“Chris’mus. Marse George. Chris’mus! an’ jes listen to dem niggers singin’ under de winder!” Although a sound sleeper, George always waked quickly, and in an instant he recognized the Christmas melody that floated upward from the ground outside. A dozen or so of the field-hands were marching around the house just as the first faint grayness of the Christmas Day appeared, and singing, in their rich, sweet, untrained voices, a song with the merry refrain, “White folks, black folks, Chris’mus am heah, An’ Chris’mus comes but oncet a year, An’ dis is Chris’mus mawnin’!” Sounds showed that the house was stirring. Laurence Washington, as the master, had to dress and go down-stairs to give the singers the treat they expected. Betty got up and dressed herself at the first sound, and, tapping on George’s door, called softly, “Merry Christmas, George!” Nobody could sleep much after that, and soon after sunrise everybody was up, and “Merry Christmas” resounded through the whole house. The negroes were most vociferous, as this was their favorite holiday, and no work, except the feeding of the stock and the cutting of wood, was to be done for several days--that is, as long as the back log on the Christmas fire remained unconsumed. The putting of this log on the fire was an annual ceremony that George thought most amusing. The English officers thought so, too, and watched it with the greatest interest. Before breakfast was served, when all the guests were assembled in the hall, Uncle Manuel, the butler, who was very tall and very black, and who wore, on great occasions, a pair of scarlet satin knee-breeches that had once belonged to Laurence Washington, appeared and announced, with a condescending smile, that “de boys” had come with the back log. Amid much grinning and shoving and jostling and chuckling four stalwart negro men walked in the house carrying a huge log, which was placed at the back of the great fireplace, upon the tall iron fire-dogs. It was of unseasoned black gum, a wood hard to burn at all times, and this particular log had been well soaked in a neighboring swamp. It was the privilege of the negroes to select the back log, and although the masters and mistresses knew perfectly well that everything was done to make it as non-combustible as possible, the plantation joke was to pretend that it was as dry as a bone and would burn like tinder. “We fotch you a mighty fine back lorg dis time, mistis,” grinned the head man. “Hit gwi’ bu’n same like lightwood.” At which Mrs. Washington looked grave, as she was expected to look, while a general guffaw went around among the negroes. “I ’spect we ain’ gwi’ to have no holiday ’tall ef we has to go ter wuk as soon as dis heah lorg bu’n up,” chuckled another. “’Tain’ gwi’ lars’ mo’n fer Christmas Day!” “I think I saw a black gum log soaking in the swamp a few days ago,” said Laurence, smiling at the grinning faces before him; but there was a chorus immediately: