A Treasury of African American Christmas Stories

by Bettye Collier-Thomas

  “I ’clare to de Lord, I’se done busted my ol’ man, shure,” said one woman to another as they paused to exchange greetings outside a store door.

  “N’em min’,” returned the other, “he’ll wurk fer mo’. Dis is Chris’mas, honey.”

  “To be sure,” answered the first speaker, with a flounce of her ample skirts.

  Meanwhile her husband pondered the advisability of purchasing [a] mule, feeling in his pockets for the price demanded, but finding them nearly empty. The money had been spent on the annual festival.

  “Ole mule, I want yer mighty bad, but you’ll have to slide dis time; it’s Chris’mas, mule.”

  The wise old mule actually seemed to laugh as he whisked his tail against his bony sides and steadied himself on his three sound legs.

  The vendors were very busy, and their cries were wonderful for ingenuity of invention to attract trade:

  “Hello, dar, in de cellar, I’se got fresh aggs fer de’casion; now’s year time fer agg-nogg wid new aggs in it.”

  There were the stalls, too, kept by venerable aunties and filled with specimens of old-time southern cheer: Coon, corn-pone, possum fat and hominy; there were piles of gingerbread and boiled chestnuts, heaps of walnuts and roasting apples. There were great barrels of cider, not to speak of something stronger. There were terrapin and the persimmon and the chinquapin in close proximity to the succulent viands—shine and spare-rib, sausage and crackling, savory souvenirs of the fine art of hog-killing. And everywhere were faces of dusky hue; Washington’s great Negro population bubbled over in every direction.

  The General was peddling chitlins. He had a tub upon his head and was singing in his strong childish tones:

  Here’s yer chitlins, fresh an’ sweet.

  Young hog’s chitlins hard to beat,

  Methodis chitlins, jes’ been biled,

  Right fresh chitlins, dey ain’t spiled,

  Baptis’ chitlins by de pound,

  As nice chitlins as ever was foun.

  “Hyar, boy, duz yer mean ter say dey is real Baptis’ chitlins, sho nuff?”

  “Yas, mum.”

  “How duz you make dat out?”

  “De hog raised by Mr. Robberson, a hard-shell Baptis’, mum.”

  “Well, lem-me have two poun’s.”

  “Now,” said a solid-looking man as General finished waiting on a crowd of women and men, “I want some o’ de Methodes chitlins you’s bin hollerin’ ‘bout.”

  “Hyar dey is, ser.”

  “Take ’em all out o’ same tub?”

  “Yas, ser. Only dair leetle mo’ water on de Baptis’ chitlins, an’ dey’s whiter.”

  “How you tell ’em?”

  “Well, ser, two hog’s chitlins in dis tub an one ob de hogs raised by Unc, Bemis, an’ he’s a Methodes,’ ef dat don’t make him a Methodes hog nuthin’ will.”

  “Weigh me out four pounds, ser.”

  In an hour’s time the General had sold out. Suddenly at his elbow he heard a voice:

  “Boy, I want to talk to you.”

  The fairy stood beside him. She was a little girl about his own age, well wrapped in costly velvet and furs; her long, fair hair fell about her like an aureole of glory; a pair of gentle blue eyes set in a sweet, serious face glanced at him from beneath a jaunty hat with a long curling white feather that rested light as thistle-down upon the beautiful curly locks. The General could not move for gazing, and as his wonderment grew his mouth was extended in a grin that revealed the pearly whiteness of two rows of ivory.

  “Boy, shake hands.”

  The General did not move; how could he?

  “Don’t you hear me?” asked the fairy, imperiously:

  “Yas’m,” replied the General meekly. “ ’Deed, missy, I’se ‘tirely too dirty to tech dem clos o’ yourn.”

  Nevertheless he put forth timidly and slowly a small paw begrimed with the dirt of the street. He looked at the hand and then at her; she looked at the hand and then at him. Then their eyes meeting, they laughed the sweet laugh of the free-masonry of childhood.

  “I’ll excuse you this time, boy,” said the fairy, graciously, “but you must remember that I wish you to wash your face and hands when you are to talk with me; and,” she added, as though inspired by an afterthought, “it would be well for you to keep them clean at other times, too.”

  “Yas’m,” replied the General.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Gen’r’l Wash’nton,” answered Buster, standing at attention as he had seen the police do in the court-room.

  “Well, General, don’t you know you’ve told a story about the chitlins you’ve just sold?”

  “Tol’ er story?” queried the General with a knowing look. “Course I got to sell my chitlins ahead ob de oder fellars, or lose my trade.”

  “Don’t you know it’s wicked to tell stories?”

  “How come so?” asked the General, twisting his bare toes about in his rubbers, and feeling very uncomfortable.

  “Because, God says we musn’t.”

  “Who’s he?”

  The fairy gasped in astonishment. “Don’t you know who God is?”

  “No’pe; never seed him. Do he live in Wash’nton?”

  “Why, God is your Heavenly Father, and Christ was His son. He was born on Christmas Day a long time ago. When He grew a man, wicked men nailed Him to the cross and killed Him. Then He went to heaven, and we’ll all live with Him some day if we are good before we die. O I love Him; and you must love Him, too, General.”

  “Now look hyar, missy, you kayn’t make this chile b’lieve nufin lak dat.”

  The fairy went a step nearer the boy in her eagerness:

  “It’s true; just as true as you live.”

  “Whar’d you say He lived?”

  “In heaven,” replied the child, softly.

  “What kin’ o’ place is heaven?”

  “Oh, beautiful!”

  The General stared at the fairy. He worked his toes faster and faster.

  “Say, kin yer hab plenty to eat up dar?”

  “O, yes; you’ll never be hungry there.”

  “An’ a fire, an’ clos?” he queried in suppressed, excited tones.

  “Yes; it’s all love and plenty when we get to heaven, if we are good here.”

  “Well, missy, dat’s a pow’ful good story, but I’m blamed ef I b’lieve it.” The General forgot his politeness in his excitement.

  “An’ ef it’s true, tain’t only fer white fo’ks; you won’t fin’ nary nigger dar.”

  “But you will; and all I’ve told you is true. Promise me to come to my house on Christmas morning and see my mother. She’ll help you, and she will teach you more about God. Will you come? she asked eagerly, naming a street and number in the most aristocratic quarter of Washington. “Ask for Fairy, that’s me. Say quick; here is my nurse.”

  The General promised.

  “Law, Miss Fairy, honey; come right hyar. I’ll tell yer mamma how you’s done run way from me to talk to dis dirty little monkey. Pickin’ up sech trash fer ter talk to.”

  The General stood in a trance of happiness. He did not mind the slurring remarks of the nurse, and refrained from throwing a brick at the buxom lady, which was a sacrifice on his part. All he saw was the glint of golden curls in the winter sunshine, and the tiny hand waving him good-bye.

  “Ah’ her name is Fairy! Jes’ ter think how I hit it all by my lonesome.”

  Many times that week the General thought and puzzled over Fairy’s words. Then he would sigh:

  “Heaven’s where God lives. Plenty to eat, warm fire all de time in winter; plenty o’ clos,’ too, but I’se got to be good. ‘Spose dat means keepin’ my face an’ hand’s clean an’ stop swearing’ an’ lyin.’ It kayn’t be did.”

  The gang wondered what had come over Buster.

  II.

  The day before Christmas dawned clear and cold. There was snow on the ground. Trade was good, and the General, mindful of the vi
sit next day, had bought a pair of second-hand shoes and a new calico shirt.

  “Git onter de dude!” sang one of the gang as he emerged from the privacy of the dry-goods box early Christmas Eve.

  The General was a dancer and no mistake. Down at Dutch Dan’s place they kept the old-time Southern Christmas moving along in hot time until the dawn of Christmas Day stole softly through the murky atmosphere. Dutch Dan’s was the meeting place of the worst characters, white and black, in the capital city. From that vile den issued the twin spirits murder and rapine as the early winter shadows fell; there the criminal entered in the early dawn and was lost to the accusing eye of justice. There was a dance at Dutch Dan’s Christmas Eve, and the General was sent for to help amuse the company.

  The shed-like room was lighted by oil lamps and flaring pine torches. The center of the apartment was reserved for dancing. At one end the inevitable bar stretched its yawning mouth like a monster awaiting his victims. A long wooden table was built against one side of the room, where the game could be played to suit the taste of the most expert devotee of the fickle goddess.

  The room was well filled, early as it was, and the General’s entrance was the signal for a shout of welcome. Old Unc’ Jasper was tuning his fiddle and blind Remus was drawing sweet chords from an old banjo. They glided softly into the music of the Mobile shuffle. The General began to dance. He was master of the accomplishment. The pigeon-wing, the old buck, the hoe-down and the Juba followed each other in rapid succession. The crowd shouted and cheered and joined in the sport. There was hand-clapping and a rhythmic accompaniment of patting the knees and stamping the feet. The General danced faster and faster:

  Juba up and juba down,

  Juba all aroun’ de town;

  Can’t you hyar de juba pat? Juba!

  sang the crowd. The General gave fresh graces and new embellishments. Occasionally he added to the interest by yelling, “Ain’t dis fin’e!” “Oh, my!” “Now I’m gittin’ loose!” “Hol’ me, hol’ me!”

  The crowd went wild with delight.

  The child danced until he fell exhausted to the floor. Someone in the crowd “passed the hat.” When all had been waited upon the barkeeper counted up the receipts and divided fair—half to the house and half to the dancer. The fun went on, and the room grew more crowded. General Wash’nton crept under the table and curled himself up like a ball. He was lucky, he told himself sleepily, to have so warm a berth that cold night; and then his heart glowed as he thought of the morrow and Fairy, and wondered if what she had said were true. Heaven must be a fine place if it could beat the floor under the table for comfort and warmth. He slept. The fiddle creaked, the dancers shuffled. Rum went down their throats and wits were befogged. Suddenly the General was wide awake with a start. What was that?

  “The family are all away to-night at a dance, and the servants gone home. There’s no one there but an old man and a kid. We can be well out of the way before the alarm is given. ‘Leven sharp, Doc. And, look here, what’s the number agin?”

  Buster knew in a moment that mischief was brewing, and he turned over softly on his side, listening mechanically to catch the reply. It came. Buster sat up. He was wide awake then. They had given the street and number where Fairy’s home was situated.

  III.

  Senator Tallman was from Maryland. He had owned slaves, fought in the Civil War on the Confederate side, and at its end had been returned to a seat in Congress after Reconstruction, with feelings of deeply rooted hatred for the Negro. He openly declared his purpose to oppose their progress in every possible way. His favorite argument was disbelief in God’s handiwork as shown in the Negro.

  “You argue, suh, that God made ’em, I have my doubts, suh, God made man in His own image, suh, and that being the case, suh, it is clear that he had no hand in creating niggers. A nigger, suh, is the image of nothing but the devil.” He also declared in his imperious, haughty, Southern way; “The South is in the saddle, suh, and she will never submit to the degradation of Negro domination; never suh.”

  The Senator was a picture of honored age and solid comfort seated in his velvet armchair before the fire of blazing logs in his warm, well-lighted study. His lounging coat was thrown open, revealing its soft silken lining, his feet were thrust into gayly embroidered fur-lined slippers. Upon the baize covered table beside him a silver salver sat holding a decanter, glasses and fragrant mint, for the Senator loved the beguiling sweetness of a mint julep at bedtime. He was writing a speech which in his opinion would bury the blacks too deep for resurrection and settle the Negro question forever. Just now he was idle; the evening paper was folded across his knees; a smile was on his face. He was alone in the grand mansion, for the festivities of the season had begun and the family were gone to enjoy a merry-making at the house of a friend. There was a picture in his mind of Christmas in his old Maryland home in the good old days “befo’ de wah,” the great ball-room where giggling girls and matrons fair glided in the stately minuet. It was in such a gathering he had met his wife, the beautiful Kate Channing. Ah, the happy time of youth and love! The house was very still; how loud the ticking of the clock sounded. Just then a voice spoke beside his chair:

  “Please, sah, I’se Gen’r’l Wash’nton.”

  The Senator bounded to his feet with an exclamation:

  “Eh! Bless my soul, suh; where did you come from?”

  “Ef yer please, boss, froo de winder.”

  The Senator rubbed his eyes and stared hard at the extraordinary figure before him. The Gen’r’l closed the window and then walked up to the fire, warmed himself in front, then turned around and stood with his legs wide apart and his shrewd little gray eyes fixed upon the man before him.

  The Senator was speechless for a moment; then he advanced upon the intruder with a roar warranted to make a six-foot man quake in his boots:

  “Through the window, you black rascal! Well, I reckon you’ll go out through the door, and that in quick time, you little thief.”

  “Please, boss, it hain’t me; it’s Jim the crook and de gang from Dutch Dan’s.”

  “Eh!” said the Senator again.

  “What’s yer cronumter say now, boss? ‘Leven is de time fer de perfahmance ter begin. I reckon’d I’d git hyar time nuff fer yer ter call de perlice.”

  “Boy, do you mean for me to understand that burglars are about to raid my house?” demanded the Senator, a light beginning to dawn upon him.

  The General nodded his head:

  “Dat’s it, boss, ef by ‘buglers’ you mean Jim de crook and Dutch Dan.” It was ten minutes of the hour by the Senator’s watch. He went to the telephone, rang up the captain of the nearest station, and told him the situation. He took a revolver from a drawer of his desk and advanced toward the waiting figure before the fire.

  “Come with me. Keep right straight ahead through that door; if you attempt to run I’ll shoot you.”

  They walked through the silent house to the great entrance doors and there awaited the coming of the police. Silently the officers surrounded the house. Silently they crept up the stairs into the now darkened study. “Eleven” chimed the little silver clock on the mantel. There was the stealthy tread of feet a moment after, whispers, the flash of a dark lantern,—a rush by the officers and a stream of electricity flooded the room.

  “It’s the nigger did it!” shouted Jim the crook, followed instantly by the sharp crack of a revolver. General Washington felt a burning pain shoot through his breast as he fell unconscious to the floor. It was all over in a moment. The officers congratulated themselves on the capture they had made—a brace of daring criminals badly wanted by the courts.

  When the General regained consciousness, he lay upon a soft, white bed in Senator Tallman’s house. Christmas morning had dawned clear cold and sparkling; upon the air the joy-bells sounded sweet and strong: “Rejoice, your Lord is born.” Faintly from the streets came the sound of merry voices: “Chris’mas gift, Chris’mas gift.”

  The chil
d’s eyes wandered aimlessly about the unfamiliar room as if seeking and questioning. They passed the Senator and Fairy, who sat beside him and rested on a copy of Titian’s matchless Christ which hung over the mantel. A glorious stream of yellow sunshine fell upon the thorn-crowned Christ.

  God of Nazareth, see!

  Before a trembling soul

  Unfoldeth like a scroll

  Thy wondrous destiny!

  The General struggled to a sitting position with arms outstretched, then fell back with a joyous, awesome cry:

  “It’s Him! It’s Him!”

  “O’ General,” sobbed Fairy, “don’t you die, you’re going to be happy all the rest of your life Grandpa says so.”

  “I was in time, little Missy; I tried mighty hard after I knowed whar’ dem debbils was a-comin’ to.”

  Fairy sobbed; the Senator wiped his eyeglasses and coughed. The General lay quite still a moment, then turned himself again on his pillow to gaze at the pictured Christ.

  ‘I’m a-gittin’ sleepy, missy, it’s so warm an’ comfurtable here. ‘Pears lak I feel right happy sence Ise seed Him.” The morning light grew brighter. The face of the Messiah looked down as it must have looked when He was transfigured on Tabor’s heights. The ugly face of the child wore a strange, sweet beauty. The Senator bent over the quiet figure with a gesture of surprise.

  The General had obeyed the call of One whom the winds and waves of stormy human life obey. Buster’s Christmas Day was spent in heaven.

  For some reason, Senator Tallman never made his great speech against the Negro.

  THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR BILL

  Lelia Plummer

  “The Autobiography of a Dollar Bill” was published by the Colored American Magazine in December 1904. Little is known about Lelia Plummer. Many of the early black newspapers and periodicals in which she published provided little or no biographical information.