It required deft fingers, too, to gather together all the bits of wool caught on the many sharp teeth of the carding comb, and that, by working the two parts of the comb up and down, like a see-saw, then turning them over and smoothing the rolls with the back.

Those were busy days on the farms in old Kentucky, and happy days, besides.  The very best days for many, both white and black.  That afternoon I will tell you about especially, Mam’ Sarah had a bright-colored rag carpet in the loom.  There she sat, her eyes fixed intently on the pattern before her, shuttles carrying the black, red, and orange filling flying in and out under her deft, busy fingers.  Many a strip of that gay filling had the little girl cut, sewed, and wrapped.  Mam’ Sarah raised her eyes and smiled at the child, but didn’t stop working.

“Don’t it tire you Mam’ Sarah?” Roberta once compassionately asked.

“No, indeed, honey!  Pear-lak I got sumfin’ in my elbers en sumfin’ in my knees that keeps on goen, sumfin’ like springs.  I never gits tired.  I likes it.”

That was the secret, Mam’ Sarah liked it.  One can keep on forever when one “likes it.”  “A merry heart goes all the day, a sad one tires in a mile.”

Roberta climbed upon a stool and sat there watching Mam’ Sarah.  She was a nice person to watch.  She had such kind eyes and such a pleasant mouth.  Roberta thought Mam’ Sarah’s mouth was just made to say “honey.”  Just like a “prune” and “prism” mouth I’ve read of somewhere.  Her skin was the color of coffee, with a little cream in it.  She always wore a head-handkerchief, generally white, and one similar, folded over the bosom of her dress.  Mam’ Sarah was very tall, and she had the best lap in the world to coddle down in, Roberta thought.

[Illustration:  Mam’ Sarah.  “Sumfin’ in my elbers en knees keeps on goen.  I never gits tired—­I likes it.”]

Presently Mam’ Sarah took her foot off the treadle, went to the fire-place, lit her pipe, returned to her seat and puffed away in peaceful silence.  Roberta waited for her to get through, for she knew how dearly she loved her pipe.  After a little Mam’ Sarah laid her pipe aside and looked at the child.

“What’s de matter, honey?” she asked.  “Your putty eyes full of tears.  Ennybody hurt your feelens?”

The touch of sympathy coming at that tender moment, like a rose-leaf upon a full vessel of water, caused the pent-up emotion to overflow.

Roberta climbed in Mam’ Sarah’s lap, put her head down on her shoulder and sobbed like her heart would burst.  The old woman caressed the golden head, and droned out a quaint lullaby, accompanying it with a kind of swaying motion of her body as though soothing an infant to slumber: 

    “Who’s dis, who’s dis, er coddlen down here? 
      I spec dis iz black mammy’s gyurl;
    Her skin so white iz mammy’s delite. 
      And her long golden ha’r in kyurl. 
          Shoo-oo-oo, shoo-oo-oo—­
      Rest, white chile, rest, on black mammy’s breast.