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 d