But you,
you're a-walkin' right smack dab into it, weth your eyes open,
teachin' fer Gospel the inventions o' men."
"W'y what, Uncle Billy?"
"W'y, this here Santy Claus a-climbin' down a chimley an' a-cuttin'
up didoes fer to make them little ones think they is a reel Santy
Claus 'cuz they seen him to the meetin' house. Poot soon when they
git a little older 'n' they find out how you been afoolin' 'em about
Santy Claus, they'll wonder if what you been a-tellin' 'em about the
Good Man ain't off o' the same bolt o' goods, an' another one o'
them cunningly devised fables. Think they'll come any blessin' on
tellin' a lie? An' a-actin' it out? No, sir. No, sir. Ain't ary
good thing to a lie, no way you kin fix it. How kin they be? Who's
the father of lies? W'y the Old Scratch! That's who. An' here you
go a - "
The old man was so wroth that he couldn't finish and turned and
stamped out, slamming the door after him.
Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before
he mildly observed "Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like."
"Righteous mad, I s'pose," said Abel Horn.
"You waited on yit, bub?" asked Brother Littell. "I betchy he's
a-thinkin' right now he'll take his letter out o' Centre Street an'
go to the Barefoot Church. He would, too, if 't wasn't clean plumb
at the fur end o' town an' a reg'lar mud-hole to git there.
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