“Well, den I will jes’ tek occasion to say fu’thah dat I already has de ’possums, fo’ of de fattes’ animals I reckon you evah seen in all yo’ bo’n days, an’ I’s gwine to tu’n ’em ovah to Brothah Jabez Holly to tek keer of dem an’ fatten ’em wuss ag’in de happy day.” The eyes of Jabez Holly shone with pride at the importance of the commission assigned to him. He showed his teeth in a broad smile as he whispered to his neighbour, ’Lishy Davis, “I ’low when I gits thoo wif dem ’possums dey won’t be able to waddle;” and ’Lishy slapped his knee and bent double with appreciation. It was a happy and excited congregation that filed out of Mt. Pisgah church that Sunday morning, and how they chattered! Little knots and clusters of them, with their heads together in deep converse, were gathered all about, and all the talk was of the coming dinner. This, as has already been said, was the Sunday two weeks before Christmas. On the Sunday following, the shrewd, not to say wily, Mr. Johnson delivered a stirring sermon from the text, “He prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” and not one of his hearers but pictured the Psalmist and his brethren sitting at a ’possum feast with the congregation of a rival church looking enviously on. After the service that day, even the minister sank into insignificance beside his steward, Jabez Holly, the custodian of the ’possums. He was the most sought man on the ground. “How dem ’possums comin’ on?” asked one. “Comin’ on!” replied Jabez. “‘Comin’ on’ ain’t no name fu’ it. Why, I tell you, dem animals is jes’ a-waddlin’ a’ready.” “O-o-mm!” groaned a hearer, “Chris’mus do seem slow a-comin’ dis yeah.” “Why, man,” Jabez went on, “it ’u’d mek you downright hongry to see one o’ dem critters. Evah time I looks at ’em I kin jes’ see de grease a-drippin’ in de pan, an’ dat skin all brown an’ crispy, an’ de smell a-risin’ up—” “Heish up, man!” exclaimed the other; “ef you don’t, I’ll drap daid befo’ de time comes.” “Huh-uh! no, you won’t; you know dat day’s wuf livin’ fu’. Brothah Jackson, how’d yo’ crap o’ sweet pertaters tu’n out dis yeah?” “Fine, fine! I’s got dem mos’ plenteous in my cellah.” “Well, don’t eat em too fas’ in de nex’ week, ’ca’se we ’spects to call on you fu’ some o’ yo’ bes’. You know dem big sweet pertaters cut right in two and laid all erroun’ de pan teks up lots of de riches’ grease when ol’ Mistah ’Possum git too wa’m in de oven an’ git to sweatin’ it out.” “Have mercy!” exclaimed the impressionable one. “I know ef I don’t git erway f’om dis chu’ch do’ right now, I’ll be foun’ hyeah on Chris’mus day wif my mouf wide open.”