One day, while things were being packed for the western ranch, Mrs. Wheeler, going to the foot of the ladder to call Mahailey, narrowly escaped being knocked down by a large feather bed which came plumping through the trap door.  A moment later Mahailey herself descended backwards, holding to the rungs with one hand, and in the other arm carrying her quilts.

“Why, Mahailey,” gasped Mrs. Wheeler.  “It’s not winter yet; whatever are you getting your bed for?”

“I’m just a-goin’ to lay on my fedder bed,” she broke out, “or direc’ly I won’t have none.  I ain’t a-goin’ to have Mr. Ralph carryin’ off my quilts my mudder pieced fur me.”

Mrs. Wheeler tried to reason with her, but the old woman took up her bed in her arms and staggered down the hall with it, muttering and tossing her head like a horse in fly-time.

That afternoon Ralph brought a barrel and a bundle of straw into the kitchen and told Mahailey to carry up preserves and canned fruit, and he would pack them.  She went obediently to the cellar, and Ralph took off his coat and began to line the barrel with straw.  He was some time in doing this, but still Mahailey had not returned.  He went to the head of the stairs and whistled.

“I’m a-comin’, Mr. Ralph, I’m a-comin’!  Don’t hurry me, I don’t want to break nothin’.”

Ralph waited a few minutes.  “What are you doing down there, Mahailey?” he fumed.  “I could have emptied the whole cellar by this time.  I suppose I’ll have to do it myself.”

“I’m a-comin’.  You’d git yourself all dusty down here.”  She came breathlessly up the stairs, carrying a hamper basket full of jars, her hands and face streaked with black.

“Well, I should say it is dusty!” Ralph snorted.  “You might clean your fruit closet once in awhile, you know, Mahailey.  You ought to see how Mrs. Dawson keeps hers.  Now, let’s see.”  He sorted the jars on the table.  “Take back the grape jelly.  If there’s anything I hate, it’s grape jelly.  I know you have lots of it, but you can’t work it off on me.  And when you come up, don’t forget the pickled peaches.  I told you particularly, the pickled peaches!”

“We ain’t got no pickled peaches.”  Mahailey stood by the cellar door, holding a corner of her apron up to her chin, with a queer, animal look of stubbornness in her face.

“No pickled peaches?  What nonsense, Mahailey!  I saw you making them here, only a few weeks ago.”

“I know you did, Mr. Ralph, but they ain’t none now.  I didn’t have no luck with my peaches this year.  I must ‘a’ let the air git at ’em.  They all worked on me, an’ I had to throw ’em out.”

Ralph was thoroughly annoyed.  “I never heard of such a thing, Mahailey!  You get more careless every year.  Think of wasting all that fruit and sugar!  Does mother know?”

Mahailey’s low brow clouded.  “I reckon she does.  I don’t wase your mudder’s sugar.  I never did wase nothin’,” she muttered.  Her speech became queerer than ever when she was angry.