supper;" therefore, doubt not that it is her you see by the
fire, presiding with anxious interest over certain frizzling
items in a stew-pan, and anon with grave consideration lifting
the cover of a bake-kettle, from whence steam forth indubitable intimations of "something good." A round, black,
shining face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that she
might have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of
her own tea rusks. Her whole plump countenance beams
with satisfaction and contentment from under her well-starched
checked turban, bearing on it, however, if we must confess it,
a little of that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the
first cook of the neighborhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally
held and acknowledged to be.
A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. Not a chicken or turkey or duck in the barn-yard but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end; and certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised compounders; and she would shake her fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her compeers had made to attain to her elevation.
The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinners and suppers "in style," awoke all the energies of her soul; and no sight was more welcome to her than a pile of travelling trunks launched on the verandah, for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs.
Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the
