It really puts me out of all patience to see such nonsensical doins. And mother, she’s had all the niggers choppin’ sasage-meat to make mince-pies, and poundin’ spice and ginger, and makin’ marvels, and beatin’ eggs to make pound-cake, and all sorts of sweet doin’s for Crismus, for when she takes anything into her head, she ain’t agwine to be outdone not by nobody. She ses Crismus don’t come but once a-year now-a-days, and she’s gwine to treat it handsum when it does cum—she’s gwine to show the Stallinses that she’s use to as good livin’ as most of folkes. Well, I glory in her spunk, but it’s monstrous expensive and unpleasant to go things on the big figer that she’s on now; it never ought to be done only to wedin’s, and it wouldn’t do then, whar ther was to be many in the same family. Do tell us what upon yearth all this talk means about the world comin’ to a eend next April. I’ve heard a great deal about Miller’s doctrine lately. Now I don’t like to believe no sich nonsense; but if it was to come out true, I wouldn’t like to be so tuck in. Mother and old Miss Stallins, and two or three more old ladies, is in a mighty fidget about it, and mother dreamed she seed two moons t’other night, and one of ’em was all blazin’ with fire, and flyin’ about in the sky like all wrath. I don’t ’zactly know what to think about it, but ther’s one thing sartin, it’s got to begin monstrous early in the mornin’ on the third day of April, if I ain’t up to see it. If anybody was to set the woods a fire ’bout Pineville, jest at that time, I wouldn’t like to answer for the consequence among the old wimin. But I’m not gwine to let sich matters interfere with my marryin’ spekelations. I call it spekelation, for, you know, ther’s no tellin’ how these things is gwine to turn out. In the fust place, it’s a chance if a body git’s the gall he’s courtin’, and after _he’s_ got her all to himself for better or for worse, it’s a chance agin if she don’t turn out a monstrous site worse nor he tuck her for. But I think mine’s a pretty safe business, for Miss Mary is jest a leetle the smartest, and best, and the butifulest gall in Georgia. I’ve seed her two or three times lately, and I ain’t more’n half so afraid of her as I used to be. I told her t’other night I had a Crismus gift for her, which I hoped she would take and keep. “What is it, Majer?” ses she. “Oh!” ses I, “it’s something what I wouldn’t give nobody else in the world!” “Well, but what is it—_do_ tell me?” “Something,” ses I, “what you stole from me a long time ago, and sense you’ve got it I want you to keep it, and give me one like it in return.” “Well _do_ tell me what it is, fust,” ses she and I seed her cut her eye at Miss Carline, and sort o’ smile. “But will you give me one in return?” ses I. “What, Majer—tell me what?” “I’ll tell you Crismus eve,” ses I. “But will you give me _yours_ in return?” “_Yours!_ eh, my ——,” then her face got as red as a poppy, and she looked down.