a choir practisin', Frances, she'd fetch in
some talk about butterflies bein' a Easter sign o' de resurrection o' de
dead, an' all sech as dat. Well, I know Frances don't keer no mo' 'bout
de resurrection o' de dead 'n nothin'. Frances is too tuck up wid dis
life fur dat! So I watched her. An' las' night I ketched up wid 'er.

"You know dat grea' big silk paper butterfly dat you had on yo'
_pi_anner lamp, Miss Bettie? She's got it pyerched up on a wire on
top o' dat secondary hat, an' she's a-fixin' it to wear it to church
to-day. But she don't know I know it. You see, she knows I kin sing all
over her, an' dat's huccome she's a-projectin' to ketch de eyes o' de
congergation!

"But ef you'll he'p me out, Miss Bettie, we'll fix 'er. You know dem
yaller gauzy wings you wo'e in de tableaux? Ef you'll loand 'em to me
an' help me on wid 'em terreckly when I'm dressed, I'll _be_ a _whole
live butterfly_, an' I bet yer when I flutters into dat choir, Freckled
Frances'll feel like snatchin' dat lamp shade off her hat, sho's you
born! An' fur once-t I'm proud I'm so black complected, caze black an'
yaller, dey goes together fur butterflies!

"Frances 'lowed to kill me out to-day, but I lay when she sets eyes on
de yaller-winged butterfly she'll 'preciate de resurrection o' de dead
ef she never done it befo' in her life."

CHRISTMAS AT THE TRIMBLES'

* * * *

Part I

_Time_: Daylight, the day before Christmas.
_Place_: Rowton's store, Simpkinsville.

_First Monologue, by Mr. Trimble_:

"Whoa-a-a, there, ck, ck, ck! Back, now, Jinny! Hello, Rowton! Here we
come, Jinny an' me--six miles in the slush up to the hub, an' Jinny with
a unweaned colt at home. Whoa-a-a, there!

"It's good Christmas don't come but once-t a year--ain't it, Jinny?

"Well, Rowton, you're what I call a pro-gressive business man, that's
what you are. Blest ef he ain't hired a whole row o' little niggers to
stand out in front of 'is sto'e an' hold horses--while he takes his
customers inside to fleece 'em.

"Come here, Pop-Eyes, you third feller, an' ketch aholt o' Jinny's
bridle. I always did like pop-eyed niggers. They look so God-forsaken
an' ugly. A feller thet's afflicted with yo' style o' beauty ought to
have favors showed him, an' that's why I intend for you to make the
first extry to-day. The boy thet holds my horse of a Christmus Eve
always earns a dollar. Don't try to open yo' eyes no