“There, now. Warm yourselves, and take your own time for it. Put in wood, Jim, and keep as much fire as you like. I am going to my room to rest for an hour. Be sure that you don’t go off, for I wish you to stay here until you are thoroughly rested. I have plenty of wood for you to saw, Jim.”
I brought out a pan of cookies. I set them on the table. “Here, Rose, see that Peyty and Kit have all they want. When I come down, I’ll get you some dinner.”
The poor children in stories, and in real life, too, for that matter, always get only bread and butter—dear me, poor dears! When I undertake a romance for these waifs in real life, or story, I always give them cookies—cookies, sweet, golden, and crusty, with sifted sugar.
I left them all, even to Jim, looking over into the pan. My! rich, sugary jumbles, and plummy queen’s cakes? When I saw their eyes dance—no sleep in those eyes now—I was glad it wasn’t simply wholesome sandwiches and plain fried cakes, as somebody at my elbow says now it ought to have been. I would have set out a picnic table, with ice-cream and candies, for those wretched little “niggas,” if I could! I nodded to them, and went away. It is so nice, after you have made a child happy, to add some unmistakable sign that it is quite welcome to the happiness!
I knew there was nothing which they could steal. I expected they would explore the pantry. I judged them by some of my little white friends. But the silver was locked up. China and glass would hardly be available. If, after they had stuffed themselves with those cookies, they could want cold meat, and bread and butter, I surely shouldn’t begrudge it. Then I thought of my own especial lemon tart, which stood cooling on the shelf before the window; but I was not going back to insult that manly Jim Moncton by removing it.
Just as I was slipping on my dressing-gown up in my own cool, quiet chamber, I caught a faint sound of the outside door of the kitchen. Something like a shriek, or a scream, followed. Then there was an unmistakable and mighty overturning of chairs. I rushed down. At the very least I expected to see my romantic “Rose Moncton” with her hands clenched in brother Jim’s kinky hair. With loosened tresses, without belt or collar, I appeared on the scene.
What did I see? Why, I saw Phillis, Mrs. Jack Graham’s black cook, with every one of my little “niggas” in her arms—heads of the family and all! There they were, sobbing and laughing together, the portly Phillis the loudest of the whole. One of Mrs. Jack’s favorite china bowls lay in fragments on the floor.
Phillis called out hysterically as she saw me. Jim discovered me the same moment. He detached himself, went up to the window, and bowed his head down upon the sash. I saw the tears roll down his cheek and drop.
“Laws, Miss Carry! dese my ole mas’r’s niggers! dey’s Mas’r Moncton’s little nigs, ebery one! dey’s runned roun’ under my feet in Mas’r Moncton’s kitchen many a day down in ole Carline—bress em souls!” She hugged them again, and sobbed afresh, The children clung to the old cook’s neck, and waist, and arms like so many helpless, frightened black kittens.
Phillis at last recovered her dignity. She pointed them to their chairs. She picked up the pieces of china in her apron. “Done gone, anyhow—dese pickaninnies gib ole Phillis sich a turn! It mose like seein’ Mas’r Moncton an’ Miss Nelly demselves. Whar you git ’em, Miss Carry?”