being had ever seen the rapt face Pop Baker turned to the stars—no one but his Maker.
“Folkses thinks ez how I’d git lonesone; but when a man gits ter some age, he air got suthin’ er nothin’ in ’im—Dern yer buttons, Bully Boy! whut air ye stoppin’ fer?”
There was a halloo, clear and high, from the bottom of the hill.
“An’ ye heared that when I didn’t, Boy? Waal, consarn ye! what else hev I got sech a smart mule fer? Halloo, yerself, down thar!”
“Come on down came up a stentorian sound. Then a bound barked long and loud.
“Tobey shore we wull, Bully Boy,” commented Pop Baker; “for I’ll bet ye yer feed it’s some un thet hev been ter town an’ got plumb full o’ Sandy Claws, wagon-bed an’ all. We air comin’ down!” he hallooed merrily; then he began singing one of his own improvised songs on cider—the one that was always the chief delight of the hill folk’s revels and routs:
“Ol’ Unkie Doc an’ the cider-pot!
He liked um col’ an’ he liked um hot;
Stick in the poker, an’ make um sizz,
Hi! d’ ye know how good thet is?
“Tetty-ti, tooty-too!
You likes me, an’ I likes you;
Stick in the poker, an’ make um sizz,
Hi! d’ ye know how good thet is?”
He had rollicking company in the chorus long before he got to the bottom of the hill. If you had seen that hill you would have said that Bully Boy tumbled down it. As for The Other, it was his place in the order of things to fall after.
“Hi! d’ye know how good thet is?”
And there the two wagons stood side by side at a slightly widened curve in the steep road.
“Now, would ye think it!” said a sarcastic voice. Ef it hain’t Pop Baker, an’ not some young rake a-trapesin’ after a sweetheart on a Christmas eve. But I orter ’a’ knowed thet mule. Not another un in the county ‘d run down Jefferson thet erway.”
“He air gittin’ thar, Dink Smith,” retorted Pop Baker; “’sides, Bully Boy air allers cavortin’ arter nightfall, goin’ or comin’. The Other has plumb los’ his wind, I swanny! Waal, how’s Christmas?”
“Burnin’ me up,” replied Dink facetiously. “I sold a hawg, an’ some sorghum, an’ some eggs, an’ some butter, an’ dried peaches. Got groceries in thet box, closes in thar, ’n’ small tricks fer the kids in thet thar chip basket. Stop yer howlin’, ye Dan’el Webster!”
The hound in the wagon whined and subsided.
“Wonder yet ol’ woman hain’t erlong with ye,” observed Pop Baker.
“I guess ye hain’t heared thet we got a boy yistidday,” returned the young hill man. “Yes, by the great horn spoon, we got ’im, Pop! An’ looky here whut I bought fer ’im—now! Jes ye wait—I’ll strike a match. Ye shorely must see them that purties—jes must.”
By the light of several matches a small pair of red-top boots were exhibited, handled, and commented upon. Pop Baker’s face was a study.
“Waal, waal!” he said, much impressed, “thar’s a thing ter grow up ter fit! Um-m-m! Dink, I’d ’a’ got ye ter hev fotched me a pair o’ them ef ever I’d ’a’ known sech things war. War did ye git ’em?”
“Seen um in a winder,” said Dink, solemnly. “Hones’ Injun, Pop, I war so ’feard they’d be sold afore I got back a-sellin’ my hawg. I jes went In regardless, an’ ast thet storekeep’ ter wrop ’em up ’n’ let Dan’el Webster hyah guard ’em. He gimme jes half an hour. Dawg my buttons ef the houn’ would let a pusson in the store! But I got them small boots, Pop! Ain’t them beaut’s, heh?”
“Them shorely air,” asserted Pop Baker, solemnly. “Ye air too lucky fer it ter last, Dink—a boy, ’n’ strikin’ them boots. Waal, I wisht ye merry Christmas! It air gittin’ cold, haint it?”
“Whut ye expectin’ yerself?” quoth Dink, whose heart had opened under Pop’s generous praise. “Ye orter hev suthin’ fine yerself, shorely.”
Pop tried to pass it off airily.
“I dunno whut Sandy Claws’ll do for me,” he said slowly. “I did mention ter Jimpsey thet I’d feel peart ter middlin’ ef the ol’ chap’d drap me a real visible houn’ pup down the chimbly. Thet larst houn’ I hed outen Ase Blivin’s breed war thet triflin’ an’ cross thet the neighbers pizened him. He clumb right up inter passin’ wagons. I wanter own a pup thet hev got some nateral ondertandin’, an’ ef he bites when he’s growed up, he wull bite with reason.”
“Dawgs air truly gittin’ might’ triflin’ these days,” commented Dink, leaning back. “But, Pop, I’m goin’ ter give ye suthin’ I got right off a rale peart Sandy Claws pack up in town, An’ don’t ye open it tell ye git it home, an’ ye gits yer fire a-goin’ good, an’ air settin’ roun’ thar. Then ye puts yer box on a cheer ’n’ ye turns on the leetle wire. Dern it all, but I wisht I war thar when ye does it! Ye’re sech a sport yerself thet I hates ter miss it.”
“Haint I robbin’ o’ ye?” asked Pop Baker, politely, although he was leaning far over and reaching out his hand in the wildest curiosity.
“Naw, naw; the feller threw thet thar trick in—an’ I got some other stuff. I’ll jes keep a-bustin’ ter-morrer ter think o’ ye an’ thet box. Waal, here’s ter yer Christmas in the mornin’, Pop! So long, ye!”
Pop Baker clasped the small, hard parcel ecstatically to his breast while mechanically holding the reins. Bully Boy seemed to realize the importance of haste as he fairly bounded on, dragging The Other without any mercy. They rattled over the stony creek road, and finally reached the low house. In twenty minutes Pop Baker had given the mules a big feed in the barn, and was stirring up his carefully covered wood fire on the hearth with a pine stick. It struck him that the room was very nice and warm.
The pine stick flared up high, and Pop Baker looked up at the high, rough mantel-board for the one small tin lamp that he possessed. A new glare struck his eye. On the shelf sat a shining glass lamp with a clean chimney and full of oil.
“Don’t thet beat anything in the hull world?” observed Pop Baker. “An’ thet door hooked up ez keerful ez usual. Now I never calkilated ter own sech a ’lumination ez thet wull shorely make. Hain’t that purty? Dern it! it air too fine ter dirty up. It jes does me good ter see it settin’ roun’. Whar’s my old one?”
He turned about, with his pine stick still blazing high. On his bed was a new patchwork quilt. In his arm-chair was a patchwork cushion. The table on which he had that morning left some very dirty dishes was spread with a new red oil-cloth, and on it were sundry parcels and covered pans.
“Sandy Claws hev gone inter the feedin’ business, hit ’pears like. Waal, I’m seventy-odd, ’n’ he never lit in on me afore. Shorely we live ter l’arn these hyah dayses.”
Delighted,
