Cato untied the rope that was round the jice, and let the bag down easy on the floor, and I tumbled out all covered with corn meal, from hed to foot. “Goodness gracious!” ses Miss Mary, “if it ain’t the Majer himself!” “Yes,” ses I, “and you know you promised to keep my Crismus present as long as you lived.” The galls laughed themselves almost to deth, and went to brushin’ off the meal as fast as they could, sayin’ they was gwine to hang that bag up every Crismus ’til they got husbands too. Miss Mary—bless her bright eyes—she blushed as butiful as a morninglory, and sed she’d stick to her word. She was rite out of bed, and her hair wasn’t komed, and her dress wasn’t fixt at all, but the way she looked pretty was rale distractin’. I do b’lieve if I was froze stiff, one look at her charmin’ face, as she stood lookin’ down to the floor with her rogish eyes, and her bright curls fallin’ all over her snowy neck, would fotch’d me too. I tell you what, it was worth hangin’ in a meal-bag from one Crismus to another to feel as happy as I have ever sense. I went home after we had the laugh out, and set by the fire till I got thawed. In the forenoon all the Stallinses come over to our house and we had one of the greatest Crismus dinners that ever was seed in Georgia, and I don’t b’lieve a happier company ever sot down to the same table. Old Miss Stallins and mother settled the match, and talked over every thing that ever happened in ther families, and laughed at me and Mary, and cried ’bout ther ded husbands, cause they wasn’t alive to see ther children married. It’s all settled now, ’cept we haint sot the weddin’ day. I’d like to have it all over at once, but young galls always like to be engaged a while, you know, so I spose I must wait a month or so. Mary (she ses I musn’t call her Miss Mary now,) has been a good deal of trouble and botheration to me; but if you could see her, you wouldn’t think I ought to grudge a little sufferin’ to git sich a sweet little wife. You must come to the weddin’ if you possibly kin. I’ll let you know when. No more from Your frend, ’til deth, Jos. Jones. LETTER V. Pineville, January 5th, 1842. Dear Sir, Ther’s been a awful catasterfy in Pineville sense I rit my last letter to you. Little did I think then what was a comin’, though I always thought some cussed thing would turn up jest to spile my happiness.