"Isn't that cake in the skillet almost done?"
"Mose done, Mas'r George," said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid and peeping in,--"browning beautiful--a real lovely brown.
Ah! let me alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some cake, t' other day, jes to _larn_ her, she said. `O, go way, Missis,' said I; `it really hurts my feelin's, now, to see good vittles spilt dat ar way! Cake ris all to one side--no shape at all; no more than my shoe; go way!"
And with this final expression of contempt for Sally's greenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly-baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper department.
"Here you, Mose and Pete! get out de way, you niggers! Get away, Mericky, honey,--mammy'll give her baby some fin, by and by.
Now, Mas'r George, you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old man, and I'll take up de sausages, and have de first griddle full of cakes on your plates in less dan no time."
"They wanted me to come to supper in the house," said George; "but I knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe."
"So you did--so you did, honey," said Aunt Chloe, heaping the smoking batter-cakes on his plate; "you know'd your old aunty'd keep the best for you. O, let you alone for dat! Go way!"
And, with that, aunty gave George a nudge with her finger, designed to be immensely facetious, and turned again to her griddle with great briskness.
"Now for the cake," said Mas'r George, when the activity of the griddle department had somewhat subsided; and, with that, the youngster flourished a large knife over the article in question.
"La bless you, Mas'r George!" said Aunt Chloe, with earnestness, catching his arm, "you wouldn't be for cuttin' it wid dat ar great heavy knife! Smash all down--spile all de pretty rise of it. Here, I've got a thin old knife, I keeps sharp a purpose.
Dar now, see! comes apart light as a feather! Now eat away--you won't get anything to beat dat ar."
"Tom Lincon says," said George, speaking with his mouth full, "that their Jinny is a better cook than you."
"Dem Lincons an't much count, no way!" said Aunt Chloe, contemptuously; "I mean, set along side _our_ folks. They 's 'spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way; but, as to gettin' up anything in style, they don't begin to have a notion on 't.
Set Mas'r Lincon, now, alongside Mas'r Shelby! Good Lor! and Missis Lincon,--can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis,--so kinder splendid, yer know! O, go way! don't tell me nothin' of dem Lincons!"--and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who hoped she did know something of the world.
"Well, though, I've heard you say," said George, "that Jinny was a pretty fair cook."
"So I did," said Aunt Chloe,--"I may say dat. Good, plain, common cookin', Jinny'll do;--make a good pone o' bread,--bile her taters _far_,--her corn cakes isn't extra, not extra now, Jinny's corn cakes isn't, but then they's far,--but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what _can_ she do? Why, she makes pies--sartin she does; but what kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin' pies. Jinny and I is good friends, ye know. I never said nothin'; but go 'long, Mas'r George! Why, I shouldn't sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey wan't no 'count 't all."
"I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice," said George.
"Thought so!--didn't she? Thar she was, showing em, as innocent--ye see, it's jest here, Jinny _don't know_. Lor, the family an't nothing! She can't be spected to know! 'Ta'nt no fault o' hem. Ah, Mas'r George, you doesn't know half 'your privileges in yer family and bringin' up!" Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion.
"I'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand I my pie and pudding privileges," said George. "Ask Tom Lincon if I don't crow over him, every time I meet him."
Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a hearty guffaw of laughter, at this witticism of young Mas'r's, laughing till the tears rolled down her black, shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully slapping and poking Mas'r Georgey, and telling him to go way, and that he was a case--that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill her, one of these days; and, between each of these sanguinary predictions, going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than the other, till George really began to think that he was a very dangerously witty fellow, and that it became him to be careful how he talked "as funny as he could."
"And so ye telled Tom, did ye? O, Lor! what young uns will be up ter!
Ye crowed over Tom? O, Lor! Mas'r George, if ye wouldn't make a hornbug laugh!"
"Yes," said George, "I says to him, `Tom, you ought to see some of Aunt Chloe's pies; they're the right sort,' says I."
"Pity, now, Tom couldn't," said Aunt Chloe, on whose benevolent heart the idea of Tom's benighted condition seemed to make a strong impression. "Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner, some o' these times, Mas'r George," she added; "it would look quite pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas'r George, ye oughtenter feel 'bove nobody, on 'count yer privileges, 'cause all our privileges is gi'n to us; we ought al'ays to 'member that," said Aunt Chloe, looking quite serious.
"Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week," said George;
"and you do your prettiest, Aunt Chloe, and we'll make him stare.
Won't we make him eat so he won't get over it for a fortnight?"
"Yes, yes--sartin," said Aunt Chloe, delighted;