nks New Christmas is real
Christmas; but it haint. Real Christmas comes to-morrow, on the sixth of
January; and to-night is right Christmas Eve."

"What makes you think so?"

"All the old folks says so, for one thing, and they knows better than
young ones; and the plants and the beasts knows better still. Tonight's
the night when the elder blossoms out at midnight, and the cattle kneels
down and prays,--anybody can hear 'em a-lowing and mowing if they stay
awake to listen."

I have a hazy recollection of the English calendar having been changed
and set forward eleven days in the middle of the eighteenth century, and
of the mass of the people in England and the colonies refusing to accept
the new date for Christmas. This survival in the mountain country is
indeed remarkable.

I sat keeping watch beside Nucky when the clock struck midnight, and got
up and went to the window to look and listen. If, in the wintry
moonlight, any gaunt, bare stalks put forth miraculous blossoms above
the snow, or if reverent cattle knelt and lowed loving welcome to their
Lord, my eyes and ears were holden that I did not see and hear; but I
know that it was Real Christmas in my heart as I turned back and saw my
child breathing quietly on his bed, a faint color in his pale cheeks
again.

_Wednesday._

Another visit from Blant to Nucky last night. In reply to eager
questions, Blant gave Nucky a very encouraging account of the state of
affairs on Trigger. "Never seed things quieter," he said; "it looks like
your shot had settled 'em a while. The talk now is that Dalt will likely
get well, which I allow you will grieve to hear." A shade of heavy
disappointment immediately fell upon Nucky's countenance. "But,"
continued Blant, "it is good news to me,--I don't like the notion of
your having to start in killing at your age."

After we were out on the porch, Blant repeated to me, "Yes, I am proud
to know the little chap haint got blood on his hands yet awhile. You
may think it quare, but it really goes again' the grain with me to see a
man kilt, even when he needs killing."

"Is it true," I questioned him as he stepped out into the snow, "that
things are so quiet on Trigger?"

He smiled slightly. "Oh yes," he said; "quiet enough,--in fact, they are
quiet as death,--not a speck of trouble in plain sight nowhere. But I
got a bullet through my hat Friday night as I crossed the passage from
the kitchen to t'other house, and heared anoth