Uncle Noah rose in scandalized protest.  “Yoh good-foh-nothin’, miserable, sassy turkey!” he scolded, hastily removing the orchids; “you sartinly is de mos’ scan’lous, no-’count bird I ever knowed.  Eat one o’ ol’ Missus’s orchards!  Laws-a-massy, Job, yoh goes mos’ too far.  Now, sah, yoh be quiet and listen to dis note I gets from young Massa Dick,” and he carefully deciphered the written lines for the listening Job.

Dear Uncle Noah:  I have written Foster and Company as usual to send Mother’s orchids.  They should get there Christmas Eve.  Will you put them at her plate in the morning?  I find they are the only suggestion of me that the Colonel will allow in the house.  I tried another letter this week, but it came back unopened.  Uncle Noah, give Mother “A Merry Christmas” for me.  Dick.

[Illustration:  Now, sah, yoh be quiet and listen to dis note I gets from young Massa Dick]

Uncle Noah laid the letter on his knee and drew from a worn leather wallet several newspaper clippings.  They were glowing reports, gleaned from a stray newspaper, of the success of a young architect in a distant northern city, one Richard Fairfax, Jr.  Uncle Noah proudly read them aloud for the hundredth time, interpolating little explanatory remarks to the turkey, who gobbled threateningly but failed to intimidate his tormentor.

“Job, whut yoh think ’bout dis yere quarrel?” Uncle Noah said as the turkey eyed him sternly.  “I say de Colonel’s too hard on de boy.  A quarrel’s a quarrel, yoh say.  H’m, maybe yoh right, but it’s dis Fairfax pride ob de Colonel’s dat keep him from readin’ de boy’s letters, and nothin’ else, sah.  He sorry for dat quarrel, doan you fo’get it.  But de Colonel he prouder’n Lucifer.  H’m, yoh say yoh understan’ pride cause yoh is proud yohself.”  Then as the turkey relapsed into slumber, “Now, see yere, Massa Job, yoh ain’t no mo’ sleepier’n I is.”  Uncle Noah poked the turkey with his finger, and Job arched his neck with a threatening flap of his wings and descended from his perch.  “Fight me, will yoh?” demanded Uncle Noah in secret delight, “yoh is de touchiest bird!  Yere, fight wid dese yere crusts o’ bread.”

Job spread his tail magnificently and began an erratic consumption of the bread crusts, pertly taking them one by one from the old negro’s hand and arranging them upon the barn floor for later and more personal inspection.  Uncle Noah watched him with misty eyes.  Presently his gaze furtively sought the rusty ax in the corner, and great tear rolled down his cheek.  Caught in the wave of a sudden panic he dropped upon his knees and clasped his trembling hands.  The dusky barn, littered with odds and ends, was dimly visible in the glimmering light of the old-fashioned lantern whose slanting rays fell upon the doomed bird and the praying negro.  No thought of sacrilege marred the quaint, halting prayer.  A terrible earnestness lined the negro’s face with a holiness of purpose and made it beautiful.