all sheltered in complete comfort.  At a huge fire that was a great glow of oak coals old Mammy Kitty, who had superintended Sam’s birth and childhood, as well as “neighbored” mine, was gently stirring a mixture that smelled like the kind of breakfast nectar they must have in heaven, while she also balanced a steaming coffee-pot on a pair of crossed green sticks at one corner of the chimney.  In the ashes I could see little mounds which I afterward found to be flaky, nutty com-pones, and I flew to kneel at her side with my head on her gaudy neckerchief.

“Dah, dah, dah, child,” she crooned, as she smiled a queer, loving, old smile that showed me how glad she was to see me, but never another word did she utter.  I almost never remember hearing Mammy say an articulate word; but all children and those grown up who have any child left in their hearts can understand her croon.  It is cradle music—­to the initiated.

“Mammy’s rheumatism is mighty bad, but she can still shake up corn ash cake and chicken hash with the best,” said Sam, coming over to warm his hands and tower above us, while Byrd volunteered to lead Dr. Chubb out to what he called the wash-up bench on the back porch.

I looked up at Sam as he stood above me in a mingling of fire-glow and the early morning light with his low-beamed, deep-toned humble home as a background, and he—­he loomed.

“I—­I love this place,” I positively gasped, as I moved still closer to Mammy and stirred the spoon in the pot of hash.

“Shelter, fire, a chicken in the pot, and a woman crouched on the hearth stirring it—­what more could any man want or get, no matter how he worked?” answered Sam, as he looked down at me with the smolder in his blue-flecked hazel eyes to which Peter had once written a poem called “On the Gridiron.”

“Yes, but what would you do if you didn’t have Mammy?” I ventured back, as I bent across Mammy’s knee and began to stir more vigorously while she shook up her coffee-pot and raked a few last coals over the cakes for their complete browning.  “You always were a good provider, Sam,” I added, under the excitement of the bubbling over of the coffee.

“Yes, locusts for hollyhock children and the wife of a summer day who—­”

“Whew-shk! but my stomick have got a breakfas’ notice,” interrupted Dr. Chubb.  He and the Byrd had come into the room as hungry as ravening wolves.

While Mammy stirred and shoveled off ashes I fed all three men to the point of utter repletion, feeding myself from Sam’s plate as I brought the food back and forth.  He didn’t want me to wait on them, and I suppose that is the reason I insisted on it, and partly ate his breakfast while doing it, just as an act of defiance.

“You taught me to eat out of your hand, even when it was unspeakably dirty, and you had only saved me about two good bites and the core,” I answered one of his remonstrances.

“But think of the pain it was to save even a third of a tea-cake in your pocket when your stomach was so near it,” he answered as he finished the bottom half of a pone I had spread thick with the juicy hash before I had greedily eaten the upper crust.