"Well, suh, dat's a fac—dat's what Marse George al'ays said. 'Tishard to spile Christmas anyways."
The speaker was "Unc' Edinburg," the driver from Werrowcoke, where Iwas going to spend Christmas; the time was Christmas Eve, and the placethe muddiest road in eastern Virginia—a measure which, I feel sure,will, to those who have any experience, establish its claim todistinction.
A half-hour before he had met me at the station, the queerest-looking,raggedest old darkey conceivable, brandishing a cedar-staffed whip ofenormous proportions in one hand, and clutching in the other a calicoletter-bag with a twisted string; and with the exception of a briefinterval of temporary suspicion on his part, due to the unfortunatefact that my luggage consisted of only a hand-satchel instead of atrunk, we had been steadily progressing in mutual esteem.
"Dee's a boy standin' by my mules; I got de ker'idge heah for you," hadbeen his first remark on my making myself known to him. "Mistis say as