[CHAPTER V—Mammy Makes Investigations.]
“Bress de Lord, we ain’t got ter run no counter on Thanksgiving Day!” was Mammy’s fervent exclamation, as she rose from her bed on the Monday preceding Thanksgiving Day. Hurrying across the room she opened the draughts in the little stove, for Charles’ rheumatic twinges must not be aggravated by the sudden chill of rising from a warm bed to dress in a cold room. The fire had been carefully covered the night before, and now, replenished by a few shovelfuls of coal, and a vigorous shake of the revolving grate, was soon snapping and roaring right comfortably. The rattling had served more than one end, as had the clatter made by putting on the fresh fuel. Although Mammy had no idea of permitting her spouse to contract a cold from dressing in a cold room, she, on the other hand, saw no reason why he should indulge in over-many morning winks after she, herself, had risen and begun the duties of the day.
“Eh? Um, yas, Honey,” came in somnolent tones from the billows of feathers in which Charles’ shiny bald pate, with its fringe of snowy wool, was nearly buried. Mammy could not abide the new-fangled hair mattresses, but clung tenaciously to her bygone ideas of “real downright comfort fer a body dat’s clar beat out when de day’s done. No, sir-ee! Don’t talk ter me ob dese hyar ha’r mattresses. I ain’t got a mite er use fer ’em needer has Charles, if I ses-so. Give me de suah ’nough fedders wid de down on ’em; none ob yo’ hawse ha’r stuffed bags. De fedders fits wherever dey teches, ’an snugs up mighty soft on de achy spots, but dose highfalutin’ h’ar mattresses,—well, dey jest lak dese hyar Norf folks we meet up wid: ef yo’ kin fit dem, well an’ good, yo’s all right, but does yo’ t’ink dey’s gwine ter try fer ter fit yo’? Go ’long, chile.”
Consequently the bed, which stood in the bedroom of the little cottage in which Mammy and Charles lived, boasted a feather bed, the like of which for downiness and size was rarely seen. It had been made by Mammy herself of the downiest of feathers, plucked by her own hand from the downiest of her own geese, hatched under her own critical eyes when she was a young woman on her old master’s plantation. It had taken many geese, many days, much drying and curing to achieve such a triumph; and the “baid” was Mammy’s most cherished possession. The airings, sunnings, beatings and renovatings to which it had been subjected during the years she had owned it would have totally wrecked any less perfect article of household economy; but it had survived all, and each morning, after its prescribed hours of airing, was “spread up” into a most imposing mound, covered with a “croshey” spread, made by the sanctified hands of “ol’ Miss” (Mrs. Carruth’s mother), and still further adorned by “piller shams,” made by “Miss Jinny” herself.
More than one of Mrs. Carruth’s guests had been conducted through Mammy’s cottage by its proud inmate, and the “baid” and its coverings displayed with justifiable pride.
“Yas, wake up!” commanded Mammy, making her own toilet with despatch. “We’s got a pile o’ wo’k ter do terday, an’ I’se gotter see dat dose no count nigger gals what’s a-pertendin’ ter do Miss Jinny’s wo’k now-a-days gits a move on ’em. Dey pesters me mightily, dough I ain’t let ’em ’spect it, I tells yo’. Ef I did dey’d jes nachelly climb right ober de house an’ ebery las’ pusson in it. But I knows how ter han’le ’em ef Miss Jinny don’t. She t’ink she gwine do it jes lak she useter back yonder on her Pa’s plantation, but it don’ do up hyar. Trouble is wid dese hyar Norf niggers dey ain’ know dey is niggers, and dey gits mighty mix in dey minds twell somebody come along and tells ’em jest ’zackly what dey is, an’ whar dey b’longs at. I done tol’ dem two in yonder, an’ I reckon dey’s learnt a heap since I done took ’em in han’. Yas, I does. Dey don’ come a-splurgin’ an’ a-splutterin’ roun’ me no mo’ wid dey, ‘Dis hyar ain’ ma juty. I ain’ ’gaged fer ter do dat wuk.’ My Lawd! I come pretty nigh bustin’ dat Lilly May’s haid las’ week when I tell her ter do sumpin’ an’ she say dat ter me. She foun’ out what her juty was, an’ she ain’t fergit it again, I tell yo’. Now come ’long down, Charles, I gwine have brekfus ready befo’ yo’ get yo’ wool breshed,” and off hurried the old woman to begin the routine of her more than busy day.
The clock was striking five when Charles came slowly down the stairs and entered the immaculate kitchen. The past three years have dealt kindly with the old couple in spite of their incessant labors. Mammy has not changed in the least. Charles is a trifle more bent, perhaps, but the three years have certainly not detracted from the old man’s appearance, nor have they robbed him of any strength. Indeed, he seems in better health and physical condition than upon the day he celebrated his golden wedding. Mammy has made up for the lost years by caring for him as she would have cared for a child.
The business which they started in the Arcade has flourished and prospered beyond their wildest hopes. Charles still holds the honorary position of “Janitor-in-Chief” at the Arcade, a sinecure in every sense of the word excepting one; he keeps the acting janitor up to the high mark in the performance of his duties, greatly to Mr. Porter’s amusement. He also keeps the dapper mulatto youth, who now serves at the lunch counter headed due north. To that young man Charles is “Mr. Devon,” of the firm of “Blairsdale & Devon.”
At the cottage Mammy still cooks, bakes, preserves and concocts with all her wonderful skill, assisted by a little colored girl, the eldest of those whom Jean impressed upon Mammy’s wedding day.
Oh, Mammy is a most important personage these days.