o
tell you the story of that memorable Christmas-time, and am letting
the shadows of the intervening years crowd between me and the
Yule-log. Avaunt! ye ghosts of bitter days of want, of hatred and
contention; the spirit of peace and good-will exorcise ye from the
hearth of Christmas memories!

I was going to tell you how Uncle Scipio undertook to save us from
despair in that terrible time.

We, the much abused community of infants, had submitted with
tolerable fortitude to taking our rye substitute for coffee,
sweetened with sorghum, and similar hardships; but now, as the
holidays approached, and we saw no signs of festivity, we began to
feel great apprehensions.

We resolved to confide our fears to Scipio.

"Do you think," I asked him one evening, as we sat in our usual
evening attitudes before the fire, "that old 'Santy' will forget us
this year because it is so cold and dark, and because everybody is so
sad, and?--"

Here my griefs overcame utterance: I could say no more.

"Now, Lawd o' messy!" cried the dear old creature, taking a closer
look at my tearful face. "What dat yer sayin', chile? Ole Santy Claus
forgit yer, honey? What make yer tink he gwine to forgit yer? Well,
well! You's a funny little chile, sho'--yer makes me laugh 'til I
cries; sho' yer do."

I noticed that he did take off his "specs" and wipe them with his
yellow bandana, but I didn't see anything to laugh at. He gazed sadly
enough, I thought, into the embers for awhile, and smoothed my hair in
a thoughtful way. Then an inspiration seized him; he saw his way
through the dilemma. He straightened himself in his chair, and
readjusted his glittering ornaments across his nose. He assumed the
air which all the country 'round knew as the precursor of something
oracular, for he was "not 'zactly a preacher, no sah! but sort of a
'zorter 'mongst de breren."

"Now, my dear little chillun," he began, "I dunno who tuk an' turned
in an' put dat funny notion in yer heads 'bout ole Santa Claus
forgitten yer, but pay 'tickler extension to what I'se gwine to say to
yer. You mustn't go to kalklatin' on none o' dem high-falutin' tings
what he used to fotch here fo' de wah sot in, fur de times is mighty
hard, and de ole feller'll have to run de blockade to git yere
t'all--sho' he will. But ef you sez you'll be powerful good til' dat
time, an' don't go to pesterin' yer ma 'bout it, I'll promise yer dat
he aint gwine to forgit yer altogedder."

This was su