Aunt Minervy Ann received a greeting that seemed to please her, whereupon she explained that an excursion had come to Atlanta from her town, and she had seized the opportunity to pay me a visit. “I tol’ um,” said she, “dat dey could stay up in town dar an’ hang ’roun’ de kyar-shed ef dey wanter, but here’s what wuz gwine ter come out an’ see whar you live at, an’ fin’ out fer Marse Tumlin ef you comin’ down ter de fa’r.”
She was informed that, though she was welcome, she would get small pleasure from her visit. The cook had failed to make her appearance, and the lady of the house was at that moment in the kitchen and in a very fretful state of mind, not because she had to cook, but because she had about reached the point where she could place no dependence in the sisterhood of colored cooks.
“Is she in de kitchen now?” Aunt Minervy’s tone was a curious mixture of amusement and indignation. “I started not ter come, but I had a call, I sho’ did; sump’n tol’ me dat you mought need me out here.” With that, she went into the house, slamming the screen-door after her, and untying her bonnet as she went.
Now, the lady of the house had heard of Aunt Minervy Ann, but had never met her, and I was afraid that the characteristics of my old-time friend would be misunderstood and misinterpreted. The lady in question knew nothing of the negro race until long after emancipation, and she had not been able to form a very favorable opinion of its representatives. Therefore, I hastened after Aunt Minervy Ann, hoping to tone down by explanation whatever bad impression she might create. She paused at the screen-door that barred the entrance to the kitchen, and, for an instant, surveyed the scene within. Then she cried out:
“You des ez well ter come out’n dat kitchen! You ain’t got no mo’ bizness in dar dan a new-born baby.”
Aunt Minervy Ann’s voice was so loud and absolute that the lady gazed at her in mute astonishment. “You des es well ter come out!” she insisted.
“Are you crazy?” the lady asked, in all seriousness.
“I’m des ez crazy now ez I ever been; an’ I tell you you des ez well ter come out’n dar.”
“Who are you anyhow?”
“I’m Minervy Ann Perdue, at home an’ abroad, an’ in dish yer great town whar you can’t git niggers ter cook fer you.”