But he did not stay there until Christmas morning, though he arrived on that momentous day bright and early like most of the rest. Half the women of the church had volunteered to help cook the feast, and the other half were there to see it done right; so by the time for operations to commence, nearly all of Mt. Pisgah’s congregation was assembled within its chapel walls. And what laughing and joking there was! “O-omph!” exclaimed Sister Green, “I see Brothah Bill Jones’ mouf is jes’ sot fu’ ’possum now.” “Yes, indeed, Sis’ Green; hit jes’ de same ’s a trap an’ gwine to spring ez soon ez dey any ’possum in sight.” “Hyah, hyah, you ain’t de on’iest one in dat fix, Brothah Jones; I see some mo’ people roun’ hyeah lookin’ mighty ’spectious.” “Yes, an’ I’s one of ’em,” said some one else. “I do wish Jabez Holly ’ud come on, my mouf’s jest p’intly worterin’.” “Let’s sen’ a c’mittee aftah him, dat’ll be a joke.” This idea was taken up, and with much merriment the committee was despatched to find and bring in the delinquent Jabez. Every one who has ever cooked a ’possum—and who has not?—knows that the animal must be killed the day before and hung out of doors over night to freeze “de wil’ tas’e outen him.” This duty had been intrusted to Jabez, and shouts of joy went up from the assembled people when he appeared, followed by the committee and bearing a bag on his shoulder. He set the bag on the floor, and as the crowd closed round him, he put his arm far down into it, and drew forth by the tail a beautiful white fat cleaned ’possum. “O-om, jes’ look at dat! Ain’t dat a possum fu’ you? Go on, Brothah Jabez, let’s see anothah.” Jabez hesitated. “Dat’s one ’possum dah, ain’t it?” he said. “Yes, yes, go on, let’s see de res’.” Those on the inside of the circle were looking hard at Jabez. “Now, dat’s one ’possum,” he repeated. “Yes, yes, co’se it is.” There was breathless expectancy. “Well, dat’s all dey is.” [Illustration: “I SEE ’POSSUM GREASE ON YO’ MOUF.”] The statement fell like a thunder-clap. No one found voice till the Reverend Isaiah Johnson broke in with, “Wha’, what dat you say, Jabez Holly?” “I say dat’s all de ’possum dey is, dat’s what I say.” “Whah’s dem othah ’possums, huh! whah’s de res’?” “I put ’em out to freeze las’ night, an’ de dogs got ’em.” A groan went up from the disappointed souls of Mt. Pisgah. But the minister went on: “Whah’d you hang dem?” “Up ag’in de side o’ de house.” “How’d de dogs git ’em dah?” “Mebbe it mout ’a’ been cats.” “Why didn’t dey git dat un?” “Why, why—’ca’se—’ca’se—Oh, don’t questun me, man. I want you to know dat I’s a honer’ble man.” “Jabez Holly,” said the minister, impressively, “don’t lie hyeah in de sanctua’y. I see ’possum grease on yo’ mouf.” Jabez unconsciously gave his lips a wipe with his sleeve. “On my mouf, on my mouf!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you say you see no ’possum grease on my mouf! I mek you prove it. I’s a honer’ble man, I is. Don’t you ’cuse me of nuffin’!”