Sis’ Fanny was Felo’s mother. She was a small, gentle-mannered, energetic old woman, whose sole interest in life was the comfort and welfare of her numerous grandchildren. She sold cakes and vegetables about the village for a livelihood; accepting from Felo whatever assistance he felt inclined to give her from his limited income as butler “to Mr. Amos house, ’cross de river.”
“Ma Fanny home, yonder”; Felo answered, “runnin’ roun’ worrin’ ’bout dem no-count chillun. She well; but she cert’ny a p’ovokin’ ole soul ’bout dat hog she got yonder. She ain’ sattafy havin’ seven head o’ chillun to wait on her, but gotta wait for me to come home from ’way ’cross de river on Sunday, for me to run all over Gritny to hunt slop. Da’s w’at make me so late gittin’ hyuh tonight; had to tote slop from fo’ diffunt places.”
“Who, Mr. Felo?” Scilla exclaimed in astonishment. “Had to tote slop on Sunday, an’ big All Saints Day, too?”
“Hog got to eat on Sunday same as people, ain’t it?” Felo asked, rebukingly.
“You gotta watch out whah you take slop from dese days, Mr. Felo,” she advised warningly. “Some people got nice slop, an’ some people slop is sho treach’ous. My cousin, down de coas’, had a hog w’at got his th’oat cut clean thoo, from eatin’ slop w’at had razor blades in it. Sho did. An’ ever since dat time, my cousin make her chillun sif’ evvy bit o’ slop dey brings home.”
“How come Sis’ Fanny don’ sell de hog?” asked Susan. “Hog meat bringin’ good price at the butcher shop dis time o’ year.”
“Da’s w’at I bin tellin’ her”; said Felo, “but she so cawntrary she won’ lissen. She say she keepin’ it to be a mother hog.”
The sudden arrival of Nookie put an end to any further intimate details which might have embroidered Felo’s domestic plaint. Her fantastic attire, as well as her dramatic entrance, made her the immediate object of attention.
She was a fat, glossy-black young woman, with shining eyes and teeth, fully conscious of the charms of both. Her dress was an antiquated blue silk creation of long-past glory; the skirt much-beruffled; the basque-front prodigal with “coffee-dipped” oriental lace, cascading from her neck far below the waist line. Her hat was a piece of home-evolved millinery, large and laborious; made of plaited pink crepe paper, a home-cured sea gull encompassing its luxuriant dimensions, with outspread, tethered wings. She carried a long handled parasol of blue silk, rich in rents and uncovered ribs; and over her arm was a faded, black cashmere cape, with remnants of fringe and ravished beads.