them cunningly devised fables. Think they'll come any blessin' on tellin' a lie? An' a-actin' it out? No, sir. No, sir. Ain't ary good thing to a lie, no way you kin fix it. How kin they be? Who's the father of lies? W'y the Old Scratch! That's who. An' here you go a - "The old man was so wroth that he couldn't finish and turned and stamped out, slamming the door after him.
Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before he mildly observed "Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like.""Righteous mad, I s'pose," said Abel Horn.
"You waited on yit, bub?" asked Brother Littell. "I betchy he's a-thinkin' right now he'll take his letter out o' Centre Street an'
go to the Barefoot Church. He would, too, if 't wasn't clean plumb at the fur end o' town an' a reg'lar mud-hole to git there.""Pity him an' a few more of 'em up in the Amen corner wouldn't go," said Abel Horn. "Mind the time we sung, 'There is a Stream?'
You know they's a solo in it fer the soprano. Well, 't is kind o'
operatic an' skallyhootin' up an' down the scale. I give the solo to Tilly Wilkerson an' if that old skeezicks didn't beller right out in the middle of it: 'It's a disgrace tud Divine service!' He did. You could 'a' heard him clear to the court-house. My! Ithought I'd go up. Tilly, she was kind o' scared an' trimbly, but she stuck to it like a major. Said afterwards she'd 'a' finished that solo if it was the last act she ever done.""Who's a-goin' to be Santy Claus?" asked Brother Littell, with cheerful irrevelance.
"The committee thought that had better be kept a secret," replied Abel, with as much dignity as his four feet nine would admit of.
"Ort to be somebody kind o' heavy-set, ort n't it?" hinted the grocer, giving a recognizable description of himself.
"Well, I don' know 'bout that," contested Abel. "Git somebody kind o' spry an' he could pad out weth a pilfer. A pussy man 'd find it rather onhandy comin' down that chimbly an' hoppin' hether an' yan takin' things off o' the tree. Need somebody with a good strong voice, too, to call off the names . . . . Woosh's you'd git them things up to the house soon 's you kin, Otho. Ma's in a hurry fer 'em.""Betchy two cents," said Brother Littell to his clerk, Clarence Bowersox, "'at Abel Horn 'll be Santy Claus.""Git out!" doubted Clarence.
"'Ll, you see now. He's the daggonedest feller to crowd himself in an' be the head leader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more call to be Santy Claus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Little, dried-up runt, bald 's a apple. Told me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inch tell I was sixteen 'n' then I shot up like a weed.' . . . Bub, you tell yer Ma if she wants a turkey fer Christmas she better be gittin' her order in right quick."Only six more days till Christmas now - only five - only four -only three - only two - Christmas Eve. One day more of holding in such swelling secrets, and some of the young folks would have popped right wide open. Families gather about the Franklin stove, Pa and Ma gaping and rubbing their eyes - saying, "Oh, hum!" and making out that they are just plumb perishing for the lack of sleep.
But the children cannot take the hint. They don't want to go to bed. The imminence of a great event nerves them in their hopeless fight against the hosts of Nod. They sit and stare with bulging eyes at the red coals and dancing flames, spurting out here and there like tiny sabers.
