THE CHRONICLES OF AUNT MINERVY ANN
"Wellum, down dar whar I come fum dey been payin' me four dollars a mont'—dat de reason I come up here. Ef you gi' me six I'll stay an' you won't begrudge me de money. Tu'n me loose in de kitchen an' I'm at home, ma'am—plum' at home."
The lady seemed to be hesitating, and the silence in the kitchen was oppressive.
"I'll decide to-day," she remarked. "Our cook is a good one, but she has been thinking of resting awhile. If she goes, you shall have the place."
"Den she ain't gone?" cried Aunt Minervy Ann. "Well, I don't want de place less'n she goes. I ain't gwine ter run my color out'n no job ef I kin he'p it. We got 'nuff ter contend wid des dry so." Then she turned and looked in the kitchen. "Ain't dat Julie Myrick?" she asked.
"How you know me?" cried the cook. "I b'lieve in my soul dat's Miss 'Nervy Ann Perdue!"
With that Aunt Minervy Ann went into the kitchen, and the two old acquaintances exchanged reminiscences for a quarter of an hour. After awhile she came back in the sitting-room, stared at us with a half-indignant, half-quizzical expression on her face, and then suddenly collapsed, falling on the floor near a couch, and laughing as only an old-time negro can laugh. Then she sat bolt
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