“Buy her a pair of flannel foot-warmers as a contribution from me,” said Grandpa Radcliffe. “I am aware how uncomfortable cold feet are in the winter.”
“Well, if you’ll have all of that—I was about to say plunder—up at my office at five sharp, I’ll undertake to send it out in a transfer wagon by half-past six,” said Uncle Joe, thus solving the last difficulty.
By the time the family had assembled for the sumptuous Yule feast that evening, the depression of Mammy Rose’s mental status manifested itself in grumpy monosyllables. She was secretly lamenting the fact that she had told anybody about her expectations. The other servants had been whispering and snickering over her chagrin, or, she thought they had, while the white people from the children up seemed fairly bubbling over with Christmas mirth. Apparently, every one had some particular reason for rejoicing except herself. Thus far, this Christmas had been the most “disappintin’” one that she could remember.
Half an hour later when the salad course was being served the cuckoo clock and the front door bell sounded in unison. Everyone seated around the table gave an expectant start. Presently the man servant staggered in under the weight of a great wooden box that was directed to “Rose Wilkerson, Care of Mr. Theodore Radcliffe, 456 Spruce Street, Memphis, Tenn.” Mammy Rose bounded in through the back hall door the moment her name was pronounced. The thunder clouds had disappeared from her brow and her face was wreathed with smiles. “I know’d it, I know’d it all along!” she declared. “My, but ain’t it heavy, an’ don’t h’it rattle. It’d be jes like dem scatter-brained gals ter pack things so as ter get peach preserves all ober my bran’-new shawl.”
A friendly audience followed the radiant old woman to the kitchen amid stifled laughter and concealed nudging and many pairs of eyes rested with affectionate interest upon her while she nervously assisted Jeff to draw out the nails. The first thing that met her gaze was the peach preserves; three whole jars of it were lifted out in succession. “Land o’ Goshen!” she exclaimed. “Ain’t I gwine ter hab a feast? They must o’ thought I was gwine ter set up a eatin-house—an’ a whole gallon o’ watermillon-rind pickles. Ef dat don’t beat——”
Rob had extracted the gray shawl from the odd conglomeration in the box, and he laid it lightly over her shoulders. “Lor! Dis here gyarment sho’ is warm an’ must er cost a heap o’ money. All dis comin’ on top o’ my grumbling, too. ’Pears like wonders don’t neber stop ceasin’!” Next she drew out the satin sofa cushion and for a half a minute she stared at it in blank amazement. For the first time vague misgivings as to where the gifts came from began to arise within her. “My—ee! Dis sho’ is pretty, an’ somebody had mighty good taste,” she ventured to say. She handled it very gingerly, however; according to her way of thinking it hardly seemed intended for her personal use and was far too perishable to adorn a negro cabin.
“Well, I guess Lizzie and Callie must hev struck the Louisiana Lott’ry,” she declared, sighting the pink and white satin quilt. “Dis here spread cartin’ly is made after a handsome pattern, but I’ll be blest ef I knows how dey done it out o’ dem mixed calico scraps. Jes ter think o’ dem young niggers puttin’ dey se’ves to all dis trouble fur de sake ob Mammy Rose!”
In the midst of her jubilation the electric bell rang again; rang furiously this time. A man at the door handed in a wooden box about two and a half feet square. It was for Mistress Rose Wilkerson and came from Petersburg, Virginia. Every confederate in the room gasped audibly. Mammy Rose grasped the end of the table to steady herself. Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe exchanged uneasy glances, Grandma Radcliffe turned very white and sat down suddenly, and a sepulchral silence reigned broken only by the sound of the hatchet in Jerry’s deft hand. To the darkies assembled in the background there was something “spookey” about the square parcel; they wouldn’t have touched it for worlds. Edith was the first person to whom the humorous side of the situation presented itself. Stepping forward with commendable presence of mind, she tore away the brown butcher’s paper that concealed the contents of the second box. A small gray plaid shoulder shawl fell out upon the floor; a card was attached to it bearing these words: “To Aunt Rose from her deserving nieces Lizzie and Callie Goode.”
Simultaneously both women dived into the melange of queer treasures and brought forth a little China vase that was decidedly “niggery” (no other word could adequately describe it
), a small jar of peach marmalade, and a sack of loose goose feathers. That last article broke the spell. Further effort at maintaining the deception was useless—the plot was out. Mammy Rose, no longer mystified, but on the verge of hysterics over the honors done her, essayed to express her gratitude: “Well, if you all ain’t de beatin’est white folks an’ ef I ain’t de discomboberatedest critter dat ever——!” Choking with emotion, she raised her brimming eyes to her benefactors to find herself—alone.