“I know. It’s hard to live up to sometimes, ’specially when Jack’s around. I know he’s smarter than I am and Jack’s a fool for work and duty as I get reminded all the time.” “You mustn’t be jealous. After all, they did pick you to be their son and heir. You’ll have everything, being Andrew Jackson’s son.” “You have to admit, though, that Papa’s a hard man to follow. Came up from the direst kind of poverty, made it all for himself. I hear that too. And how he got thrown into that prison where his brother died, because he wouldn’t black some British officer’s boots.” “He was no older than you are now, then, Andy. He’s just trying to inspire you. You’d better hurry. I hear the cellar door slamming. That means uncle Jackson and Joey are fetching out the jugs. Oh, Heaven, there’s aunt Rachel out there without her cloak! I’ll get it before she takes a chill. Run, Andy!” Under the big trees all the Negroes on the place were gathering. George had persuaded the big bonfire to burn in spite of the thin, misting rain. Children, black and white, crowded close to it, their voices shrill with excitement. Little Negro boys poked sticks into the blazing fire, waved them smoking in air, dancing about till Betty laid about her with a switch, ordering the brands extinguished. “You set the young Misses’ dresses afire,” she screamed at them. On long trestles the parcels of meat were laid out and the chickens, tied by the feet and squawking, were brought from the chicken house and handed around, one hen or rooster to a family. Instantly there was a bedlam of screaming joy, chickens’ necks being wrung, cries of, “Thank you, Massa, thank you, Mist’iss!” The General with Andy beside him and Joey at hand to lift a jug stood at the end of the table. A line formed, cups in hand. “No crowding now—and no sneaking back to the end of the line for a second drink!” warned Andrew Jackson. Headless chickens flopped on the ground, prodded by shrieking little Negroes with sticks. Emily wrapped a heavy cloak around her aunt’s shoulders, pulled her own shawl tighter as they watched the line of people file by to receive their portion of Christmas cheer. Even the small ones got a tot, weakened with water, and as each child passed Andrew Jackson tweaked a lock of kinky hair or pulled an ear, sending the small black person off into a hysteria of shrieks and giggles. George had put a great washpot over the flames and when the water was hot the women would douse their fowls in the steaming cauldron and there would be a great chattering and ripping off of feathers, but before that all the people would gather in a phalanx to sing. “We must go in and light all the candles,” Emily told a group of women. “The house must be bright when they sing.” “You go, Emily,” Rachel said. “I ought to stay here. Becky and Dilsey both wanted that white rooster and they’re sure to get into a fight.”