XVI MISTER TALL PINE’S CHRISTMAS TREE

“Mammy, I wanter telephone Santy Claus,” fretted Willis, seeking excuse to leave the nursery.

“Nor, he done gone erway fum home ter hunt up whar de good chilluns stays at,” as she moved about putting the room to rights; “you an’ Ma’y Van fix dat lit’le Chrismus tree ov’r yond’r fur Ma’y Van’s dolls, an’ you be ole man Sandy.”

“I got ter telephone Santy Claus about little Leonora—he don’t know she’s come,” insisted Willis.

“I dunno whut’s de rees’n—he brung her hisse’f dis mawnin’,” still moving briskly about.

“I got to telephone Santy what to bring her,” he persisted.

“Dat baby ain’ got her eyes op’n yit.”

“Yes, she has, Mammy,” and Mary Van crossed the room and looked into Phyllis’s face, “they’re big brown ones, ’caus I went over to Uncle Hugh’s house and looked at ’em good m’self.”

“Well, I doan keer nuthin’ tall ’bout dat, Sandy Claus say she too lit’le fur him ter fool wid yit.”

Mary Van turned to Willis, “Less us fix this tree for little Leonora.”

“No, I’m got to telephone to Santy Claus.” He clung to the knob of the locked door.

“Well, ef yer ’bleege ter pass er wurd wid ’im, holl’r up de chimbly—he settin’ up dar lis’nin’ ter see ef you’se er good boy.”

“No, I want to go downstairs and see my mama!” and he kicked violently against the door.

Instead of coercing him, Phyllis took her seat by the fire, and placing her elbows upon her knees, spoke with her face towards the chimney: “Suh?” pausing a moment to listen; “yas, suh—yas, suh, dat’s Willis, but he ain’ no bad chile,—yas, suh, dat’s him kickin’ ’gainst de do’, but he jes’ playin’ foot ball wid hit—nor, suh, Willis ain’ bad, he’s de bes’ boy in dis town.”

Immediately both children were climbing into her lap asking and answering their own questions. “Lawdy mussy ’pon me! Set down like fokes—whut’s dem lit’le cheers fur?” They, however, seated themselves upon the rug, and pulled her down with them so as to be more convenient for further chimney discourse.

“Mammy, did he say he was going to bring my drum, an’ billy goat wagon, an’—”

“An’ my dolly with long hair that can talk, an’ my—”

“He say,” she interrupted quietly, “he gwine bring yer all dem things you done writ erbout, ef yer be’s good chillun. De speshul news he giv’ me den, is ’bout de beastes; an’ creeters’ Crismus tree. He say Tall Pine gwine be de Crismus tree, an’ Mist’r Race Hoss gwine read out de names on de pres’nts.”

“Mammy, can Mist’r Race Hoss climb up Tall Pine Tree?”

“Whut he hatt’r clime hit fur? Ain’t Mist’r Wile Cat dar ter scale de tree an’ ain’ Doct’r Peckerwood settin’ up dar wid his doct’r sissors, jes’ waitin’ ter clip de strings?”

“But Mister Wild Cat might eat up Doctor Peckerwood,” said Mary Van, distrustfully.

“Honey, Mist’r Wile Cat’s like er heap er slick fokes in de woel—he’ll wurk pow’ful good an’ squar’ long es he know fokes watchin’ ’im. All de beastes an’ creeturs come ter de tree—an’ I tell yer dar wus er Crismus gif’ fur all de good ones.”

“Mister Rattlesnake didn’t get any, did he?” asked Mary Van.

“Rattlesnake say Decemb’r too late fur him ter be settin’ up, an’ he say he’d ruth’r sleep dan go ter enny ole Crismus tree ennyhow.”

“Tishy Peafowl was too bad, too, wasn’t she, Mammy?” Mary Van remembered the bad ones.

“You slip up right dar, yas, mam, you is, fur Tishy done got ’ligion an’ jine de church.”

“Did her pretty feathers grow out again?”

“No, mam! sin done eat ’em out by de roots, but de Lawd hang er mouty prutty fe’th’r coll’r on de tree fur her, jes’ ter show Tish he know she tryin’.”

“And Tishy never was bad any more,” assisted Willis.

“Dat she wus, sin ketch’d up wid her er heap er times, but she recoleck ’bout de col’r, an’ fight de bes’ she kin, an’ de Lawd doan ax fur no mo’.”

“Was Jack Donkey too bad to come?”

“Jack Donkey wusn’t no wusser’n er heap uv ’em dat gits ter Crismus trees. Jack he writ’n an’ ax Sandy ter bring him er fine kiv’r so fokes can’t fine out he’s er donkey. Sandy, he sen’ him de kiv’r wid all sort er fine doin’s on hit, but whin Cap’n Goat fling hit on Jack, dar wus his b’hime legs prancin’ erbout, an’ his long ye’rs still er stickin’ out. Cap’n Goat, he pull an’ pull ter stretch de kiv’r, but hit won’t stretch, den de Cap’n tell him, ‘Jack,’ sez he, ‘long es you keeps dem b’hime foots wurkin’ like you does, an’ dem long ye’rs gwine ev’y which er way, yer mout jes’ es well call yo’se’f donkey, ’caze no kiv’r ain’ gwine stretch big nuf ter hide dem p’ints.’”

Willis pushed her knee: “Give Cap’n Yellow Jacket and Cap’n Hornet something nice ’cause old Grab-All got all their cider,—they didn’t do anything bad.”

“Lawdy, boy, dem fokes done kilt one nuth’r long ergo. Doan yer ’memb’r? But der wid’rs got ax ter come, an’ dey nev’r went, ’caze Grab-All Spid’r tryin’ ter dance ’tendance fus’ on one, den tuth’r uv ’em.”

“Don’t let old Grab-All get any present.”

“Lawsee, I mos’ fergit ter tell yer ’bout de axdent dat hap’n ter ole Grab-All, whin he come er sneakin’ up de side er Mist’r Tall Pine. Yassuh, Mist’r Wile Cat an’ Doct’r Peck’rwood tryin’ ter handle dat buckit er hot cowpeas an’ pot licker fur Sis’ Cow, whin de whole thing slip an’ come down blump, on ole Grab-All.”

“Did it kill him?”

“Nor, dorter, he too mean ter die, but dat’s whut he got off’n de Crismus tree.”

“Didn’t Sis’ Cow get some more peas?” asked Willis.

“Nor, she say her an’ Brer Dur’am ’ud jes’ lick up whut dey cud off’n de groun’. Sis’ Cow say she willin’ ter lose de peas jes’ ter see ole Grab-All git fixt. I tell yer de tree lookin’ mouty fine by de time ole Crismus night come. Yer see de beastes hatt’r have der doin’s on ole Crismus night.”

“What’s Old Christmas?”

“I donno whut ’tis, son, ’cep’n I allus heah dat twelve days atter Crismus, ’zackly at twelve erclock in de night time, all de beastes an’ creeturs falls on der knees an’ glorifies de Lawd,—an’ I allus heahs fokes call hit ‘Ole Crismus.’”

“Birds can’t kneel, Mammy Phyllis,” announced Mary Van.

“Dey kin put der haid on de groun’, an’ make der cross mark, I reckin.”

“Where was Miss Queen Bee; you left her out?”

“Miss Queen lef’ herse’f out, she say she feer’d her rumaticks ’ud git wusser, but dat ain’ so—she feer’d sumbody gwine ketch her ’Crismus gif’.”

“Did God fix their eyes like Johnnie Squinch’s, so they could see the tree good at night?”

“Whut he got ter do dat fur, son? Ain’ you seed de candles dat grows on de een’ er ev’y pine tree branch?”

“No, Mammy Phyllis, I haven’t,” Mary Van insisted upon an explanation.

“Shucks, gal, ain’ yer seed dis hyah lit’le light green candle sorter lookin’ things comin’ out’n de bushy een’ er de pine tree branches?”

“Are they candles?” the little girl did not quite remember.

“Whut else is dey ter light up de Lawd’s birfday party wid? I’ll show yer dem candles de nex’ time we goes on Tink’r Knob. I tell yer whin de Roost’r telerfome: ‘Come on ter de Crismus t-r-e-e-,’ ‘Come on ter de Crismus t-r-e-e-!’ dey all comes er tar’in’. Ole man Roost’r, he fly up ter de highes’ rock on Tink’r Knob, an’ watch de clouds. Miss Moon, she bus’ th’u er big Black bank uv ’em an’ tetch off ev’y candle on dat tree—an’ ole man Roost’r say, ‘Blessed be de L-a-w-d,’ an’ all de beastes draps on der knees, an’ says der pra’rs. Den dey gits up an’ ketches one nuth’r Crismus gif’, an’ den dey gits der pres’nts.”

“Mammy, did Ned Dog, an’ Lilly Dove, an’ Big Eye Buzzard get sumthin’?” Willis wanted to remember all.

“No,” interrupted Mary Van, shaking her finger at Willis. “Mammy said the bad ones couldn’t come, and Big Eye was bad.”

“Well, I tell yer, dey let Big Eye come an’ clean up de scraps fur ’em, ’caze he done name hisse’f Buzzard ergin, an’ he wus gittin’ long bet’r.”

“Mammy, did everyone that was good get something?”

“Not ev’y single one, baby. Hit hap’n dat Sandy Claus make some mouty bad meestakes, ev’y now an’ den. Some time he give bad fokes de things de good fokes orter have. You ’memb’rs dem fire crack’rs dat lit’le yaller dog ax us ter take off’n his tail las’ Crismus? Well, dat Weed boy’s ole bad bull dog gits er heap mo’n him.”

“Mammy, let Yellow Doggie come to Mister Tall Pine’s Christmas Tree,” begged Willis.

“He say he ruth’r eat Crismus dinn’r wid Ned Dog. But dar’s er heap er yall’r dogs ’mongst fokes I tell yer. Dat po’ white ’ooman come beggin’ hyah las’ week, wid dat raggity boy tryin’ ter hope car’y de po’ lit’le ha’f froz’ baby. No, Lawd,” she shook her head, “dem fokes ruth’r have er piece er corn bread, an’ er han’full er fier’n all de Crismus tree yer kin stick at ’em.” The mental picture of the woman was still vivid, for she continued: “I speck dat ’ooman got dat quilt yer ma give her, wrop roun’ her right now, squattin’ close ter some hot ashes in de fierplace, wid de baby squose up right clost ter her, an’ dat boy gittin’ clost es he kin ter her und’r de quilt—an’ I speck he say,

“‘Ma, doan yer wush we had er stockin’ ter hang up, so Sandy Claus ’ud bring us sumpin’?’

“I speck his ma hug him tight wid one arm, an’ moan, an’ moan, an’ moan, an’ I speck de boy say:

“‘Ma, yer reckin’ Sandy ’ud give us er piece er bread, ef I wuster go down ter de sto’ wind’r an’ ax him fur hit?’

“An’ I speck his ma jes’ keep on er moanin’, ’caze she know dat ole sto’ man’s Sandy Claus ain’ no bett’r’n de sto’ man hisse’f.

“He say, ‘Ma, yer reck’n May Van an’ Willis ’ud lemme look th’u de wind’r at der nice warm fier, an’ all der good sump’in’ ter eat, an’ de purty Crismus tree?’

“An’ his ma mos’ bus’ her heart in two, ’caze she can’ do nuthin’ but jes’ luv ’im.”

“Mammy,” trembled the little girl’s voice, “why didn’t the little boy write to Santy like me and Willis?”

“’Caze he nuv’r had no stamp ter put on de let’r. I tell yer hit takes money ter buy Sandy Claus stamps.”

“We just sent ours up the chimbly,” refuted Willis.

“Dat boy didn’t had ernuf fire ter make his’n go up de chimbly.”

“Why didn’t his mama ask God?” half whispered Mary Van, as she laid her head on Phyllis’s shoulder.

“Dat po’ creetur’s moanin’ an’ groanin’ wus er heap loud’r’n enny pra’r she cud pray.”

“Couldn’t God hear her?” Willis clutched her by the arm. “Ask God to lis’n good, Mammy.”

“De Lawd know his biznes’, baby, bet’r’n we does. Dat ’ooman got ter set dar an’ shiv’r tell de Lawd git somebody ter het her up ergin.”

“Mammy,” said Willis, his lips quivering, “le’ss weall take ’em some of our goodies an’ things.”

Mary Van begged, “Please.”

“Dar now!” She placed a hand on each baby head: “De Lawd done he’rd dat po’ creet’rs pra’r right now. He want you chillun ter go fix dat po’ ’ooman’s fier, an’ give her sump’n’ ter eat, so you won’t nuv’r fergit how good He is ter you, an’ whin you kicks at de do’, an’ holl’ers loud, you’ll ’member ter fight sin like Tishy Peafowel do.”

Her suggestion went to each eager little heart.

“Yas, suh, an’ de Lawd say: ‘Doanchu both’r no mo’, lit’le boy, er ole black mammy comin’ roun’ hyah terreckly wid er lit’le boy an’ gal, an’ dey gwina bring all der ole toys, an’ some der warm close too, ’long wid some nice vit’als, an’ der pa gwine sen’ yer some fier, ter make er fier wid.’”

There was no need to lock the nursery door on Christmas Eve afternoon, for Phyllis and two radiant little children were in the rockaway, fairly packed in under the good things they carried to some of the homes Santa didn’t know about. And when the happy little boy said his, “Now I lay me” that night, he asked, “An’ please tell Santy not to forget m’ goat harness and m’ goat, an’ m’ drum, an’ bring Mary Van a harness like my race hoss harness with bells, an’ please show Santy the way to all the lit’le poor children’s houses, an’ give ’em some stamps for their letters, too. An’ please God tell Santy to hurry up an’ come on. Amen.”