" 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