“Here’s a heap o’ apples or oranges w’at somebody’s done sont,” he announced. “De ’spress man dumped ’em at de side do’. I ’spect dey’s a present; he said thar wan’t nothin’ ter pay.”
“O! They must be oranges or grapefruit for Mother from Florida. Uncle Alex always remembers us at Christmas time,” said Edith. “Roll them into the store room and remove the head of the barrel!”
“We sho’ air gwine ter hev’ some nice little puddin’s did Christmas ef folks does say de orange crap’s a failure,” declared Mammy Rose, standing with arms akimbo, her face brightening over the prospect of good cheer, then, in a stentorian voice she hailed the young negro who was disappearing in the direction of the barn.
“You Jeff! Stop dar! Wa’n’t dar a box or a package or somethin’ else lef’ here? Dar ought ’er been,” she said, assuming an air of mingled mystery and importance. “I was kind o’ ’spectin’ a ’spress package myse’f.”
“You? An express package, Mammy Rose? From whom?” asked Edith, pausing in her work to scrutinize the picturesque and somewhat bent figure in the plaid gingham apron and bandanna head-handkerchief.
“From dem lazy niggers up dar in Virginia, Lizzie and Callie. I’m gittin’ mighty tired o’ deir onreliableness, always promisin’ an’ promisin’ ter do things an’ neber doin’ ’em. ’Pears ter me like a little book learnin’s done turned ’em plumb fools, but ef dey does flop dey se’ves ’round wid dey high edycation, de’s one word in the booktinary dey ain’t neber foun’ de meanin’ ob; dey don’t know nothin’ ’tall ’bout gratichude. Ain’t I done had dat Lizzie and Callie down here, livin’ off o’ me a whole winter, neber feelin’ sure fur cartain dat dey was my nieces, dey being yaller-brown like m’lasses candy an’ me as black as der pot hit’s made in? Ain’t I axed ’em ter come all unbeknownst ’case dey wrote dey was my sister Car’line’s orphan chil’un, an’ case dey come from Petersburg whar I come from when I was a little gal? Ain’ I sont ’em things an’ sont ’em things Christmas after Christmas till I’se clean wo’ out? I b’lieves in ’ciprocation, I does fur er fac’!”
For more than thirty years Mammy Rose had been a faithful employee in the Radcliffe family, and naturally everything that affected her happiness was a matter of household concern. She had taken up her abode in the old Colonial residence before any of the children were born, and, in point of fact, she was as much a fixture there as were the drawing-room mirrors or the mahogany stairway. As an accomplished cook, Mammy Rose’s reputation had spread far and wide till she had become the envy of every troubled housekeeper in the vicinity. Strange to say, though she could prepare a hundred dainty dishes fit “to set before a king,” she couldn’t for the life of her have given the exact recipe for a single one. When asked how she made her famous Sally-lunn, corn-pudding, waffles or jelly cake, she would look very wise and say, “You see, I cooks by ’sperience; I takes a little ob dis, an’ a little of dat, an’ ef tain’t ’nough I takes some mo’.” But, perhaps, in the care of young children Mammy Rose was most truly in her element. She loved them and “spoiled” them as if they were her own, and often, when tired of wrestling with the pots and kettles, she would resort to the nursery for a fresh assignment of duty. Nothing delighted her more than to play the role of fairy godmother to the little folks.
Provoked beyond her habitual good humor on this December afternoon by the neglect of her young kinswomen, Mammy Rose’s tirade was at its height when Mrs. Radcliffe stepped into the room to give an order. Upon hearing the names Lizzie and Callie pronounced in strident, contemptuous tones, she glanced significantly at Edith, suspicioning that the derelict nieces were again at the bottom of the trouble.
“I wouldn’t set my heart upon getting that box if I were you, Rosa,” said the mistress, when the matter had been explained. Judging from past delinquencies that the girls’ promises were of the pie crust kind, she wished to soften the servant’s disappointment.
“Now, see here, Mammy, Lizzie and Callie may not be totally ungrateful, but perhaps they just won’t remember to send you a gift,” suggested Edith, offering the only consolation that came to mind.