“Laws a-massy, Missus, whar’d yer drap from? Come in, dat is, ef yer can find de way wid so much trash strowin’ roun’. “Git out in de yard, niggers,” she said to a group of dirty, half-naked little negroes, who were investigating the mysteries of a sardine can under the table. In their effort to obey their seemingly irate mother, they nearly upset the rickety old table, one leg of which was propped up with a broken brick that Aunt Jane had brought from the sidewalk of the town four miles away for that very purpose. “Bricks is sca’ce in dese parts,” she had said to a neighbor, who had “ax’d her what in de world she wuz gwin’ter do wid dat brick?” And so the vanquished pickaninnies with timorous backward glances, disappeared, rubbing their heads as they went. “Viney, do git dat cher fer Miss Annie. Jes’ lay dem clothes on de bed. My soul alibe, Missus, dese here niggers nearly runs me ’stracted.” And she turned to me with the air of one whose last hope was gone. But I knew how to take Aunt Jane’s moods, for she would have torn anyone else literally to pieces had they dared to intimate anything detrimental to the “life and charuc’ter of her chillun.” And so I seated myself comfortably in Aunt Jane’s only rocker, which she declared no one ever sat in “’cept her white folks.” Meanwhile she busied herself with the pots and pans of the stove, talking as fast as she could, asking me a hundred questions about the members of my family. I had come to see her about taking my laundry. My present washwoman had rubbed all the buttons off my husband’s shirts, and insisted on starching the nether parts of them, while my own cambric ones and linen dresses were as limber as Aunt Jane’s proverbial dishrag. Aunt Jane had been in our family when a girl and I felt that I could depend upon her. “Law, Miss Annie, dat nigger don’t know de fust rudermints erbout washin’ an’ irun’n.” And she gave her pan a telling scrape by way of emphasis. “Talk ter me ’bout dese town niggers,” and she went to the same little window to empty her dish-pan into the pig-trough placed beneath it, for convenience Aunt Jane had said. “Well, ef he ain’t dar agin,” she exclaimed, turning to me as if I knew who “he” was. “What is it, Jane?” I asked, going to the window myself, wondering what was outside of the window to call forth all these exclamations. “Oh, it’s dat sassy little deb’l, dat yander rascal ob a mocking-bird—er-mind out, Missus, don’t tech dat table wid putty white dress o’ yourn. Dis here hole ain’t fit fer yer ter come in no how—but dat bird, he do beat all I eber seed. He ain’t skeered o’ nothin’, and sing! My, tain’t nothin’ like it! I do b’leve he sings all de night long. Why, de tother night ’bout twelve er’ clock, Jake come in ’bout half drunk. Jake’s alright when he’s sober, but jes’ let him git drunk, he’s de deb’l hissef, dat’s all’s to it. So when he git dat way I gits out, me an’ de chillun’.