turkle, an’ he balky besides ; an’ de prize wuz a gret big watermillion, which hit tuk two niggers to tote it; but I spec’ I done tole yer ’bout Blin’ Billy an’ dat watermillion befo’, an’ how Unc’ Hannibal win de prize fur ploughin’ straightes’ furrer. When I gun ter git bigger I did n’ fool ’way my time wid no spellin’-book, like little niggers does dese days, an’ my Marse George he did n’ larn me no sich stuff as dat, but I larn ter weed de gyard’n an’ hoe an’ pick veg’tables, an’ I wuz handy man in de gyard’n, an’ when Unc’ Hez’kiah git too ole ter walk an’ did n’ hatter do nothin’ ’cep’n’ ter ’muse hisse’f, Marse George mek me de gyard’ner, an’ I wuz a proud nigger when he done dat, dat I wuz.

“Dar wuz a mighty spry yaller gal what he’p Marse George ole mammy tek care he chillun, She mighty skittish gal, an’ she pester me a heap, dat gal did. When I foller atter her she run ’way, an’ when I quit bodderin’ ’long o’ her, kaze she too stuck up, den she run atter me. One day ’t wuz up an’ nex’ day ’t wuz down wid me, twel I mos’ lose my patience ; but one mornin’ when I wuz a-pick’n’ peaches in de gyard’n, dat gal pass, an’ I ain’ noticin’ her, but she gun to sass me, an’ den I git mad an’ run atter her, an’ I cotch her, an’ I kiss her mos’ a hunderd times, an’, when I kiss her ’bout fifty times, she ’low she gwine marry me ef Marse George willin’, an’ when I look up ’gin, dar wuz Marse George a’stannin’ in de grape arbor, which hit close by. I sut’ny feel like a fool nigger, an’ Susan, she squeal an’ run up to de house, an’ Marse George mek out like he ain’ seen us. But dat atternoon, when I wuz a-totin’ some veg’tables up to de kitch’n, Marse George met me an’ he sez,

‘ Dan’l, ’ sezee, ‘dem wuz de bigges’ an’ de mos’ juicies’ peaches what I seen yer he’p’n’ yerse’f to dis mornin’ out’n my gyard’n dat I mos’ ever see, ’ sezee, an’ den he laugh an’ laugh fit ter kill hisse’f. He wuz a joker dat pull de laughin’ string, wuz Marse George. When he done laughin’, I up ’n’ ax ’im kin I have de cab’n what Unc’ Hez’kiah useter live in, an’ which he done move out’n, kaze Marse George done built him new cab’n; an’ Marse George say I kin ; an’ dat gal Susan an’ me wuz married in a mont’, but she did n’ live mor’n a yer, an’ I ain’ never had no chile ’scusin’ one which he done daid when Susan wuz took’n. I ole, but I ain’ fergit Susan, kaze I spec’ ter chune my harp an’ lif ’ my voice in de heavenly choir, along o’ her, when de good Lord call me ter come.”

“Ain’ yer fergit tellin’ ’bout Chris’mus times, Unc’ Dan’l?” asked the boy.

“ Hit seem like I have, ” said the old man. “Clar ter gracious, when I git ter talk’n’ ’bout ole times, I fotch up so much to my ’membunce dat I ramble ’long an’ ramble ’long twel I dunno whar I is.

“In dem days,” continued the old man, “Chris’mus times wuz a nigger heav’n on earf. Dar wuz holiday times fur mos’ three weeks, an’ no nigger ain’ do no wuk twel de backlog in de big fireplace wuz who’ly ashes. An’ de nigger what fotch dat log tek good care dat hit mighty green log, so hit cyahn burn fas’. Chris’mus mornin’ de ole niggers git up early an’ ’sprise Marse George an Ole Miss an’ de chillun an’ cotch ’em Chris’mus gif’. Eve’y nigger on de plantation, big ’n’ little, have he Chris’mus gif’, ’sides mighty good Chris’mus dinner an’ sumpustuous vittles all de time. Marse George an’ Ole Miss tek de Chris’mus gif’s fur de ole niggers down to de cab’ns deyse’f, an’ young niggers tote de baskits. Atter dinner all de white folks what spen’nin’ Chris’mus wid we - alls, kaze Marse George have a house full o’ de quality all de time, but mo’ speshully endurin’ Chris’mus times, — all de white folks come wid Marse George an’ Ole Miss inter de kitch’n, whar all de niggers waitin’, what wuk in de house an’ roun’ de house, an’ den dey drink Marse George and Ole Miss health an’ de health of yuther ladies an’ gen’muns what stayin’ wid we-alls. Dey drinks dey health out’n a gret big bowl o’ eggnogg, an’ Marse George sen’ plenty mo’ down to de cab’ns, an’ I tell yer dis, honey, dat dat-dar egg-nogg, which Marse George mix hit hisse’f, wuz fitten fur a regal king to squench his thirs’ out’n, an’ when de niggers dance dat night in de kerridge house, which dey move de kerridges so dey kin dance, de fiddle furnish de music, but de toddy done mek de frolic.

“Dis yer kep’ up eve’y Chris’mus ’fo’ de war, but endurin’ de war Marse George wuz ’way fum home fightin’, an’ I hearn tell dat he fit same like a lion, but he boun’ ter fight brave, kaze he quality. De war ain’ tech us much whar we live, kaze we wuz out’n de way, but all de gen’muns in de neighborhoods went ’way an’ fit.

“Bymeby de news reach us dat Marse Lincoln done set all de niggers free. At fus’ dis doan mek much diffunce ’cep’n’ de niggers mighty glad dat dey free now same like white folks. I spec’ mos’ un ’em think dat freedom gwine mek der skin white des like dey marseters. How nigger gwine know dat when he own hisse’f he gotter rastle ’roun’ an’ tek care hisse’f an’ buy his own cloze an’ vittles an’ chawin’ terbaccer? How nigger gwine know what freedom is, when he cyahn spell freedom, an’ he cyahn read freedom, an’ he cyahn write freedom ? Yit he think he know, an’ hit mek him mighty peart and biggity to hol’ he head high an’ say, ‘ I ain’ slave no mo’. I free same like white gen’mun.’ Dat de way dey feel, an’ ’t warn’t long ’fo’ mos’ de niggers gun ter git ras’less an’ leave de plantation an’ ramble off to ’njoy deyse’f an’ seek dey forchun. But I stay whar I wuz, an’ some o’ de yuther niggers stay dar too,—mo’ speshully de ole niggers, kaze we hatter stay dar an’ tek care Ole Miss an’ de chillun when Marse George ’way fum home. Yit I feel mighty proud kaze I free.

“Marse George come back when de war over, an’ live on de plantation. He live dar ’bout fo’teen yers, an’ I live dar, too, an’ wuk in de gyard’n. But times wuz changed. Dar warn’t no niggers in mos’ o’ de cab’ns; an’ Marse George kep’ one buggy an’ one kerridge an’ two horses stid o’ big stable full like he useter keep. An’ atter while de craps did n’ fotch de prices no mo’ what dey useter fotch, an’ Marse George hatter borrer money which he spected ter pay back nex’ yer when prices riz, an’ when nex’ yer come, prices done drap mo’, an’ he hatter borrer mo’ money.

“Den come de day when he call me inter de dinin’-room an’ de yuther niggers what stayed wid ’im atter de war, an’ Ole Miss wuz dar, an’ de tears wuz in he eyes, an’ he clar he throat an’ say,

‘ Dan’l an’ Tobe,’ sezee, an’ de yuther niggers, which he call ’em by name, ‘ I done ruint, an’ de she’iff gwine sell dis place nex’ mont’. I gwine tek yo’ Mistis an’ de chillun to de city whar I got wuk promust. You all is my black chillun, eve’y one, an’ hit brek my heart to leave yer, but I ain’ got money ’nuff ter tek no one ’cep’n’ ole mammy an’ Rachel, ’ which wuz de cook. Den weall bus’ loose a-cryin’, an’ we beg Marse George not ter go ’way an’ leave us, an’ ef he boun’ ter go to de city, to tek us wid him. But he say he cyahn do dat, kaze he too po’. He might tek Smallpox Tobe dat wait on table, an’ Nancy what wuk in de house, an’ git ’em place wid some quality folks in de city, but he cyahn tek me ’long, kaze I ain’ got no larnin’ an’ dunno nothin’ but ’bout wuk in gyard’n, an’ Marse George say dar ain’ no gyard’ns in de city; yit all de quality, what ’quainted wid me, ’low my manners wuz of de bes’, kaze I bin raised right.

“So nex’ mont’ de plantation wuz sole, an’ de house an’ all de furnicher an’ de kerridge an’ horses; an’ Marse George an’ he fambly, an’ ole mammy an’ Rachel, an’ Smallpox Tobe an’ Nancy move to de city, an’ I stay dar on de plantation, kaze de man what bought it, he hired me to wuk de gyard’n, an’ Marse George done tell him dat I fus’-class gyard’ner.

“De man what bought we-alls’ place wuz po’ white trash, an’ he wife, she po’ white trash, too; an’ dey wuz de meanes’ white folks dat I ever run up wid atter soshiatin’ wid de quality all my born days. Dey useter keep market stall in de town, an’ dey live po’ an’ save money ’fo’ dey buy our plantation, which hit brung less ’n half what it wurf. Dey warn’t real bad people what de debbil loves, but dey mean, an’ dey ain’ got no breed’n’. Dey wuz des trash, dat what dey wuz, yit dey git ’long better ’n Marse George.

“De ve’y fus’ thing dat man done, he tek de marble statchers off’n de lawn an’ sell ’em in de town at auction sale; an’ he plough up de lawn mos’ up to de front do’ an’ sow wheat dar; an’ de graveyard, which hit had mos’ un de graves took’n out’n hit, but not all, he riz a wire nettin’ fum de groun up ’bove de iron pailin’s an’ mek chicken-yard out’n hit. He plough up mos’ o’ de flower gyard’n an’ mek veg’table gyard’n bigger; an’ atter fo’ er five yer, des ’fo’ Chris’mus, he cut down de gret big boxwood hedges, what wuz ’long o’ de gyard’n walks an’ wuz higher dan tall man’s head, an’ he sen’ ’em to de city an’ sell ’em fur Chris’mus fixin’s; an’ he rent de right to haul seine on his sho’ by de river, which Marse George allus ’lowed ’em to haul free, when dey please. Yas, honey! He done des what I tells you un; an’ fuddermo’, in summertime his wife took’n in po’ white trash bo’ders in de gret house whar Marse George an’ Ole Miss useter live, an’ whar de bes’ o’ de quality useter stay all de time.

“Hit seem like I cyahn stan’ dat man, an’ I cyahn stan’ he wife fum de fus’, an’ when he come in my gyard’n an’ cut down my boxwood hedges, I mek up my min’ dat I mus’ sholy leave ’n’ go to de city an’ fin’ Marse George an’ tell ’im dat I cyahn stay on de ole place no mo’, but, des ’bout dat time, Marse George wuz took’n sick, which de wuk in de city ain’ never ’gree wid his systums, an’ ’fo’ long de good Lord tuk him to hisse’f, an’ Ole Miss ain’ live mor’n fo’ five mont’s atter him. Dat man read me dat out’n de newspaper, kaze he know dat I studyin’ ’bout leavin’, an’ he know I fus’-class gyard’ner.

“Atter Marse George an’ Ole Miss done daid, I mek up my min’ dat I stay whar I is, an’ die dar too, kaze I love dat place, yit I feel mighty lonesome. I ain’ seen Marse George an’ Ole Miss sence dey move to de city, but eve’y Chris’mus atter dey done gone an’ whiles dey wuz livin’, dey sont me a gret big box fur Chris’mus gif’ same like ole times, wid good cloze an’ chawin’ terbaccer an’ cole vittles an’ little money.

“Atter while I feel like I gettin’ ole myse’f, an’ when winter come, sho’ ’nuff, de rheumatiz cotch me, an’ hit cotch me mighty bad. I wuz kep’ in bed endurin’ all dat winter, an’ dat man ain’ treat me so bad twel de spring gun ter commence. Den I git out’n bed an’ hobble ’roun’, but I so lame an’ stiff wid de rheumatiz dat I cyahn do no wuk; an’ de doctor say he spec’ I gwine git wuss but he doan spec’ I gwine git no better.

“Dat wuz dis yer las’ spring. When de doctor say I gwine be lame an’ cyahn do no wuk, dat man come down ter my cab’n an’ say he sorry, but ef I don’ git strong an’ limbersome by de fall, so I kin wuk ’gin, he hatter sen’ me to de county po’house.

“Den I git mad, I did, an’ I up ’n’ ax him what he doin’ talkin’ to free nigger like dat; an’ I tell ’im dat dis h’yer cab’n ’s my cab’n, kaze Marse George gun hit to me ’n’ Susan atter Unc’ Hez’kiah done move out, an’ I done live dar all my life an’ I gwine die dar, too.

“ Den he laugh an’ say he bought de cab’n when he bought de lan’, an’ he ax me fuddermo’ what I gwine do fur vittles.

“Dat upsot my min’ when he up ’n’ ax me what I gwine do fur vittles, yit I know dat de cab’n ’s my cab’n.

“Dar I wuz. I kep’ a-studyin’ an’ a-studyin’ ’bout what I gwine do. All de quality what wuz frien’s of Marse George an’ dat I ’quainted wid, an’ dat useter live in de neighborhoods, wuz bus’ up like Marse George was bus’ up, an’ done moved ’ way wid dey fambleys like him, or wuz done daid. All ’roun’, whar I wuz ’quainted, po’ white trash had bought de lan’, leas ’wise dey warn’t quality, an’ dey wuk de lan’ like dat man what gwine tek my cab’n ’way fum me, an’ ain’ gwine gin me no vittles, kaze I cyahn do no wuk, an’ what gwine sen’ me to po’house.

“An’ all de ole niggers what I know is moved ’way deyse’f, or took’n ’way by dey marseters, like we-alls, Smallpox Tobe an’ ole mammy an’ Rachel an’ Nancy, or dey done daid; an’ as fur de young niggers what ’s growed up sence de war, I ain’ never had no use fur dem, wid dar spellin’-books an’ dar readin’ an’ writin’ an’ dar uppity manners.

“I kep’ on a-studyin’ what I gwine do, an’ I pray to de good Lord, an’ I ax him ter he’p me out’n dis yer trouble an’ triberlation, an’ ter ferry me over de deep waters what all ’roun’ me. An’ den hit come to my ’membunce dat Marse George done lef ’ a son what live in de city; an’ I git dat man ter write him a letter, an’ tell him in dar, dat I ole an’ got rheumatiz an’ cyahn wuk no mo’; an’ I say I mus’ go ter county po’house ’cep’n’ I took’n care of by de quality what love ole nigger dat cyahn wuk better ’n young nigger dat kin. An’ I tell him all de quality done move ’way fum our neighborhoods, an’ he Marse George son, an’ I feared ter go ter po’house.

“Atter while I git a letter back an’ dat man read hit to me. Hit say he mighty sorry dat I mus’ go to po’house, but he cyahn tek care o’ me, fur he got big fambly to tek care un; an’ he sont me five dollars. But dat man tek de five dollars hisse’f, kaze he say he done tek care me free fur mos’ a yer, an’ I owe ’im mor’n five dollars a’ready.

“ Den I think de good Lord done fergit de ole nigger sho’ ’nuff, an’ den dey brung me h’yer.”

“I spec’ de good Lord sont yer h’yer fur ter keep comp’ny wid me, kaze I sick an’ gwine die,” said the boy. “When yer tells me ’bout dem good times, hit mek me mos’ fergit dis h’yer.”

The old man looked at the boy affectionately. “ Honey, ” said he, “de fire gone out an’ I spec’ I better kiver yer up de bes’ I kin ’fo’ I say de Lord’s Pra’r, what Ole Miss larn me when I little nigger, an’ git ter bed myse’f.”

With many a grunt and groan of pain he rose from his chair, and with the aid of a home-made crutch and hickory walking-stick hobbled painfully to the boy’s side. He tucked the clothes about him, smoothed his straw pillow, and stood for the moment of prayer with his hand resting caressingly on the boy’s head. Then he blew out the light, stretched himself upon his own rude bed, and drew the tattered blankets about him.

Outside the wind howled and the storm beat upon the house. Within was silence, broken only by the coughing of the sick boy and the dismal moaning of Crazy Dick.

After a while the boy called softly, “Unc’ Dan’l! Is yer ’sleep? ”

The old man’s pillow was wet with tears, and his voice shook when he answered.

“I ain’ git ter sleep yit, son,” said he. “I des bin lyin’ h’yer an’ studyin’ ’bout dem ole times what I bin tellin’ yer ’bout. Mebbe dese yer times is good times fur young nigger dat brung up sence de war. But I bin studyin’ ’bout fool nigger what wuz raised a’ready when he git he freedom, an’ dat glad when de news come. Now he ole, an’ he cole, an’ he hongry, an’ he ain’ got no chawin’ terbaccer; an’ he ax hisse’f dis h’yer question : ‘ Marse Lincoln gun me freedom. Whar my Chris’mus ? ’ ”

Beirne Lay.