Lor Lor what a night it is any way. Since I was first born, and that's thirty-five-no, forty-five years come next June, I never heern sich win' as that there, fit to tear the roof off Well, this is Christmas Eve, and we ginerally do hev a spell o' weather 'bout this time. Here you Fly Fly you little black imp you if you don't stop that falling asleep over the fire, and stir your lazy stumps, I'll tie you up and give you such a switchin' as you never had in all your born days. Ar-r-r-r there I vow to Sam if that derned old tabby cat hain't got her nose stuck into the apple sass Scat you hussy Fly-y-y you ugly little black ace-o'-spades will you wake up afore I twist your neck for you?" And the speaker of this spirited address-a tall, thin, pasteboard female, as erect as a ramrod and as flat as a shingle, with a hard, uncompromising face, and a hawk-like gray eye, caught hold of the drowsy little darkey nodding in the chimney-corner, and shook her as if she had been a flourishing little fruit tree in harvest time.