“Well, I ain't g wine ter say dat,” said Har-bert, “kaze I'm dat ole dat I ain't got no roo-mance in my bones fer nothin' 'tall, 'ceppin' 'tis de rheumatism; yit dat don't hender Chris'mas, an' I ain't makin' no deniance but what hit's in de a'r.” “Now you er talkin',” exclaimed Aunt Crissy, with unction. “You mos' sholy is.” There was a little pause, and then Harbert cried out: “In de name er goodness, des lissen at dat!” What was it? The wind, rising and falling, ebbing and flowing like the great waves of the sea, whistled under the eaves, and sighed mournfully over the chimney. But it was not the wind that Harbert heard. There was a sharp rattling on the shingles and a swift pattering at the windows. Harbert and Aunt Crissy looked at each other and then at the children. “What is it?” asked Wattie, drawing a little closer to Harbert. “Pshaw! I know what it is,” said Willie, “it's sleet.” Harbert shook his head gravely as he gazed in the fire. “It mought be,” he said, “an' den agin it moughtn't. It mought be ole Sandy Claus sorter skirmishin' roun' an' feelin' his way.” “Trufe, too,” said Aunt Crissy, falling in with the idea. “He moughtn't want to skeer nobody, so he des let folks b'lieve tain't nothin' but sleet. Dey tells me dat ole man Sandy Claus is monstus slick.” “He bleedze ter be slick,” remarked Har-bert, “kaze I bin livin' yere, off an' on, a mighty long time, an' I ain't saw 'im yit. An' I let you know hit got ter be a mighty slick man dat kin dodge me all dis time. He got to be bofe slick an' peart.” “Yasser,” said Aunt Crissy, holding her apron up by the corner, and looking at it thoughtfully; “he slick fer true. He light 'pon top er de house same ez a jay-bird, an' dey ain't no scufflin' when he slide down de chimberly.” “Dey sez,” said Harbert, in a reminiscent way--“dey sez dat he rubs hisse'f wid goose-grease fer ter make he j'ints limber an' loose; when he got dis yere grease on 'im dey can't nobody ketch 'im, kaze he'd slip right out'n der han's.” “I speck dat's so,” said Aunt Crissy, “kaze one time when I wuz livin' wid Marse Willyum Henry an' sleepin' in de house in time er Chris'mas, I tuck'n he'p'd de chillun hang up der stockin's. After dey all got ter bed, I sot by de fier a-noddin'. How long I sot dar I'll never tell you, but all of a sudden I yeard a tumble racket. I gun a jump, I did, an' open my eyes. De outside do' wuz open, an' stannin' dar wuz one er Marse Willyum Henry's houn' dogs. He stood dar, he did, wid his bristles up, an' dar in de middle er the flo' wuz de ole cat. Her back wuz all bowed up, an' her tail”--here Aunt Crissy paused and looked all around the room as if in search of something with which to compare the old cat's tail--“I ain't tellin' you no lie; dat cat tail wuz bigger 'roun' dan my arm!” “I don't 'spute it,” exclaimed Harbert, with fervor, “dat I don't.”