The Pickaninny
by
It was rather a warm day in autumn. Aunt Cheerie had given the sewing-machine and the piano a holiday, and was sitting in the woodshed, paring apples for preserves. Wherever Aunt Cheerie was, the children were sure to be; and so there was Sunbeam, knife in hand, and Fairy, cutting a paring something less than half an inch thick, while the dear little Chicken was wiping apples for the others to pare, and little Tow-head, baby-brother, was trying to upset the peach-box, in which were a couple of pet chickens, that were hatched out too late, and that had to be kept in-doors to secure them from Jack Frost. For you must know that at “The Nest” Sunbeam is called the “Old Hen.” That is, she has charge of the chickens. They know her so well that, when she feeds them, they fly up on her shoulders and eat out of her hands. And if there is any unfortunate one, it is well cared for. One poor, little wayward pullet wandered into our neighbor’s garden. She was very naughty, doubtless, but she got severely punished; for our neighbor thinks a great deal of his garden, and not much of chickens, unless they are fricasseed. He shot at our little runaway pullet, and the poor thing came home dragging a broken and useless leg. Now, if any chicken ever had good care, our little “Lamey” has. After weary weeks of suffering in hot weather, it is at last able to walk on both feet, though the broken leg is sadly crooked. The children do not object to having the other chickens killed for the table, but little Lamey’s life is insured.
But how did I get to talking about chickens? I was going to say that when I came home, and found the folks paring apples, I went out in the shed, too, and sat down by the Little Chick.
And Chicken Little jerked her head and looked mischievously out of her bright eyes, and said: “See how nice we is peelin’ apples. We’s makin’ peserves, we is; ’cause they is good to eat, they is. And you mus’ tell me a story, you mus’, ’cause I’m a-helpin’ Aunt Cheerie, I am.”
For you must know that the Small Chick is not very polite, and doesn’t say “please,” when she can help it.
“Lend us a hand at the apples, too,” said Aunt Cheerie.
“No, I can’t tell stories and pare apples, too.”
“Does you need your fingers to tell stories wid, like the dumbers that we heard talk without saying anything?”
Chicken Small had been to an exhibition of Professor Gillett’s deaf and dumb pupils.
“Well, no,” I said; “but you see, Chicken, I never could make my tongue and my fingers go at the same time.”
“I should think you had never done much with your fingers, then,” said Aunt Cheerie; “for I never knew your tongue to be still, except when you were asleep.”
I felt a little anxious to change the subject, and so began the story at once.
“Little Sukey Gray—-“
“What a funny name!” cried the Fairy.
Yes, and a funny girl was Sukey Gray. She had yellow hair that was tied up in an old-fashioned knot, behind, though she was only eleven years old; for you must know that Sukey lived in a part of the country where chignons and top-knots of the latest style were unknown. Now Sukey’s way of doing up her hair in a great knot, behind, with an old-fashioned tuck comb, was not pretty. But Susan Gray lived in what was called the “White-Oak Flats;” a region sometimes called the “Hoop-Pole Country.” It was not the most enlightened place in the world, for there was no school, except for a short time in winter, and the people were very superstitious, believing that if they carried a hoe through the house, or broke a looking-glass, somebody “would die before long,” and thinking that a screech-owl’s scream and the howling of a dog were warnings; and that potatoes must be planted in the “dark of the moon,” because they grew underground, and corn in the “light of the moon,” because it grew above ground; and that hogs must be killed in the increase of the moon, to keep the pork from frying away to gravy!