Willie and Wattie were up so early that they had to feel for their stockings in the dark, and their exclamations of delight, when they found them well filled, aroused the rest of the household. By the time breakfast was over the negroes were all assembled in the yard, and they seemed to be as happy as the children, as their laughter and their antics testified. Towering above them all was Big Sam, a giant in size and a child in disposition. He was noted for miles around for his feats of strength. He could shoulder a bale of cotton weighing five hundred pounds, and place it on a wagon; and though he was proud of his ability in this direction, he was not too proud to be the leader in all the frolics. He was even fuller of laughter and good-humor than his comrades, and on this particular morning, while the negroes were waiting for the usual Christmas developments, Big Sam, his eyes glistening and his white teeth shining, struck up the melody of a plantation play-song, and in a few minutes the dusky crowd had arranged itself in groups, each and all joining in the song. No musical director ever had a more melodious chorus than that which followed the leadership of Big Sam. It was not a trained chorus, to be sure, but the melody that it gave to the winds of the morning was freighted with a quality indescribably touching and tender. In the midst of the song Mr. Turner appeared on the back piazza, and instantly a shout went up: “Chris'mas gif, marster! Chris'mas gif!” and then, a moment later, there was a cry of “Chris'mas gif, mistiss!” “Where is Harbert?” inquired Mr. Turner, waving his hand and smiling. “Here me, marster!” exclaimed Harbert, coming forward from one of the groups. “Why, you haven't been playing, have you?” “I bin tryin' my han', suh, an' I monst' us glad you come out, kaze I ain't nimble like I useter wuz. Dey got me in de middle er dat ring dar, an' I couldn't git out nohow.” “Here are the store-room keys. Go and open the door, and I will be there directly.” It was a lively crowd that gathered around the wide door of the store-room. For each of the older ones there was a stiff dram apiece, and for all, both old and young, there was a present of some kind. The presents were of a substantial character, too. Those who had made crops of their own found a profitable market right at their master's door. Some of them had made as much as two bales of cotton on the land they were permitted to cultivate, while others had made good crops of corn--all of which was bought by their master. Then the big six-mule wagon was brought into service, and into this was packed the horse-collars, made of shucks and wahoo-bark, the baskets, the foot-mats, the brooms, the walking-canes, and the axe-helves, that were to find a market in the town nine miles away. In spite of the war, it was a happy time, and Joe Maxwell was as happy as any of the rest. CHAPTER IX--DESERTERS AND RUNAWAYS