“Cock-a-doodle! See its feathers ruffle. You are as spunky as the Henry’s game cock,” cried Constance laughing and gathering Eleanor’s head into her arms to maul it until her hair came down.
“Well,” retorted Eleanor, struggling to free herself from the tempestuous embrace, “so they are.”
“Yes, my beloved sister. I’ll admit all that, but bear in mind that their ancestors were born in Pennsylvania not in ’ole Caroliny, and that’s the difference ’twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee. I don’t believe Mad Anthony stopped to consider whether he was a patrician or a plebeian when he was storming old Stony Point, or getting fodder for Valley Forge, so I don’t believe I will, when I set out to hustle for frocks and footgear for his descendants. So put your pride in your pocket, Nornie, and watch me grow rich and the family blossom out in luxuries undreamed of. I’m going to do it: you’ll see,” ended Constance in a tone so full of hope and courage that Eleanor then and there resolved not to argue the point further or discourage her.
“When are you going to begin this enterprise?” she asked.
“This very day. I’m only waiting for Mammy to come back from market with some things I need, and there she is now. Good-bye. Go look after the little Mumsie, or Jean; you’d find your hands full with the last undertaking, no doubt,” and with a merry laugh Constance ran down-stairs to greet Mammy who was just entering the back door.
[CHAPTER XI—First Ventures]
“Did you get all the things, Mammy?” cried Constance, as she flew into the kitchen where Mammy stood puffing and panting like a grampus, for the new home was at the top of a rather steep ascent and the climb took the old woman’s breath.
“Co’se Ise got ’em,” panted Mammy, as she untied the strings of her bright purple worsted hood. “Dar dey is, all ob ’em, eve’y one, an yo’ kin git busy jes’ as fas’ as yo’s a mind ter. But, la, honey, don’ yo’ let yo’ ma know nothin’ ’tall ’bout it, ’cause she lak ’nough frail me out fer lettin’ yo’ do hit. But sumpin ’s gotter be done in dis yere fambly. What wid de rint fer dis place, an’ de taxes for de yether, an’ de prices dey’s teken’ ter chargin’, fer t’ings ter eat, I ’clar’ ter goodness dar ain’t gwine be nuffin ’tall lef’ fer we-all ter fall back on ef we done teken sick, er bleeged ter do sumpin’ extra,” ended Mammy as she bustled about putting away her things and untying the packages as Constance lifted them from the basket.
“Yes, you’ve got every single thing I need, Mammy, and now I’ll begin right off. Which kettles and pans can you spare for my very own? I don’t want to bother to ask every time and if I have my own set at the very beginning that saves bother in the end,” cried Constance, as she slipped her arms through the shoulder straps of a big gingham apron and after many contortions succeeded in buttoning it back of her shoulders.
“Dar you is!” said Mammy, taking from their hooks, above her range two immaculate porcelain saucepans, and standing them upon the well-scrubbed kitchen table with enough emphasis to give the transfer significance. “Dey’s yours fer keeps, but don’ yo’ let me ketch yo’ burnin’ de bottoms of ’em.”