By VALERIE FARRINGTON.
“How long is it before Christmas, Miss Edith?” inquired Mammy Rose,
bending forward to peer into the oven where two mammoth fruit cakes in
the process of baking were sending out a delicious, savory odor.
“Just five days more, I am sorry to say. The yellow opera bag is still
unfinished, so are the monogram handkerchiefs; these nuts must be picked
for the praulines, and Agnes and I have undertaken to set the children’s
doll house in order before the holidays. Rob and Jerry say we girls ought
to begin to make our Christmas gifts on the 26th of December to be ready
by next year.”
“Hit ’pears to me, honey, you an’ Miss Agnes with yo’ needles and
paintin’ has turned out nigh ’nough contraptions fur a county fair. Sakes
alive! Miss Edith!” exclaimed Mammy Rose, glancing through the window
into the garden, “Look at dat big barr’l w’at Jeff’s a-bringin’ in!”
The kitchen door opened suddenly and the good-natured face and woolly
head of the yard man appeared inside for a moment.
“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.
“Humph! won’t remember!” sniffed the old darky, with a fine show
of scorn. “What is it de Scripture says about rememberin’—Thee, O,
Jerusalem, if my right hand be cut off? They can’t fergit dis time! I
done made Jeff write ter Lizzie and Callie mo’n a month ago tellin’ ’em
’xactly w’at I’se ’spectin’!”
“Oh, you surely didn’t do that!” cried Edith, amused as well as shocked
at the old woman’s candor.
“Yes’um, I swar I did!” came the unwavering reply. “Thar’ ain’t no
beatin’ ’round de bush ’bout me; ef dey’s got a spark ob decency or
se’f-respec’ dey’ll do w’at I tole ’em.”
“What did you say you wanted?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe, whose curiosity had
become thoroughly aroused.
“I tole ’em ter sen’ me a bedquilt an’ I sent ’em a bushel o’ calico
scraps ter he’p it ’long. Then I wanted a big jar of watermillon-rind
pickle, a gallon of peach preserves, an’ er sack full ob fresh goose
feathers. Last of all I axed fur er warm gray shawl. Ef dey had ter leabe
off anything, I said let it be dat shawl, ca’se my ole one’s mighty nigh
good ’nough to w’ar to pra’r meetin’s an’ funerals.”
During the days that intervened the conversation in the kitchen and
the Christmas festivities, Mammy Rose was constantly on the alert,
each morning awakening with new hope and at night evincing great
disappointment as package after package arrived for old and young
and nothing came for her. By the morning of the 24th, she had become
extremely morose and ceased to take further interest in the holiday
preparations. However, even in that state of mind she continued to hail
every express man, delivery man, and “A. D. T. boy” who came in sight,
demanding to know whether they had a package at the ’spress office for
Rose Wilkerson that they were “too triflin’ ter deliver.”
But, poor old soul, miserable as she was, she was by no means the only
individual who was dejected over the non-appearance of the presents from
Lizzie and Callie. Edith and Agnes were inclined to regard the matter
very seriously. In fact, after luncheon on Christmas Eve, they called a
family council in the library, desiring that some action be taken in the
case. In spite of pressing engagements elsewhere, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe,
Grandfather and Grandmother, Rob and Jerry, and Uncle Joe Echols were
present to lend a sympathetic ear to this vexed domestic problem.
Edith as voluntary counsel for the faithful stewardess plead her cause
feelingly, eloquently, and with eminent success. Every member of that
august body agreed that Mammy Rose must receive her box before bedtime
on Christmas Eve, preferably by fair means, otherwise, by foul. If, upon
investigation at the Southern office, there proved to be no package for
her from those Virginia ingrates, why Old Santy himself must provide one.
A very simple plan was put into operation. The men formed themselves into
a “ways and means” committee, authorizing the girls to draw upon them for
the necessary finances. Mrs. Radcliffe believed that she could purchase a
pretty calico quilt from the “Ladies’ Aid Society” of her church, and the
pickle and preserves could be procured from the Woman’s Exchange. Grandma
thought she knew where a soft, warm shawl might be found and she put
on her bonnet and cloak to go and select it herself. In the bustle and
stir of the fleeting afternoon, however, the sack of fresh goosefeathers
loomed up as a staggering proposition.
“Suppose we give her an eiderdown sofa pillow; she can rip it and take
the feathers out after Christmas if she wishes to make some other use of
them,” proposed Agnes.
“Yes, that’s all right. We haven’t time to go poking around in poultry
yards or to rip Grandma’s feather bed,” chimed in Rob.
“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.