neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out on
the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand
had neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.

"Yassuh, an' dey's jus' sebenteen dead sheep out dar," said a negro.

"Look at the little one," said a tall boy who looked like the overseer;
and Satan knew that he spoke of him.

"Go back to the house, son," said the overseer, "and tell your mother to
give you a Christmas present I got for you yesterday." With a glad whoop
the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new .32
Winchester in his hand.

The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on Christmas Day. It was the
hour when Satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his little mistress
was asleep. If he were only at home now, and if he only had known how
his little mistress was weeping for him amid her playthings and his--two
new balls and a brass-studded collar with a silver plate on which was
his name, Satan Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him now, her heart
would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun. There was a jet of
smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the funeral dog started on the right
way at last toward his dead master. Another crack, and the yellow cur
leaped from the ground and fell kicking. Another crack and another, and
with each crack a dog tumbled, until little Satan sat on his haunches
amid the writhing pack, alone. His time was now come. As the rifle was
raised, he heard up at the big house the cries of children; the popping
of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and whistles and loud shouts of
"Christmas Gif', Christmas Gif'!" His little heart beat furiously.
Perhaps he knew just what he was doing; perhaps it was the accident of