Book VI

Cudjo breathed on the silver urn And rubbed till his hand began to burn, With his hoarded scrap of chamois-skin. The metal glittered like bright new tin And yet, as he labored, his mouth was sad⁠— “Times is gettin’ almighty bad. Christmas a-comin’, sure and swif’, But no use hollerin’ ‘Christmas Gif!’ No use keepin’ the silver fittin’, No use doin’ nothin’ but sittin’. Old Marse Billy stayin’ away, Yankees shootin’ at Young Marse Clay, Grey hairs in Miss Mary’s brush, And a-whooin’ wind in de berry-bush, Dat young red setter done eat her pups, We was washin’ de tea set an’ bust two cups, Just come apart in Liza’s han’⁠— Christmas, where has you gwine to, man? Won’t you never come back again? I feels like a cat in de outdoors rain.” Christmas used to come without fail, A big old man with a raccoan tail, So fine and bushy it brushed the ground And made folks sneeze when he waltzed around.