Uncle Noahs Christmas Inspiration | Page 4

on his knee and drew from a worn leather wallet several newspaper clippings. They were glowing reports, gleaned from a stray newspaper, of the success of a young architect in a distant northern city, one Richard Fairfax, Jr. Uncle Noah proudly read them aloud for the hundredth time, interpolating little explanatory remarks to the turkey, who gobbled threateningly but failed to intimidate his tormentor.
"Job, whut yoh think 'bout dis yere quarrel?" Uncle Noah said as the turkey eyed him sternly. "I say de Colonel's too hard on de boy. A quarrel's a quarrel, yoh say. H'm, maybe yoh right, but it's dis Fairfax pride ob de Colonel's dat keep him from readin' de boy's letters, and nothin' else, sah. He sorry for dat quarrel, doan you fo'get it. But de Colonel he prouder'n Lucifer. H'm, yoh say yoh understan' pride cause yoh is proud yohself." Then as the turkey relapsed into slumber, "Now, see yere, Massa Job, yoh ain't no mo' sleepier'n I is." Uncle Noah poked the turkey with his finger, and Job arched his neck with a threatening flap of his wings and descended from his perch. "Fight me, will yoh?" demanded Uncle Noah in secret delight, "yoh is de touchiest bird! Yere, fight wid dese yere crusts o' bread."
Job spread his tail magnificently and began an erratic consumption of the bread crusts, pertly taking them one by one from the old negro's hand and arranging them upon the barn floor for later and more personal inspection. Uncle Noah watched him with misty eyes. Presently his gaze furtively sought the rusty ax in the corner, and great tear rolled down his cheek. Caught in the wave of a sudden panic he dropped upon his knees and clasped his trembling hands. The dusky barn, littered with odds and ends, was dimly visible in the glimmering light of the old-fashioned lantern whose slanting rays fell upon the doomed bird and the praying negro. No thought of sacrilege marred the quaint, halting prayer. A terrible earnestness lined the negro's face with a holiness of purpose and made it beautiful.
"Oh, Lord," he prayed, "save dis yere ol' turkey gobbler. I knows, Lord, he's a powahful wuthless bird, but he's all I'se got. I'se jus' an' ol' slave, Massa, what's been free since de War, an' Job, sah, he understan's me. Lord, I doan wanta live no mo' if I has to kill ol' Job. Send me an inspiration, Lord, an' tell me how I can save his wuthless ol' hide. Save him an'--an' God bless de Colonel! Amen."
For an interval, in which the only sound was that of Job's feet as he strutted about seeking an edible successor to the bread, Uncle Noah remained upon his knees in the attitude of prayer, perhaps awaiting inspiration. At length he rose, and, seating himself upon the box once more, buried his white head dejectedly in his hands. The snow-flakes filtered slowly through a crevice at the side, heaping fantastically into a miniature drift. Absently Uncle Noah watched them, his mind traveling back to many a snowy Christmas "before the War."
Suddenly his brown face glowed with radiance and he drew a long breath of relief. "Job," he said, leaning forward and patting the turkey, "I has it! Yoh'd scarcely believe it, sah, but I'se a-goin' to save yoh."
He arose transformed, the despondent droop of his lean body replaced by an alert energy. "Now, Job," he coaxed, "I jus' wants yoh foh to come along wif me peaceable, sah. I'se after yoh to save yoh ol' hide from de Christmas platter."
But Job, with a malicious enjoyment of the game, was prancing wildly about the barn, flapping his wings in hysterical derision of his breathless pursuer. Brought to bay he squawked a protest and struggled violently as Uncle Noah unceremoniously imprisoned him beneath one arm.
"There, sah," exclaimed the negro triumphantly, "I has yoh! Yoh is sartinly the mos' wuthless turkey on dis yere plantation."
Tightly clasping the outraged tyrant Uncle Noah tiptoed to the lantern and blew it out. Then stumbling across the floor he stealthily left the barn and set out across the snowy fields to a tumble-down shanty, sole survivor of a string of negro huts long since burned one by one in the library fireplace. Into its dilapidated interior he thrust the protesting turkey, pausing at the door as he struck a match to view the bird's temporary quarters.
"Now, Massa Job Fairfax," he began, "I knows yoh is jus' mad clean through. Yoh jus' naturally objects to bein' toted out in de snow in de middle o' de turkey night 'thout bein' asked. Yoh says yoh back is full o' snow? Well, I jus' asks yoh, Massa Job Fairfax, ain't dat better'n bein' wifout a head? Now, sah, I asks yoh to be mos' terrible