Old Aunt Clara [pp. 165-168]

THtE LADIES' REPOSITORY.
an immense mushroom, all latitude and I
longitude, with not even a low cupola to
make up for its decided deficiency in
altitude. And just in the rear of this
odd-looking structure, shaded by a clump
of cottonwood, stood the little cabin of
Aunt Clara. To her skillful hands the
school-girls of Myrtle Bank were indebted
for the most delicious rice-cake, cornrolls, and crackling-bread, besides a host
of other dainties, of which Northern
students must necessarily remain in ignorance, because none but a Southern
cook, with Southern material at hand,
could ever manufacture them. She was,
moreover, the confidential friend of every
girl in the institution; and it was no uncommon thing to see one or more of
them seated by her side, reading to her
from the Book of Job her favorite chapters. She was very fond of poetry, and
could repeat many a poem by heart;
lbut being very deaf, and somewhat forgetftl, she did not always quote according to the "best authority."
Like the most of her race, she was
very superstitious, as well as exceedingly
credulous; but in cases of real doubt
she would generally consult some one
of the teachers, feeling sure that they
would not impose upon her.
One day she came to my room with a
little book in her hand, and, pointing to
an illustrated page of an old, worn-out,
bareboned horse looking pitifully at his
corpulent and apparently well-fed master, she said:
"Miss May, what do you reckon dat
ar means?" and she repeated slowly but
correctly these lines, which were printed
beneath the wood-cut:
"And hast thou fixed my doom, sweet master, say;
And wilt thou kill thy servant, old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray;
A little longer hobble round thy door."
"Why, Aunt Clara," I said, laughing,
"the old horse was quite a poet, was he
not?"
Her countenance immediately brightened, and she exclaimed:
"Then he did write it hisself, after all!
Miss Hattie is mighty peart; but she's
fooled me a heap o' times, and she looked
like she'd laid off to do it now; but she
'sisted the beast wrote the potry hisself.
She said that in ole times animals of all
'scriptions could talk and read and write,
and this poor creeter jest dipped his tail
into a miud-puddle and writ the varses on
a b)oard fence, and the printer-man come
along and copied'em into his book; and
I say that any dumb brute with such an
edecation should be'lowed his free
papers.
It is unnecessary to say that I sought a
private interview with Miss Hattie, and
imparted to that young lady some valtlal)le instruction on the importance of
always speaking the truth.
Aunt Clara was fond of music, and it
was really a pleasure to listen to her
singing, though I have good reason to
believe that many of her hymns were
composed at the very moment that they
were set to music. She had a curious
way of pronouncing the word lovely in
three syllables, giving the last syllable
the long sotund of the vowel, making it
sound like lov-e-li. She would go about
her work singing:
"0 come, my lov-e-ly brethring,
And do n't you want to go
And wear that long white robe,
That hangs down behind,
And see your lov-e-ly Lord,
With silver slippers on your feet,
To walk ole Jordan round."
The "silver slipper" possessed a great
charm for her, and she never mourned
the death of a firiend so long as there was
the faintest hope that an exchange had
been made for the silver slippers. In
listening to the conversation of the girls
she had picked up many a quotation
from the poets, none of which were correct; though they had doubtless taken
some pains to mislead her, that they
might enjoy a latughl at her ludicrous mistakes. The poor old creature was grievously tormented by the misconduct of her
undutiful son, whom she called by the classical name Cicero. He was the impersonation of selfishness and treachery, and
would rob his mother of any comfort to
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