UNCLE NOAH’S CHRISTMAS INSPIRATION, by Leona Dalrymple
To C. A. W., in grateful recognition of an unfailing source of encouragement and impartial criticism
I. CHRISTMAS CHEER
The twilight of a Christmas Eve, gray with the portent of coming snow, crept slowly over the old plantation of Brierwood, softening the outlines of a decrepit house still rearing its roof in massive dignity and a tumbledown barn flanked by barren fields. A quiet melancholy hovered about the old house as if it brooded over a host of bygone Yuletides alive with the shouts of merry negroes and the jingle of visiting sleighs—Yuletides when the snowy dusk had been ushered in to the lowing of cattle and the neighing of horses safely housed in the old barn. There were no negroes now, no blooded stock—no fluttering fowls save one belligerent old turkey gobbler fleeing from a white-haired darky who tried in vain to drive him to his roost in the barn.
In the library of the old house a man, tall and eagle-eyed, peered out beneath bushy white eyebrows at the fading landscape blurred by the dancing forms of the negro and the recalcitrant turkey. He watched the chase end with an impertinent gobble from the turkey, and, at the sound of a closing door in the rear of the house, tapped a bell at his side. Footsteps shuffled along the hallway, and, breathless from his chase, the old negro entered.
Colonel Fairfax wheeled with military precision. “Uncle Noah,” he said sternly, “tomorrow will be Christmas.”
The darky nodded and hobbled hurriedly to the wood fire, bending over as he poked it to hide the look of anxiety in his face. “Laws-a-massy, Massa Fairfax,” he grumbled in good-natured evasion, “yoh’d mos’ freeze to deaf, I reckons, ’thout sendin’ foh me”—he coughed, and amended hastily: “’thout sendin’ foh one ob de servants to pile up dis yere fire.”
The amendment was but one of Uncle Noah’s many subterfuges to convince himself and his master that there had been no changes in the Fairfax fortunes since the old days. That he was the last of the Colonel’s retainers, a wageless, loyal old dependent attending to the manifold tasks of a sole domestic, the negro never admitted even to himself. That his quaint pretensions, however, were daily stimulants to the fierce old Colonel hungrily eating his heart out with memories Uncle Noah was well aware. So the pitiful little subterfuges, revealing the subtle understanding of the two, peopled the old house with swarming negroes and the horn of plenty to the joy of both.
But today Uncle Noah felt uneasily that the reference to the servants had not bolstered the Colonel as it usually did, and the old darky groaned inwardly as he added wood to the fire. From the corner of his eye he saw that the Colonel had drawn himself up to military rigidity, an evidence that the old soldier was on his mettle and would brook no opposition.
“Uncle Noah,” he said, fixing a stern eye on the old man, “in the Fairfax family there has always been a turkey at Christmas.”
There was no suggestion in the darky’s affable tones of the erratic manner in which his heart was beating. “Yes, sah,” he agreed, “ofttimes mo’ than one.”
“Owing to circumstances understood by you and myself, but by ho one else, there would be no turkey this year save that—”
“Y-e-e-s, sah?” Uncle Noah laid a wrinkled brown hand upon the nearest chair for support.
“We have a live turkey in stock,” ended the Colonel firmly, looking squarely into the trembling negro’s eyes.
Uncle Noah’s heart gave a convulsive leap. The thunderbolt had fallen! The fierce old turkey gobbler, solitary tenant of the crazy outbuildings, the imperial tyrant upon whom Uncle Noah had bestowed the affection of his loyal old heart, had been sentenced to death by the highest earthly tribunal the old negro recognized.
“I’se—I’se afeard he’ll be tough, Colonel Fairfax,” he quavered. “I—I—Gord-a-massy, Massa Dick, yoh wouldn’t kill ol’ Job? He’s too smart foh a bird an’ he’s done a most powahful sight o’ runnin’, sah; I reckons he’s mos’ all muscle.”
There was an agonized appeal in the darky’s voice that cut straight to the Colonel’s heart. “Uncle Noah,” he said kindly, “it can’t be helped. Job goes for the sake of—someone else.”
“Ol’ Missus?”
“Yes. Thank God, Uncle Noah,” the Colonel laid a gentle hand on the negro’s shoulder, “that she doesn’t know of our—er—financial crisis”—his halting utterance showed how distasteful the words were to him—“save, of course, that we must live with economy, as we have for years. Of the catastrophe of last fall she is ignorant, and a Fairfax Christmas without a turkey would—she must not know,” he finished abruptly.
The Colonel had spoken with a simple dignity and confidence that brought the old negro back from the field of sentiment to the barren desert of reality. Dimly in his mental chaos stood forth three pitiless facts: “Ol’ Missus” was grieving her heart out for the son with whom the Colonel had quarreled three years before; of this money trouble from which Colonel Fairfax had shielded her she must as yet know nothing; and there was no turkey for the Christmas dinner. Verily things looked dark for the ill-fated Job, roosting in unsuspecting security in the desolate old barn. With bowed head the darky walked slowly toward the door.
“Uncle Noah,” the Colonel’s tones were incisive, “you will kill Job tonight.”
“I mos’ forgot, Massa Dick,” faltered Uncle Noah, “dat supper’s ready, sah. Ol’ Missus done come downstairs jus’ foh I chases Job to roost. Laws-a-massy, Massa Dick, can’t he live till after supper?”
The Colonel nodded, carefully avoiding the old man’s troubled eyes, and went to join his wife at supper.
“Christmas Eve, my dear,” he announced cheerfully as he bent to kiss the sweet, wistful face that turned to greet him. “I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. Uncle Noah and I were discussing tomorrow’s turkey;” he gazed calmly at the old negro nervously handling the tea things; “he has selected a large bird and I have been advising a smaller.”
The Colonel opened his napkin and deftly tucked the hole in the end out of sight beneath the table. “Now, Uncle Noah, what is there tonight for supper?” To Uncle Noah this nightly question had become a sacred institution, a stimulus to imaginative powers highly developed in his quaint dialogues with the Colonel. He forgot the doomed Job. It was Christmas Eve, and his creative gift took festive wings.
“Well, sah,” he beamed, “we has a little chicken gumbo, some fried chicken jus’ the right golden brown, sah, creamed potatoes, hot biscuits with currant jelly—er—sliced ham and baked potatoes.”
Colonel Fairfax thoughtfully considered the appetizing prospect in accordance with the rules of the game. What mattered it that the luscious edibles existed only in the brain of the loyal old darky? The little pretense gave to each a delightful thrill—surely an adequate extenuation of the harmless diversion. As usual Colonel Fairfax found the key to the situation in the closing items of Uncle Noah’s list.
“It all sounds delicious, Uncle Noah,” he observed graciously, “but I have a touch of my old enemy the dyspepsia today. I think I shall have sliced ham and baked potatoes. That, I think, will do for us both.”
Mrs. Fairfax agreed, her kindly eyes fixed upon Uncle Noah’s attentive face.
“And, sah,” Uncle Noah began—it was Christmas Eve and this game must be perfectly played—“shall I attend to de distribution of gifts in de negroes’ quarters, sah?”
“Yes,” agreed the Colonel, “see that no one is slighted!”
Mrs. Fairfax bowed her wistful face upon her hands to hide the blinding tears, and an odd, uncomfortable silence fell upon the little group.
At length the Colonel pushed his chair back and rose. “Uncle Noah,” he said sternly, a suspicious brightness gleaming in his eyes, “that turkey of yours is making a terrible noise under the window. Make him quit gobbling. Patricia, I don’t wonder he makes you nervous. He’s an old renegade!”
That the object of the Colonel’s wrath had long since retired to roost mattered not to his accuser. The turkey h
ad developed a convenient habit of gobbling under the window whenever emotion forced the Colonel to seek a vent in stern commands. Uncle Noah crossed to the window and commanded Job to be silent. Mrs. Fairfax, southern gentlewoman and thoroughbred from tip to toe, quivered proudly, and, as Uncle Noah returned, bade him serve the supper in tones as well controlled as they were gentle.
II. THE INSPIRATION
In the great barren kitchen Uncle Noah wiped his steel-rimmed spectacles and glared angrily about him.
“Ol’ Missus grievin’ her heart out foh young Massa Dick,” he reflected, “and de Colonel say ‘slight no one!’ Gord-a-massy, whut am dis yere ol’ worl’ a-comin’ to? Ebery time ol’ Mis’ cry for young Massa Dick, Colonel say Job gobbles—”
The old darky choked miserably at the thought of the destined check to Job’s gobbling career and, replacing his spectacles, carefully carried in the supper, prolonging its simple service to the uttermost, with the single idea of adding precious minutes to the doomed turkey’s span of life.
When at length he sought the barn it was quite dark and the velvet stillness of the night was dotted thickly with snowflakes. With trembling fingers he opened the great barn-door, lit a queer old lantern hanging just within, and hung it high upon a projecting hook. The dim light revealed an antique carriage-house, in one corner of which upon a rude, improvised roost of shingles the tyrant Job slept the sleep of the just and the unjust rolled into one. As the lights flickered upon his ruffled feathers the turkey emitted a throaty grunt of disapproval and moved cumbrously around to avoid the light.
Uncle Noah addressed him with great firmness. “Now see yere, Massa Job,” he said, “tain’t no use yoh puttin’ on yoh high and mighty airs tonight. I’se come to interview yoh, sah! Understand?”
Job majestically tucked his head beneath his wing as if to intimate his indifference to the proposed interview.
Uncle Noah surveyed his ruffled back feathers with increased respect. “So,” he said, “yoh refuse me an interview, Massa Job Fairfax. Yoh is sleepy, sah, dat’s whut’s got into yoh.” He stroked the turkey with a gentle hand, and, Job, resenting the indignity, withdrew his head from the sheltering wing and pecked at the brown fingers, turning around with a stately movement and facing the light once more with a sleepy blink of his bright, beadlike eyes.
“Now, sah, we can talk,” exclaimed the negro in delight. Drawing up an old box he seated himself before the roost and beamed benevolently over his glasses.
“Colonel done say yoh gobble under de winder ’bout suppertime,” he began confidentially. “When ol’ Mis’ cry ’bout young Massa Dick de Colonel he jus’ gotta scold ’bout sumthin’, and as yoh is de mos’ important person about he jus’ naturally selects yoh.”
The turkey held his head upon one side, apparently in critical admiration of the darky’s quaint old scarfpin which resembled a grain of corn mounted on a needle.
Uncle Noah, who had always had a faint mistrust of Job’s attitude toward this ancient Ethiopian heirloom, promptly removed it to a place of safety. Then with a sudden resolve that no thought of the coming tragedy should mar his last visit with his old companion he rose and sought a dim, cobwebby corner of the barn, whence he returned with a box.
“Dese yere, Job,” he explained, “is de flowers whut young Massa Dick have sent to his mother ebery holiday since he done went away from yere. Mornin’, I specs, when de Colonel sees ’em at her plate, he’ll declare yoh gobblin’ sumthin’ fierce under de winder again; he always do.”
The old negro broke the string of the box and removed a glowing mass of purple orchids—odd, transient tenants of the crazy old barn. Job suddenly reached over and pecked a blossom from its stem, ate the heart with the dainty air of an epicure, and discarded the remainder with a noise akin to a gobble of disgust.
Uncle Noah rose in scandalized protest. “Yoh good-foh-nothin’, miserable, sassy turkey!” he scolded, hastily removing the orchids; “you sartinly is de mos’ scan’lous, no-’count bird I ever knowed. Eat one o’ ol’ Missus’s orchards! Laws-a-massy, Job, yoh goes mos’ too far. Now, sah, yoh be quiet and listen to dis note I gets from young Massa Dick,” and he carefully deciphered the written lines for the listening Job.
Dear Uncle Noah: I have written Foster and Company as usual to send Mother’s orchids. They should get there Christmas Eve. Will you put them at her plate in the morning? I find they are the only suggestion of me that the Colonel will allow in the house. I tried another letter this week, but it came back unopened. Uncle Noah, give Mother “A Merry Christmas” for me. DICK.
Uncle Noah laid the letter 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 snowflakes 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 d
erision 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 quiet dis yere night. I’se a-goin’ into Cotesville on a little trip an’ I doan want de Colonel to know yoh here.”
He closed the rickety door, and, hurrying back across the fields, sought the kitchen, his eyes behind their spectacles shining with excitement. Muffling himself in a quaint red knitted scarf, a dingy overcoat and a worn fur cap, plentifully earlapped, he left the house again, pausing only long enough to peer through the library window at the Colonel, who was reading aloud to his wife, both drawn up in the cheery warmth of a blazing wood fire. Then he hurried on along the road to town.
The Second Christmas Megapack: 29 Modern and Classic Yuletide Stories Page 53