Margie was cross. It was a rainy day, and she was having to sew; two
things she hated.
“I think it might rain on school days. And I wish dish-cloths had never
been invented,” she exclaimed, jerking her thread into a tangle.
“You ought to move down south,” quietly said her aunt.
“Why? Don’t they have rain and dish-cloths there?”
“Yes, of course they do; and I will tell you a true story, if you will
promise not to complain the least bit for the rest of the day.”
Margie promised; and, after threading a needle, her aunt began:
“When I was in Georgia, last October, I saw a queer vine growing over
the porch of an old negro’s cabin. It looked like a pumpkin vine, with
its great coarse leaves, and it had green, gourd-like seed pods, or
fruit, hanging all over it. I asked the old colored man, who was hoeing
near by, about it, and he said, in surprise: ‘Lawsy me! Didn’ you neber
heerd tell ob a dishrag vine afore?’
“‘Dishrag!’ I echoed.
“‘Yes, they grows dishrags on ’em,’ he answered. Then, pulling off one
of the funny gourds, he cut it in two and showed me the matted fibers
inside. It seems when these halves are dried in the sun, that they
become something like a tough sponge.
“He seemed very proud of the fact that his wife had used one for a whole
year, and asked, in a tone half of pity and half of disgust, ‘Does you
all hab ter use er rag?’ He was pitying me just as I was sorry for him!
It was too funny to see him hobble off, shaking his head and laughing at
a white woman who ‘neber knowed nothin’ ’bout dishrag vines!’”
“Will you bring me one next winter, aunt?” Margie asked.
“Do you want to wash my dishes with it?”
“N-no. I’d rather hem cloths, I b’lieve: but I’d like to try it on my
doll dishes.”
Lee McCrae.