It was the day before Thanksgiving, in the year of our Lord 1892, and Miss Myra sat upon the floor of her mother's dingy little parlor deeply absorbed in thought. She was working just at present for banker Holmes' people, but fortunately for herself the entire family had gone east a week before Thanksgiving in order to eat turkey in good old-fashioned comfort with relatives not seen for months. This left Miss Myra free to enjoy life to the uttermost. To be sure she carried the key to the big house in her pocket, and daily went through the pretense of airing and then dusting the premises. She also had access to the cold storage room, which privilege augmented greatly the bill of fare at her father's shanty. Her parents had since earliest childhood greatly admired their offspring, and this ability of hers to vary the supply and quality of their edibles on occasion did not at all diminish this fond regard.
Miss Myra had enjoyed her freedom now for seven whole days; she had walked the streets at morning, noon and night, dressed always in her best, and this best was no mean style, for the young woman was possessed of a figure neat and trim, while every cent of her earnings went into clothes with which she might easily outshine the rest of the working girl population of Rexville. She had, during these past seven days, neither baked nor swept, set the table, or made the beds for anybody. In fact, she had lived an existence of unalloyed pleasure which comes from that idleness so dear to the African heart. But now she owned—to herself, at least—that she was tired. The dull monotony wearied her.
What could she do to create a new sensation? she asked herself, while she sat with her feet crossed under her, tailor-fashion, upon the bare floor. One dingy brown hand, with its hue of pallor on the palm, moved restlessly to and fro through her crown of wool and roughened its carefully plastered locks until they stood out in grotesque tangles all about her head. At length a bright idea occurred to her; she laughed aloud; a merry chime of bells could not make sweeter music. "I'se hit it this time, sure, mammy," she called out to the woman who was bending over a steaming tub in an outer room. Her mother wiped her hands hastily upon the skirt of her gown and went into the parlor where Miss Myra yet sat upon the floor.
"Hit what, chile? What mischief has you got in dat hed of yourn dis time, I'd like to know?" she asked eagerly, as she threw her ponderous body into a chair. "Grand scheme, mammy; the best I'se had yet," announced the girl, as she slowly untangled her feet from beneath her dress and rose from the floor.
"It's bound ter be a first rate one den shuah enough, Myrie," the woman said admiringly, as she watched the supple form stretch itself to relieve the cramped feeling of the limbs caused by her long continued crouching attitude.
"What you goin' do dis time, chile? tell your poor old mammy," the negress went on, seeing the young woman made no haste to unbosom herself of her scheme.
"Wall, then, old lady, if you must know, here goes! but don't let it take your bref away," the girl replied with provoking deliberateness, and she crossed the room to where a small cracked mirror hung upon the wall; here she proceeded to re-arrange her hair, holding the pins in her mouth as she did so, tantalizing yet further the anxious mother. "The longer you wait, the better it'll seem, mammy," Miss Myra said after a few moments. The old lady made no reply; she always let "Myrie" have her own way; she had found by experience that it was not easy to do otherwise. At length even the critical taste of Miss Myra seemed satisfied with the vision she beheld in the little glass, for she turned away with a contented sigh, as she did so exclaiming, "I'se gwine to give a Thanksgiving party here, mammy, tomorrer night! And it'll be a swell affair, tew, take my wurd for it!" Then she put on her coat and hat, blew a kiss from the ends of her fingers toward the old negress yet sitting stupid with amazement in the rickety rocking-chair, and with another ringing, happy laugh went out into the storm. The sky was lead-colored, the wind blew fiercely and flung the snowflakes which were falling rapidly with spiteful force against the girl, until her heavy garments were soon hidden by a soft covering of white. But not even the fleecy crystals of snow had power to change the hue of the ebony face, and Miss Myra, who was a sensitive young woman, could not but feel a sensation of disgust as she thought, "I must look blacker than ever by contrast."
On down the street she walked rapidly; here and there she paused long enough at some house to leave an invitation for the cook or coachman to attend her Thanksgiving party; but at the end of two hours this part of her preparation was ended.
It was time, then, she decided, to turn her attention to further details of her audacious plan; and retracing her steps she soon found herself at banker Holmes' door. Here she entered, and for a long time busied herself with necessary preparations for the morrow's festivities. As twilight fell, she closed the house once more and walked rapidly homeward. That she had not been idle, the next night's feast would show.