When St. Clare had first returned from the north, impressed with the system and order of his uncle’s kitchen arrangements, he had largely provided his own with an array of cupboards, drawers, and various apparatus, to induce systematic regulation, under the sanguine illusion that it would be of any possible assistance to Dinah in her arrangements. He might as well have provided them for a squirrel or a magpie. The more drawers and closets there were, the more hiding-holes could Dinah make for the accommodation of old rags, hair-combs, old shoes, ribbons, cast-off artificial flowers, and other articles of vertu, wherein her soul delighted.
When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen Dinah did not rise, but smoked on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements obliquely out of the corner of her eye, but apparently intent only on the operations around her.
Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers.
“What is this drawer for, Dinah?” she said.
“It’s handy for most anything, Missis,” said Dinah. So it appeared to be. From the variety it contained, Miss Ophelia pulled out first a fine damask tablecloth stained with blood, having evidently been used to envelop some raw meat.
“What’s this, Dinah? You don’t wrap up meat in your mistress’ best tablecloths?”
“O Lor, Missis, no; the towels was all a missin’—so I jest did it. I laid out to wash that a—that’s why I put it thar.”
“Shif’less!” said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to tumble over the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and two or three nutmegs, a Methodist hymnbook, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some yarn and knitting-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers, one or two gilded china-saucers with some pomade in them, one or two thin old shoes, a piece of flannel carefully pinned up enclosing some small white onions, several damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some twine and darning-needles, and several broken papers, from which sundry sweet herbs were sifting into the drawer.
“Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?” said Miss Ophelia, with the air of one who prayed for patience.
“Most anywhar, Missis; there’s some in that cracked teacup, up there, and there’s some over in that ar cupboard.”
“Here are some in the grater,” said Miss Ophelia, holding them up.
“Laws, yes, I put ’em there this morning—I likes to keep my things handy,” said Dinah. “You, Jake! what are you stopping for! You’ll cotch it! Be still, thar!” she added, with a dive of her stick at the criminal.
“What’s this?” said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of pomade.
“Laws, it’s my har grease;—I put it thar to have it handy.”
“Do you use your mistress’ best saucers for that?”
“Law! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry;—I was gwine to change it this very day.”
“Here are two damask table-napkins.”
“Them table-napkins I put thar, to get ’em washed out, some day.”
“Don’t you have some place here on purpose for things to be washed?”
“Well, Mas’r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it an’t handy a liftin’ up the lid.”
“Why don’t you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, there?”
“Law, Missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and another, der an’t no room, noway—”
“But you should wash your dishes, and clear them away.”
“Wash my dishes!” said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath began to rise over her habitual respect of manner; “what does ladies know ’bout work, I want to know? When’d Mas’r ever get his dinner, if I vas to spend all my time a washin’ and a puttin’ up dishes? Miss Marie never telled me so, nohow.”
“Well, here are these onions.”
“Laws, yes!” said Dinah; “thar is whar I put ’em, now. I couldn’t ’member. Them’s particular onions I was a savin’ for dis yer very stew. I’d forgot they was in dat ar old flannel.”
Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs.
“I wish Missis wouldn’t touch dem ar. I likes to keep my things where I knows whar to go to ’em,” said Dinah, rather decidedly.
“But you don’t want these holes in the papers.”
“Them’s handy for siftin’ on’t out,” said Dinah.
“But you see it spills all over the drawer.”
“Laws, yes! if Missis will go a tumblin’ things all up so, it will. Missis has spilt lots dat ar way,” said Dinah, coming uneasily to the drawers. “If Missis only will go up stars till my clarin’ up time comes, I’ll have everything right; but I can’t do nothin’ when ladies is round, a henderin’. You, Sam, don’t you gib the baby dat ar sugar-bowl! I’ll crack ye over, if ye don’t mind!”
“I’m going through the kitchen, and going to put everything in order, once, Dinah; and then I’ll expect you to keep it so.”
“Lor, now! Miss Phelia; dat ar an’t no way for ladies to do. I never did see ladies doin’ no sich; my old Missis nor Miss Marie never did, and I don’t see no kinder need on’t;” and Dinah stalked indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, tablecloths, and towels, for washing; washing, wiping, and arranging with her own hands, and with a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.
“Lor now! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey an’t ladies, nohow,” she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing distance. “I has things as straight as anybody, when my clarin’ up times comes; but I don’t want ladies round, a henderin’, and getting my things all where I can’t find ’em.”
To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, paroxyms of reformation and arrangement, which she called “clarin’ up times,” when she would begin with great zeal, and turn every drawer and closet wrong side outward, on to the floor or
