“And there’s two or three old women I want to remember; there’s old Aunt Dicey, she and your gran’ma was always close friends. I believe I’ll put a new frock on the Christmas tree for her. And ’way off up in Cutter’s Cove there’s Dan Cutter’s widow; she and your gran’ma was girls together, a pretty pair, too. I won’t pass her by. And just ’cross the branch from her is where Sam Long’s got his family stowed away. His mother—she’s a queer ole stick as ever was—but they do say that Sam’s wife does the old woman mean, so I’ll give her a frock just to show ’em all that she’s some thought of. If them old critters don’t see a Christmas tree this year, the chances is they’ll die ’thout ever seein’ one. Haw, Bonaparte! By gum, if we’d a’ been a steam car we’d have run plumb over old Mis’ Jimson’s cow; ’pears like she ain’t got heart in her to get out of the way; I reckon that pore old somebody ain’t got enough for herself to eat, let alone the cow. Gran’son, you jes’ get over in behind thar and heave her out that thar corn that’s under the bag of meal.” “Ain’t she a Pistopal cow, gran’daddy?” “I ’low she is, gran’son, but she’s got a whole rotation of stomachs and when they’re all hungry at once it must give her a powerful gone feelin’. I’ll put on a new frock for old Mis’ Jimson. I don’t reckon she ever had a store frock in her life and she ain’t so old yet but what she can turn out of her loom a frock that’ll outwear three of the store kind, but it’ll be a change for her.” “O but, gran’daddy! gran’daddy! them Pistopals is right mean, they are, and ole Mis’ Jimson’s a Pistopal!” “So she is, Grover Cleveland, so she is. I never thought of that”—for a minute they jogged along in silence—“I can’t somehow ’count for that, gran’son; thar’s a mistake somewhar—Mis’ Jimson’s a good woman. Anyway she can’t git down to the Pistopal meetin’-house a-Christmas; she’s got a risin’ on her leg.” “Why, gran’daddy, old Mis’ Jimson can’t go anywhere! She couldn’t even git into this yer wagon so as we-all could carry her!” “I’m ’feared you’re right, Grover Cleveland; now that’s another difficulty——” “And all them other old women, gran’daddy—how’re they going to git down to our Chrisamus tree, and how’re they goin’ to git back again?” “That certainly is a puzzler, gran’son. I reckon we-all will have to sleep on to that. If your mother was alive now, she’d know just how to take hold”——the old man dropped his elbows upon his knees, doubling himself in sad retrospection, and the little boy slipped off the seat in an effort to imitate the position. On his knees, holding to the front of the wagon box, he solved the problem. “Hi, gran’daddy!” he shouted, clutching the old man’s trouserlegs to help himself to his feet, “me and you’ll stand that ar Chrisamus tree up in the wagon and we’ll hitch Bonaparte and Butterfly to it and we’ll carry it round an’ pick it as we go!”