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After supper, little Eddie Allgire teases his brother D. to tell him about Santa Claus. D. is cracking walnuts on a flat-iron held between his knees. "Is they any Santy Claus, D.?" "W'y, cert, they is. Who says not?" "Bunty Rogers says they ain't no sech a person."
I got this flat-iron in my lap, an' wouldn't spill the nut-shells all over the floor. You don't want me to, do you, Ma?" Mrs. Allgire shook her head. "Well, now," said D. "Anybody tell you they ain't sich a person as Santy Claus, you kin jist stand 'em down 'at you know better, 'cause you seen him, didn't you?" Eddie nodded his head.
Plain 's day. didn't you see him? You saw him, mother?" Mrs. Allgire nodded her head. She was busy counting the stitches in a nubia she was knitting for old Aunt Pashy, Roebuck. "W'y, you couldn't help but see him, didn't you take notice to his white whiskers?" "Ye-es," said the child, slowly, with the wide-open stare of hypnosis. "Didn't you see the evergreen tree he carried?"
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