Now, the lady of the house had heard of Aunt Minervy Ann, but had never met her, and I was afraid that the characteristics of my old-time friend would be misunderstood and misinterpreted. The lady in question knew nothing of the negro race until long after emancipation, and she had not been able to form a very favorable opinion of its representatives. Therefore, I hastened after Aunt Minervy Ann, hoping to tone down by explanation whatever bad impression she might create. She paused at the screen-door that barred the entrance to the kitchen, and, for an instant, surveyed the scene within. Then she cried out: “You des ez well ter come out’n dat kitchen! You ain’t got no mo’ bizness in dar dan a new-born baby.” Aunt Minervy Ann’s voice was so loud and absolute that the lady gazed at her in mute astonishment. “You des es well ter come out!” she insisted. “Are you crazy?” the lady asked, in all seriousness. “I’m des ez crazy now ez I ever been; an’ I tell you you des ez well ter come out’n dar.” “Who are you anyhow?” “I’m Minervy Ann Perdue, at home an’ abroad, an’ in dish yer great town whar you can’t git niggers ter cook fer you.” “Well, if you want me to come out of the kitchen, you will have to come in and do the cooking.” “Dat ’zackly what I’m gwine ter do!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann. She went into the kitchen, demanded an apron, and took entire charge. “I’m mighty glad I come ’fo’ you got started,” she said, “’kaze you got ’nuff fier in dis stove fer ter barbecue a hoss; an’ you got it so hot in here dat it’s a wonder you ain’t bust a blood-vessel.” She removed all the vessels from the range, and opened the door of the furnace so that the fire might die down. And when it was nearly out—as I was told afterward—she replaced the vessels and proceeded to cook a dinner which, in all its characteristics, marked a red letter day in the household. “She’s the best cook in the country,” said the lady, “and she’s not very polite.” “Not very hypocritical, you mean; well if she was a hypocrite, she wouldn’t be Aunt Minervy Ann.” The cook failed to come in the afternoon, and so Aunt Minervy Ann felt it her duty to remain over night. “Hamp’ll vow I done run away wid somebody,” she said, laughing, “but I don’t keer what he think.” After supper, which was as good as the dinner had been, Aunt Minervy Ann came out on the veranda and sat on the steps. After some conversation, she placed the lady of the house on the witness-stand. “Mistiss, wharbouts in Georgy wuz you born at?” “I wasn’t born in Georgia; I was born in Lansingburgh, New York.” “I know’d it!” Aunt Minervy turned to me and nodded her head with energy. “I know’d it right pine blank!” “You knew what?” the presiding genius of the household inquired with some curiosity. “I know’d ’m dat you wuz a Northron lady.” “I don’t see how you knew it,” I remarked.