“Oh, yes; I know that. What is happening here? Brian, let us stand back and watch them. I do love colored people.”
They withdrew a little from the moving stream of passers-by on the sidewalk, and accompanied by the dog placed their backs against the building. In front of them was a group of colored men and women, all warmly bundled in odds and ends of clothing, and laughing, chattering, and joking in the “wisely careless, innocently gay” fashion peculiar to their race.
“Small wonder that they do not feel the cold,” said Camperdown. “Just look at the clothes they have on. Talk about Edinburgh fishwives, they only wear seventeen petticoats. This stout dame has on seventy at least, haven’t you, auntie?” he asked, as a middle-aged colored woman approached them to get a basket, which was like a little, gay garden spot on the frozen snow, so filled was it with bunches of wintergreen and verdant ferns, dyed grasses, long and feathery, and heaps of red maple leaves, carefully pressed and waxed to preserve their flaming tints.
“Hasn’t I what, chile?” she asked, taking her short, black pipe from her mouth, and regarding him with a beaming, ebony face.
“Aren’t you pretty well protected against the inclemency of the weather?” he inquired meekly.
“I don’t know what ’clemency be, but the weather, good lan’, I knows that. Has to dress accordin’. Look at me feet, chile,” and she held up a substantial pair of men’s long-legged boots. “Inside that I’ve got on socks. Inside that agin, women’s stockin’s. And I’ve got on other wearin’ apparels belongin’ to men too, and Jemima Jane’s dress, and Grandmother Brown’s and me own ole frock, and on me head I puts a cloud, and on me cloud I puts a cap, and on me arms three pair o’ stockin’ legs, and on me hans two pair o’ mitts, an’ over all I puts me bes’ Sunday-go-to-meetin’ mantle, what I wears to the baptizins, an’ here an’ there,” mysteriously, “a few other happenins,” and bending over her basket she closed her thick lips on her pipe.
Camperdown watched her gravely.
“If you was a colored gemman, an’ had to ris’ in the middle o’ the night, an’ bile your kettle, an’ feed your pig, an breakfus your young uns, an hitch your ox,” she said presently, straightening herself up and laughing all over her face at him, “an drive a thought o’ twelve mile to town, an’ stan’ till gun fire, and perform your week’s buyin’, an’ peregrenize home over the Preston roads, which is main bad this weather, you’d habit yourself mebbe worsen I do, an’ not look so handsum nuther.”
Roguishly winking at him, she elevated her long basket to the top of her head and walked away, her back as straight as a soldier’s. With never a hand put up to steady the nodding, swaying garden spot atop of her head, she guided herself among the crowd of people, her manifold tier of petticoats bobbing behind her like the tail of a gigantic bird, and presently disappeared.
“Good souls, those colored people,” ejaculated Camperdown, looking after her. “They live on their spirits. Oh, look here, Stargarde,” and he drew some envelopes from his pocket. “Flora is chameleonizing. She’s going to give a dance for ma’m’selle. Read that invitation card. I frightened her into civility.”