Christmas Eve
For this great feast, so nettlesome to the Puritans of my own town, so celebrated by the pious of this, we ate starvation rations. The quality of the pork was not excellent, but we ate with great stomach for any morsel.
Pomp hath informed us that at midnight on Christmas Eve, the animals are reputed to speak, as they did around the manger.
“Tonight I going lay awake,” he said. “And listen.”
“I wonder,” said I, “what Vishnoo would say, could he speak.”
Pomp said, “I reckon it’d be ‘I wish them roaches would stop their whining. My old guts sound like a Baptist prayer-meeting.’”
Slant did not at first understand the jest; Pomp explained, “The roaches, they talk too, then. In Vishnoo’s stomach.”
Slant’s expression was intermixed with discomfort; he protested, “Vishnoo, he don’t eat a thing that talks to him. No one eats a thing that . . . begs.”
Pomp, sensible of our friend’s more delicate sentiments, rushed to soothe: “No, not on Christmas Eve, Slant. No wise.”
“Peace on earth, goodwill among men,” said I.
Said Pomp, “Christmas Eve, those roaches all hold their little stick-hands in around with Vishnoo, and he ask after their auntie and they ask after his brother, and then it’s toddies and then everybody together sing ‘Wassail.’”