The reader may imagine that he is at this prosperous country home, in the Piedmont region of the South, where cotton is king, and hog and hominy the staff of life, and view the scene.
It is springtime, a beautiful fair morning in early June, and the grandfather clock, one that had been in the family for several generations, had just struck nine. Mrs. Parks was at peace with the world. She had helped to red up the house, to feed the poultry, strain the fresh milk, churn and put away the butter and written a letter to her oldest son, who was off at college.
Old Matt, who served as cook, chambermaid, milkmaid, dairymaid, and errand runner, was preparing dinner.
“Have you put on your greens, Matt?” asked Mrs. Parks, throwing back her head, and calling over her shoulder.
“Yes’m, long ’go,” responded the faithful Matt.
“What do you think about killing a chicken? Do you reckon we’ll have company?”
“Des as shore, Miss Jule, as I’se livin’; I’se done drap de dish rag ergin. Ef I wuz you, I’d be skeered to risk it.”
“Well, I think so myself, for George took butter this morning when he had butter on his plate, and that is a pretty sure sign. When the rooster crows in front of the house, and the cook drops the dish rag three times, and the head of the family takes butter when he’s got butter, all of the signs point one way.