FullReads

“De ladies in de kitchen dey gimme two burnt cakes, an’ I swapped half o’ my reesons wid a white boy for a biscuit–but I sho is hongry.”

“Yas, an’ you sleepy, too–I know you is.”

“But I gwine git up soon, gran’dad. One market-lady she seh ef I come early in de mornin’ an’ tote baskits home, she gwine gimme some’h’n’ good; an’ I’m gwine ketch all dem butchers and fish-ladies in dat Mag’zine Markit ‘Christmas-gif’!’ An’ I bet yer dey’ll gimme some’h’n’ ter fetch home. Las’ Christmas I got seven nickels an’ a whole passel o’ marketin’ des a-ketchin’ ’em Christmas-gif’. Deze heah black molasses I brung yer home to-night–how yer like ’em, gran’dad?”

“Fust-rate, boy. Don’t yer see me eatin’ ’em? Say yo’ pra’rs now, Juke, an’ lay down, ‘caze I gwine weck you up by sun-up.”

It was not long before little Duke was snoring on his pallet, when old Mose, reaching behind the mantel, produced a finely braided leather whip, which he laid beside the sleeping boy.

“Wush’t I had a apple ur orwange ur stick o’ candy ur some’h’n’ sweet ter lay by ‘im fur Christmas,” he said, fondly, as he looked upon the little sleeping figure. “Reck’n I mought bile dem molasses down inter a little candy–seem lak hit’s de onlies’ chance dey is.”

And turning back to the low fire, Mose stirred the coals a little, poured the remains of Duke’s ” picayune o’ molasses” into a tomato-can, and began his labor of love.

Like much of such service, it was for a long time simply a question of waiting; and Mose found it no simple task, even when it had reached the desired point, to pull the hot candy to a fairness of complexion approaching whiteness. When, however, he was able at last to lay a heavy, copper-colored twist with the whip beside the sleeping boy, he counted the trouble as nothing; and hobbling over to his own cot, he was soon also sleeping.

* * * * *

The sun was showing in a gleam on the river next morning when Mose called, lustily, “Weck up, Juke, weck up! Christmas-gif’, boy, Christmas-gif’!”

Duke turned heavily once; then, catching the words, he sprang up with a bound.

“Christmas-gif’, gran’dad!” he returned, rubbing his eyes; then fully waking, he cried, “Look onder de chips in de bucket, gran’dad.”

And the old man choked up again as he produced the bag of tobacco, over which he had actually cried a little last night when he had found it hidden beneath the chips with which he had cooked Duke’s candy.

“I ‘clare, Juke, I ‘clare you is a caution,” was all he could say.

“An’ who gimme all deze?” Duke exclaimed, suddenly seeing his own gifts.

“I don’ know nothin’ ‘t all ’bout it, less’n ole Santa Claus mought o’ tooken a rest in our mud chimbley las’ night,” said the old man, between laughter and tears.

And Duke, the knowing little scamp, cracking his whip, munching his candy and grinning, replied:

“I s’pec’ he is, gran’dad; an’ I s’pec’ he come down an’ b’iled up yo’ nickel o’ molasses, too, ter meck me dis candy. Tell yer, dis whup, she’s got a daisy snapper on ‘er, gran’dad! She’s wuth a dozen o’ deze heah white-boy w’ips, she is!”

The last thing Mose heard as Duke descended the levee that morning was the crack of the new whip; and he said, as he filled his pipe, “De idee o’ dat little tar-baby o’ mine fetchin’ me a Christmas-gif’!”

It was past noon when Duke got home again, bearing upon his shoulder, like a veritable little Santa Claus himself, a half-filled coffee-sack, the joint results of his service in the market and of the generosity of its autocrats.

The latter had evidently measured their gratuities by the size of their beneficiary, as their gifts were very small. Still, as the little fellow emptied the sack upon the floor, they made quite a tempting display. There were oranges, apples, bananas, several of each; a bunch of soup-greens, scraps of fresh meat–evidently butchers’ “trimmings”–odds and ends of vegetables; while in the midst of the melee three live crabs struck out in as many directions for freedom.