"Aunt Phyllis," said my mother to the cook, who was browning coffee
grains in a skillet over the fire, "I thought I told you that I was
coming here to make pound cake and cream pies this morning. Why is
nothing ready?"
"La, me, Miss Emmeline!" replied Aunt Phyllis. "Miss 'Tilda Jenkins done
carried off every pie pan and rolling-pin and pastry-board, and borrowed
all de eggs and cream fo' herself. Her bakin' isn't mo'n begun."
This was a high-handed proceeding, but nothing could be done in the
case. It was Mrs. Jenkins' habit, and mother had always been so amiable
about it that the servants, who were easygoing, never troubled
themselves to ask the mistress, but lent the inconvenient borrower
whatever she desired.
Sometimes just as we were going to church, I was too little at the time
to remember, mother said that a small black boy with very white teeth
and a very woolly head, would pop up at her chamber door, exclaiming,
"Howdy, Miss Emmeline. Miss 'Tilda done sent me to borrow yo'
Prayer-book. She goin' to church to-day herself."
Or, of a summer evening, her maid would appear with a modest request for
Miss Emmeline's lace shawl and red satin fan; Miss 'Tilda wanted to make
a call and had nothing to wear.
All this, I think, made mother perfectly _set_ against our ever
borrowing so much as a slatepencil or a pin. We were always to use our
own things or go without. I never had a sister, but cousins often spent
months at the house, and were in and out of my room in the freest way,
forever bringing me their gloves to mend or their ties to clean, as
cousins will.
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