“Aunt Sally” (the accommodating Santa Claus took the roll from her and restored it to the tree), “it’s my intention for you to have whatever you can get the most fun out of; I can barter that thar frock for snuff enough to last you all your life, and there’ll be a balance comin’ to you besides; what’ll you have for that?” “I don’ know, Jakey,” she drawled, and she pleated the hem of her apron while she pondered, “I don’ know; I reckon you might as well bring me a little more snuff.” The roads were heavy with mud when Bonaparte and Butterfly toiled down into the little straggling town. “This is a Chrisamus tree,” announced the little Santa Claus, and there was no need to tarry there for delivery, for all the foot-free denizens, young, old, and middle-aged, thronged it when it stopped and followed when it moved on, and the tree shed its fruit as if a gale had struck it. The old Santa Claus held his whip with a fine show of nonchalance while the little one worked among the holly branches, disdainful of the thorns, his eyes afire, his cheeks red hot, and his aureole of yellow hair tossing and tumbling with every motion of his little body. Williebelle, her ears tied up with a red woollen stocking and redolent of turpentine, was there and upon her he bestowed three sticks of peppermint, “two for herself and one for her earache.” He waited in person upon Aunt Polly, bedridden for a dozen years, and the procession was brought to a stand before her door that she might look out upon the first Christmas tree she had ever seen. “I ’low this is a Methdis’ Christmas tree,” cried an Episcopalian (the only cynical one), “you-all aimed to get ahead of us.” “No, siree,” answered the old man, “this yer tree’s built according to Grover Cleveland’s plan and he don’t b’lieve in secks. We-all ain’t aimin’ to git ahead of anybody but the bears.” “Merry Christmas,” shouted a peace-making Episcopalian and the crowd took up the greeting, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” till the hills gave back the echo. The tired oxen drew the dismantled tree out of the village. The tired little Santa Claus cuddled sleepily within the encircling arm of the old one but they left behind them the spirit of the Christmas-tide. In the village “Merry Christmas!” still sounded from house to house and along the streets. The sticky children shouted it to one another; the women from their door-ways told it to passers-by; old men, nodding and smiling as they fumbled with jack-knife and tobacco and young men lounging on the corners, all told it to one another. Red Baptists told it to Yellow Baptists and Presbyterians to Methodists, and some unthinkingly told it to persons they were not on speaking terms with, then looked ashamed but repeated it. By and by the shadows came down into the valley, crept to the summits of the eastern ridge, slipped over and the village lay in darkness and in peace.