“Well, if you want me to come out of the kitchen, you will have to come in and do the cooking.”
“Dat ’zackly what I’m gwine ter do!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann. She went into the kitchen, demanded an apron, and took entire charge. “I’m mighty glad I come ’fo’ you got started,” she said, “’kaze you got ’nuff fier in dis stove fer ter barbecue a hoss; an’ you got it so hot in here dat it’s a wonder you ain’t bust a blood-vessel.”
She removed all the vessels from the range, and opened the door of the furnace so that the fire might die down. And when it was nearly out—as I was told afterward—she replaced the vessels and proceeded to cook a dinner which, in all its characteristics, marked a red letter day in the household.
“She’s the best cook in the country,” said the lady, “and she’s not very polite.”
“Not very hypocritical, you mean; well if she was a hypocrite, she wouldn’t be Aunt Minervy Ann.”
The cook failed to come in the afternoon, and so Aunt Minervy Ann felt it her duty to remain over night. “Hamp’ll vow I done run away wid somebody,” she said, laughing, “but I don’t keer what he think.”
After supper, which was as good as the dinner had been, Aunt Minervy Ann came out on the veranda and sat on the steps. After some conversation, she placed the lady of the house on the witness-stand.
“Mistiss, wharbouts in Georgy wuz you born at?”
“I wasn’t born in Georgia; I was born in Lansingburgh, New York.”