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 let 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