his
short legs, and boasted of imaginary exploits with trap and dead-fall.

Caroline looked on, half pleased and half disgusted, keeping herself
clear of contact.

"Miss Calline she too proud to tetch pig-tails," grinned Chany.

"'F cose she is," Mammy answered, bridling. She was very vain of Miss
Caroline's daintiness.

The baby was now laid in his crib. Chany was dispatched for salt and
pepper; the shovel was again run into the ashes, pig-tails were placed
delicately upon the coals, and the nursery, pervaded with the various
odors of wet shoes, burnt corn, fried grease, etc., was given up to
disorder and cooking, into which Mammy threw herself with as much zest
as did the children. The pig-tails were broiled to a turn, and the
small birds were frizzling away upon the shovel, when Sedley, taking
advantage of his opportunity, made a rush for the door, opened it, and
was outside, with mouth and hands full of snow. Before Mammy's
vigilant eye had noted his escape, he was flying back in triumph, with
a big ball in his fist, when she met him and, with dexterous grasp,
wrenched it from him.

"Di-di-did anybody ever see your match!" she exclaimed as she hurled
the ball into the fire. "I clar I's got a good mind to take you right
straight to your ma."

But Sedley knew the value of such threats and soon wiggled himself
out of her grasp.

"Da now, go 'long an' 'have yourself," she said, with admiring
fondness, as he laughed and capered away from her.

"Honey, what is you a-doin'?" she now inquired of Sibyl, who, with hot
cheeks, was bending over a pile of coals. "Cookin' a bird? Let me do
it,--you's a-burnin' your little face clean to a cracklin'."

"No, Mammy, I'm cookin' my bird for grandma," the child answered,
rejecting all help, "an' I'm goin' to do it all by myself."

"Wh', baby honey, your gran'ma ain't comin' before Christmas eve, an'
dat's a week off. Your bird ain't goin' keep all dat time, but ne'
mine, I'll make Ned ketch you another one."

* * * * *

Upon Christmas Eve, the children might have been seen at the big gate,
straining their eyes down the road, each hoping to be the first to see
their grandmother's carriage. Visions of waxen dolls, sugar-plums,
and other vague delights imparted a double zest to her arrival,--to
say nothing of Uncle Robin (the driver) who, in the estimation of the
little boys, was of far greater importance than was their grandmother.
To them h