on toes, or of bruising tender spots. Gretchen was great fun. Short, dumpy. Her suit did nothing at all for her, but a terrific sense of humor. Three Old-Fashioneds to every one I had.

When time came for opening the gifts I felt comfortably safe, not really being a member of that group, for their presents to one another were entirely beyond my range costly sportshirts, cufflinks from the better jewelers, cocktail glasses with engraved monograms. In spite of all this, when we had to leave I too got bussed and thanked by both Chris-and Joe. Of course it could have been the Old-Fashioned...

Christmas Day is so different from Christmas Eve. Instead of darkness outside the snuggling intimacy of soft lights within, there is full day, even sunshine, depending somewhat on where you happen to be. Rich and odorous essences floating in the air, a clutter in the kitchen, the sound of the chopping of mysterious components, quick errands out and back again. A leisurely laziness, but underlaid with a quietly rising tide of purpose sweeping on and on toward Dinner.

I was the guest of Herman, whom I first met in New York, when he was becoming known as one of the better young Negro novelists. Now he was living very quietly in a modest little hillside home overlooking the Hollywood Freeway, content for a while to replace literature with domestic simplicities.

His companion, Charles, did no writing and needed no special talents, aside. from his own sunny personality and slim, dark good-looks. With them lived Herman's step-mother, now ninety, who spent much of her time sitting with gracious. dignity to watch the Freeway cars out the big view-window. Again and again she would ask if this indeed was NOT New York. At such times Herman was apt to be impatient with her, but Charles never wearied of telling her that New York was three thousand miles away and that this was California. "Of course, of course." she would say, and then pat Charles' hand. "My boys," she called the two of them and would fret when either one of them was not there.

The "in-laws" had been invited for dinner. That would be Charles' father and mother, his married sister, also slim, dark and beautiful, her fat, good-natured husband and their two-year-old baby, plus the three little brothers, just verging into their teens and already disturbingly handsome, brushed neat as pins in their new Christmas suits. That made twelve of us to sit down at the table, if you counted the baby also.

Charles' father was well past seventy, his mother much younger. They had come west from a share-cropper's farm life in Alabama. Didn't have a well themselves, so walked a quarter of a mile for water. They found their new surroundings a continual amazement. "The children all play together, dark and light, it makes no difference," they would say, time and again, as if not quite sure they could trust their eyes.

They had "known all about" Herman and Charles before they ever left Alabama, Charles' mother once told me. "I can't say I really do understand it,” she said, in her soft, Southern drawl, "but the boys do seem to get along right well together, and they have such a pretty home.”

Herman and Charles themselves made the dinner:-a huge, golden-brown turkey, with oyster dressing, a shallow casserole of candied yams, Irish potatoes, whipped with bits of chives, a giblet gravy that was "the most," hot biscuits, with home-made apple butter, two very good wines...

As we sat down before all this I could not help noticing Herman put his hand over Charles' slim fingers while heads bowed for asking grace, and Charles' father,

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