fell one of those "flashes of silence" to which she was as little
given as the great historian. The pan of dumplings waited for the
sprinkling of spice and sugar, while she stood motionless, looking
afar off, though her gaze apparently stopped on the vacant whitewashed
wall before her. No mind reader's art was needed to tell what scene
her faded eyes beheld. There was the old church, with its battered
furniture and high pulpit. For one brief moment the grave had yielded
up its dead, and "the old familiar faces" looked out from every pew.
We were very near together, Aunt Jane and I; but the breeze that
fanned her brow was not the breeze I felt as I sat by her kitchen
window. For her a wind was blowing across the plains of memory; and
the honeysuckle odor it carried was not from the bush in the yard. It
came, weighted with dreams, from the blossoms that her Jane had placed
on the organ twenty-five years ago. A bob-white was calling in the
meadow across the dusty road, and the echoes of the second bell had
just died away. She and Abram were side by side in their accustomed
place, and life lay like a watered garden in the peaceful stillness of
the time "jest before church begins."
The asparagus on the stove boiled over with a great spluttering, and
Aunt Jane came back to "the eternal now."
"Sakes alive!" she exclaimed, as she lifted the saucepan; "I must be
gittin' old, to let things boil over this way while I'm studyin' about
old times. I declare, I believe I've clean forgot what I was sayin'."
"You were at church," I suggested, "and the singing was about to
begin."
"Sure enough! Well, all at once Miss Penelope laid her hands on the
keys and begun to play and sing 'Nearer, My God, to Thee.' We'd heard
that hymn all our lives at church and protracted meetin's and
prayer-meetin's, but we didn't know how it could sound till Miss
Penelope sung it all by herself that day with our new organ. I
ricollect jest how she looked, pretty little thing that she was; and
sometimes I can hear her voice jest as plain as I hear that robin out
yonder in the ellum tree. Every word was jest like a bright new piece
o' silver, and every note was jest like gold; and she was lookin' up
through the winder at the trees and the sky like she was singin' to
somebody we couldn't see. We clean forgot about the new organ and the
Baptists; and I really believe we was feelin' nearer to God than we'd
ever felt before. When she got through with the first verse, she
played somethin' soft and sweet and begun again; and right in the
middle of the first line--I declare, it's twenty-five years ago, but I
git mad now when I think about it--right in the middle of the first
line Uncle Jim jined in like an old squawkin' jay-bird, and sung like
he was tryin' to drown out Miss Penelope and the new organ, too.
"Everybody give a jump when he first started, and he'd got nearly
through the verse before we took in what was happenin'. Even the
Babtists jest looked surprised like the rest of us. But when Miss
Penelope begun the third time and Uncle Jim jined in with his
hollerin', I saw Bush Elrod grin, and that grin spread all over the
Babtist crowd in no time. The Presbyterian young folks was gigglin'
behind their fans, and Bush got to laughin' till he had to git up and
leave the church. They said he went up the road to Sam Amos' pasture
and laid down on the ground and rolled over and over and laughed till
he couldn't laugh any more.
"I was so mad I started to git up, though goodness knows what I could
'a' done. Abram he grabbed my dress and says, 'Steady, Jane!' jest
like he was talkin' to the old mare. The thing that made me maddest
was Silas Petty a-leanin' back in his pew and smilin' as satisfied as
if he'd seen the salvation of the Lord. I didn't mind the Babtists
half as much as I did Silas.
"The only person in the church that wasn't the least bit flustered was
Miss Penelope. She was a Marshall on her mother's side, and I always
said that nobody but a born lady could 'a' acted as she did. She sung
right on as if everything was goin' exactly right and she'd been
singin' hymns with Uncle Jim all her life. Two or three times when the
old man kind o' lagged behind, it looked like she waited for him to
ketch up, and when she got through and Uncle Jim was lumberin' on the
last note, she folded her hands and set there lookin' out the winder
where the sun was shinin' on the silver poplar trees, jest as peaceful
as a angel, and the rest of us as mad as hornets. Milly Amos set back
of Uncle Jim, and his red bandanna handkerchief was lyin' over his
shoulders where he'd been shooin' the flies away. She told me the next
day it was all she could do to keep from reachin' over and chokin' the
old man off while Miss Penelope was singin'.
"I said Miss Penelope was the only one that wasn't flustered. I ought
to 'a' said Miss Penelope and Uncle Jim. The old creetur was jest that
simple-minded he didn't know he'd done anything out o' the way, and he
set there lookin' as pleased as a child, and thinkin', I reckon, how
smart he'd been to help Miss Penelope out with the singin'.
"The rest o' the hymns went off all right, and it did me good to see
Uncle Jim's face when they struck up the new tunes. He tried to jine
in, but he had to give it up and wait for the doxology.
"Parson Page preached a powerful good sermon, but I don't reckon it
did some of us much good, we was so put out about Uncle Jim spilin'
our voluntary.
"After meetin' broke and we was goin' home, me and Abram had to pass
by Silas Petty's wagon. He was helpin' Maria in, and I don't know what
she'd been sayin', but he says, 'It's a righteous judgment on you
women, Maria, for profanin' the Lord's house with that there organ.'
And, mad as I was, I had to laugh when I thought of old Uncle Jim
Matthews executin' a judgment of the Lord. Uncle Jim never made more'n
a half-way livin' at the carpenter's trade, and I reckon if the Lord
had wanted anybody to help him execute a judgment, Uncle Jim would 'a'
been the last man he'd 'a' thought of.
"Of course the choir was madder'n ever at Uncle Jim; and when Milly
Amos had fever that summer, she called Sam to her the day she was at
her worst, and pulled his head down and whispered as feeble as a baby:
'Don't let Uncle Jim sing at my funeral, Sam. I'll rise up out of my
coffin if he does.' And Sam broke out a-laughin' and a-cryin' at the
same time--he thought a heap o' Milly--and says he, 'Well, Milly, if
it'll have that effect, Uncle Jim shall sing at the funeral, sure.'
And Milly got to laughin', weak as she was, and in a few minutes she
dropped off to sleep, and when she woke up the fever was gone, and she
begun to git well from that day. I always believed that laugh was the
turnin'-p'int. Instead of Uncle Jim singin' at her funeral, she sung
at Uncle Jim's, and broke down and cried like a child for all the mean
things she'd said about the pore old creetur's voice."
The asparagus had been transferred to a china dish, and the browned
butter was ready to pour over it. The potatoes were steaming
themselves into mealy delicacy, and Aunt Jane peered into the stove
where the dumplings were taking on a golden brown. Her story-telling
evidently did not interfere with her culinary skill, and I said so.
"La, child," she replied, dashing a pinch of "seasonin" into the peas,
"when I git so old I can't do but one thing at a time, I'll try to die
as soon as possible."
III
AUNT JANE'S ALBUM
[Illustration]
They were a bizarre mass of color on the sweet spring landscape, those
patchwork quilts, swaying in a long line under the elms and maples.
The old orchard made a blossoming background for them, and farther off
on the horizon rose the beauty of fresh verdure and purple mist on
those low hills, or "knobs," that are to the heart of the Kentuckian
as the Alps to the Swiss or the sea to the sailor.
I opened the gate softly and paused for a moment between the
blossoming lilacs that grew on each side of the path. The fragrance of
the white and the purple blooms was like a resurrection-call over the
graves of many a dead spring; and as I stood, shaken with thoughts as
the flowers are with the winds, Aunt Jane came around from the back of
the house, her black silk cape fluttering from her shoulders, and a
calico sunbonnet hiding her features in its cavernous depth. She
walked briskly to the clothes-line and began patting and smoothing the
quilts where the breeze had disarranged them.
"Aunt Jane," I called out, "are you having a fair all by yourself?"
She turned quickly, pushing back the sunbonnet from her eyes.
"Why, child," she said, with a happy laugh, "you come pretty nigh
skeerin' me. No, I ain't havin' any fair; I'm jest givin' my quilts
their spring airin'. Twice a year I put 'em out in the sun and wind;
and this mornin' the air smelt so sweet, I thought it was a good
chance to freshen 'em up for the summer. It's about time to take 'em
in now."
She began to fold the quilts and lay them over her arm, and I did the
same. Back and forth we went from the clothes-line to the house, and
from the house to the clothes-line, until the quilts were safely
housed from the coming dewfall and piled on every available chair in
the front room. I looked at them in sheer amazement. There seemed to
be every pattern that the ingenuity of woman could devise and the
industry of woman put together,--"four-patches," "nine-patches,"
"log-cabins," "wild-goose chases," "rising suns," hexagons, diamonds,
and only Aunt Jane knows what else. As for color, a Sandwich Islander
would have danced with joy at the sight of those reds, purples,
yellows, and greens.
"Did you really make all these quilts, Aunt Jane?" I asked
wonderingly.
Aunt Jane's eyes sparkled with pride.
"Every stitch of 'em, child," she said, "except the quiltin'. The
neighbors used to come in and help some with that. I've heard folks
say that piecin' quilts was nothin' but a waste o' time, but that
ain't always so. They used to say that Sarah Jane Mitchell would set
down right after breakfast and piece till it was time to git dinner,
and then set and piece till she had to git supper, and then piece by
candle-light till she fell asleep in her cheer.
"I ricollect goin' over there one day, and Sarah Jane was gittin'
dinner in a big hurry, for Sam had to go to town with some cattle,
and there was a big basket o' quilt pieces in the middle o' the
kitchen floor, and the house lookin' like a pigpen, and the children
runnin' around half naked. And Sam he laughed, and says he, 'Aunt
Jane, if we could wear quilts and eat quilts we'd be the richest
people in the country.' Sam was the best-natured man that ever was, or
he couldn't 'a' put up with Sarah Jane's shiftless ways. Hannah
Crawford said she sent Sarah Jane a bundle o' caliker once by Sam, and
Sam always declared he lost it. But Uncle Jim Matthews said he was
ridin' along the road jest behind Sam, and he saw Sam throw it into
the creek jest as he got on the bridge. I never blamed Sam a bit if he
did.
"But there never was any time wasted on my quilts, child. I can look
at every one of 'em with a clear conscience. I did my work faithful;
and then, when I might 'a' set and held my hands, I'd make a block or
two o' patchwork, and before long I'd have enough to put together in a
quilt. I went to piecin' as soon as I was old enough to hold a needle
and a piece o' cloth, and one o' the first things I can remember was
settin' on the back door-step sewin' my quilt pieces, and mother
praisin' my stitches. Nowadays folks don't have to sew unless they
want to, but when I was a child there warn't any sewin'-machines, and
it was about as needful for folks to know how to sew as it was for 'em
to know how to eat; and every child that was well raised could hem and
run and backstitch and gether and overhand by the time she was nine
years old. Why, I'd pieced four quilts by the time I was nineteen
years old, and when me and Abram set up housekeepin' I had bedclothes
enough for three beds.
"I've had a heap o' comfort all my life makin' quilts, and now in my
old age I wouldn't take a fortune for 'em. Set down here, child, where
you can see out o' the winder and smell the lilacs, and we'll look at
'em all. You see, some folks has albums to put folks' pictures in to
remember 'em by, and some folks has a book and writes down the things
that happen every day so they won't forgit 'em; but, honey, these
quilts is my albums and my di'ries, and whenever the weather's bad and
I can't git out to see folks, I jest spread out my quilts and look at
'em and study over 'em, and it's jest like goin' back fifty or sixty
years and livin' my life over agin.
"There ain't nothin' like a piece o' caliker for bringin' back old
times, child, unless it's a flower or a bunch o' thyme or a piece o'
pennyroy'l--anything that smells sweet. Why, I can go out yonder in
the yard and gether a bunch o' that purple lilac and jest shut my eyes
and see faces I ain't seen for fifty years, and somethin' goes through
me like a flash o' lightnin', and it seems like I'm young agin jest
for that minute."
Aunt Jane's hands were stroking lovingly a "nine-patch" that resembled
the coat of many colors.
"Now this quilt, honey," she said, "I made out o' the pieces o' my
children's clothes, their little dresses and waists and aprons. Some
of 'em's dead, and some of 'em's grown and married and a long way off
from me, further off than the ones that's dead, I sometimes think. But
when I set down and look at this quilt and think over the pieces, it
seems like they all come back, and I can see 'em playin' around the
floors and goin' in and out, and hear 'em cryin' and laughin' and
callin' me jest like they used to do before they grew up to men and
women, and before there was any little graves o' mine out in the old
buryin'-ground over yonder."
Wonderful imagination of motherhood that can bring childhood back from
the dust of the grave and banish the wrinkles and gray hairs of age
with no other talisman than a scrap of faded calico!
The old woman's hands were moving tremulously over the surface of the
quilt as if they touched the golden curls of the little dream children
who had vanished from her hearth so many years ago. But there were no
tears either in her eyes or in her voice. I had long noticed that Aunt
Jane always smiled when she spoke of the people whom the world calls
"dead," or the things it calls "lost" or "past." These words seemed to
have for her higher and tenderer meanings than are placed on them by
the sorrowful heart of humanity.
But the moments were passing, and one could not dwell too long on any
quilt, however well beloved. Aunt Jane rose briskly, folded up the one
that lay across her knees, and whisked out another from the huge pile
in an old splint-bottomed chair.
"Here's a piece o' one o' Sally Ann's purple caliker dresses. Sally
Ann always thought a heap o' purple caliker. Here's one o' Milly Amos'
ginghams--that pink-and-white one. And that piece o' white with the
rosebuds in it, that's Miss Penelope's. She give it to me the summer
before she died. Bless her soul! That dress jest matched her face
exactly. Somehow her and her clothes always looked alike, and her
voice matched her face, too. One o' the things I'm lookin' forward
to, child, is seein' Miss Penelope agin and hearin' her sing. Voices
and faces is alike; there's some that you can't remember, and there's
some you can't forgit. I've seen a heap o' people and heard a heap o'
voices, but Miss Penelope's face was different from all the rest, and
so was her voice. Why, if she said 'Good mornin'' to you, you'd hear
that 'Good mornin' all day, and her singin'--I know there never was
anything like it in this world. My grandchildren all laugh at me for
thinkin' so much o' Miss Penelope's singin', but then they never heard
her, and I have: that's the difference. My grandchild Henrietta was
down here three or four years ago, and says she, 'Grandma, don't you
want to go up to Louisville with me and hear Patti sing?' And says I,
'Patty who, child?' Says I, 'If it was to hear Miss Penelope sing, I'd
carry these old bones o' mine clear from here to New York. But there
ain't anybody else I want to hear sing bad enough to go up to
Louisville or anywhere else. And some o' these days,' says I, _'I'm
goin' to hear Miss Penelope sing._'"
Aunt Jane laughed blithely, and it was impossible not to laugh with
her.
"Honey," she said, in the next breath, lowering her voice and laying
her finger on the rosebud piece, "honey, there's one thing I can't git
over. Here's a piece o' Miss Penelope's dress, but _where's Miss
Penelope_? Ain't it strange that a piece o' caliker'll outlast you and
me? Don't it look like folks ought 'o hold on to their bodies as long
as other folks holds on to a piece o' the dresses they used to wear?"
Questions as old as the human heart and its human grief! Here is the
glove, but where is the hand it held but yesterday? Here the jewel
that she wore, but where is she?
"Where is the Pompadour now?
_This_ was the Pompadour's fan!"
Strange that such things as gloves, jewels, fans, and dresses can
outlast a woman's form.
"Behold! I show you a mystery"--the mystery of mortality. And an eery
feeling came over me as I entered into the old woman's mood and
thought of the strong, vital bodies that had clothed themselves in
those fabrics of purple and pink and white, and that now were dust and
ashes lying in sad, neglected graves on farm and lonely roadside.
There lay the quilt on our knees, and the gay scraps of calico seemed
to mock us with their vivid colors. Aunt Jane's cheerful voice called
me back from the tombs.
"Here's a piece o' one o' my dresses," she said; "brown ground with a
red ring in it. Abram picked it out. And here's another one, that
light yeller ground with the vine runnin' through it. I never had so
many caliker dresses that I didn't want one more, for in my day folks
used to think a caliker dress was good enough to wear anywhere. Abram
knew my failin', and two or three times a year he'd bring me a dress
when he come from town. And the dresses he'd pick out always suited me
better'n the ones I picked."
"I ricollect I finished this quilt the summer before Mary Frances was
born, and Sally Ann and Milly Amos and Maria Petty come over and give
me a lift on the quiltin'. Here's Milly's work, here's Sally Ann's,
and here's Maria's."
I looked, but my inexperienced eye could see no difference in the
handiwork of the three women. Aunt Jane saw my look of incredulity.
"Now, child," she said, earnestly, "you think I'm foolin' you, but,
la! there's jest as much difference in folks' sewin' as there is in
their handwritin'. Milly made a fine stitch, but she couldn't keep on
the line to save her life; Maria never could make a reg'lar stitch,
some'd be long and some short, and Sally Ann's was reg'lar, but all of
'em coarse. I can see 'em now stoopin' over the quiltin' frames--Milly
talkin' as hard as she sewed, Sally Ann throwin' in a word now and
then, and Maria never openin' her mouth except to ask for the thread
or the chalk. I ricollect they come over after dinner, and we got the
quilt out o' the frames long before sundown, and the next day I begun
bindin' it, and I got the premium on it that year at the Fair.
"I hardly ever showed a quilt at the Fair that I didn't take the
premium, but here's one quilt that Sarah Jane Mitchell beat me on."
And Aunt Jane dragged out a ponderous, red-lined affair, the very
antithesis of the silken, down-filled comfortable that rests so
lightly on the couch of the modern dame.
"It makes me laugh jest to think o' that time, and how happy Sarah
Jane was. It was way back yonder in the fifties. I ricollect we had a
mighty fine Fair that year. The crops was all fine that season, and
such apples and pears and grapes you never did see. The Floral Hall
was full o' things, and the whole county turned out to go to the
Fair. Abram and me got there the first day bright and early, and we
was walkin' around the amp'itheater and lookin' at the townfolks and
the sights, and we met Sally Ann. She stopped us, and says she, 'Sarah
Jane Mitchell's got a quilt in the Floral Hall in competition with
yours and Milly Amos'.' Says I, 'Is that all the competition there
is?' And Sally Ann says, 'All that amounts to anything. There's one
more, but it's about as bad a piece o' sewin' as Sarah Jane's, and
that looks like it'd hardly hold together till the Fair's over. And,'
says she, 'I don't believe there'll be any more. It looks like this
was an off year on that particular kind o' quilt. I didn't get mine
done,' says she, 'and neither did Maria Petty, and maybe it's a good
thing after all.'
"Well, I saw in a minute what Sally Ann was aimin' at. And I says to
Abram, 'Abram, haven't you got somethin' to do with app'intin' the
judges for the women's things?' And he says, 'Yes.' And I says, 'Well,
you see to it that Sally Ann gits app'inted to help judge the caliker
quilts.' And bless your soul, Abram got me and Sally Ann both
app'inted. The other judge was Mis' Doctor Brigham, one o' the town
ladies. We told her all about what we wanted to do, and she jest
laughed and says, 'Well, if that ain't the kindest, nicest thing! Of
course we'll do it.'
"Seein' that I had a quilt there, I hadn't a bit o' business bein' a
judge; but the first thing I did was to fold my quilt up and hide it
under Maria Petty's big worsted quilt, and then we pinned the blue
ribbon on Sarah Jane's and the red on Milly's. I'd fixed it all up
with Milly, and she was jest as willin' as I was for Sarah Jane to
have the premium. There was jest one thing I was afraid of: Milly was
a good-hearted woman, but she never had much control over her tongue.
And I says to her, says I: 'Milly, it's mighty good of you to give up
your chance for the premium, but if Sarah Jane ever finds it out,
that'll spoil everything. For,' says I, 'there ain't any kindness in
doin' a person a favor and then tellin' everybody about it.' And Milly
laughed, and says she: 'I know what you mean, Aunt Jane. It's mighty
hard for me to keep from tellin' everything I know and some things I
don't know, but,' says she, 'I'm never goin' to tell this, even to
Sam.' And she kept her word, too. Every once in a while she'd come up
to me and whisper, 'I ain't told it yet, Aunt Jane,' jest to see me
laugh.
"As soon as the doors was open, after we'd all got through judgin'
and puttin' on the ribbons, Milly went and hunted Sarah Jane up and
told her that her quilt had the blue ribbon. They said the pore thing
like to 'a' fainted for joy. She turned right white, and had to lean
up against the post for a while before she could git to the Floral
Hall. I never shall forgit her face. It was worth a dozen premiums to
me, and Milly, too. She jest stood lookin' at that quilt and the blue
ribbon on it, and her eyes was full o' tears and her lips quiverin',
and then she started off and brought the children in to look at
'Mammy's quilt.' She met Sam on the way out, and says she: 'Sam, what
do you reckon? My quilt took the premium.' And I believe in my soul
Sam was as much pleased as Sarah Jane. He came saunterin' up, tryin'
to look unconcerned, but anybody could see he was mighty well
satisfied. It does a husband and wife a heap o' good to be proud of
each other, and I reckon that was the first time Sam ever had cause to
be proud o' pore Sarah Jane. It's my belief that he thought more o'
Sarah Jane all the rest o' her life jest on account o' that premium.
Me and Sally Ann helped her pick it out. She had her choice betwixt a
butter-dish and a cup, and she took the cup. Folks used to laugh and
say that that cup was the only thing in Sarah Jane's house that was
kept clean and bright, and if it hadn't 'a' been solid silver, she'd
'a' wore it all out rubbin' it up. Sarah Jane died o' pneumonia about
three or four years after that, and the folks that nursed her said she
wouldn't take a drink o' water or a dose o' medicine out o' any cup
but that. There's some folks, child, that don't have to do anything
but walk along and hold out their hands, and the premiums jest
naturally fall into 'em; and there's others that work and strive the
best they know how, and nothin' ever seems to come to 'em; and I
reckon nobody but the Lord and Sarah Jane knows how much happiness she
got out o' that cup. I'm thankful she had that much pleasure before
she died."
There was a quilt hanging over the foot of the bed that had about it a
certain air of distinction. It was a solid mass of patchwork, composed
of squares, parallelograms, and hexagons. The squares were of dark
gray and red-brown, the hexagons were white, the parallelograms black
and light gray. I felt sure that it had a history that set it apart
from its ordinary fellows.
"Where did you get the pattern, Aunt Jane?" I asked. "I never saw
anything like it."
The old lady's eyes sparkled, and she laughed with pure pleasure.
"That's what everybody says," she exclaimed, jumping up and spreading
the favored quilt over two laden chairs, where its merits became more
apparent and striking. "There ain't another quilt like this in the
State o' Kentucky, or the world, for that matter. My granddaughter
Henrietta, Mary Frances' youngest child, brought me this pattern _from
Europe_."