A GIRL’S PROTEST

A great, rudely built stone chimney was smoking languidly one afternoon.  Leaning against this chimney, as if for protection and support, was a little cabin gray and decrepit with age.  The door of the cabin stood wide open, for the warm spring was well advanced in the South.  There was no need of a fire, but Aun’ Jinkey, the mistress of the abode, said she “kep’ hit bunin’ fer comp’ny.”  She sat by it now, smoking as lazily as her chimney, in an old chair which creaked as if in pain when she rocked.  She supposed herself to be in deep meditation, and regarded her corncob pipe not merely a solace but also as an invaluable assistant to clearness of thought.  Aun’ Jinkey had the complacent belief that she could reason out most questions if she could only smoke and think long enough.  Unfortunately, events would occur which required action, or which raised new questions before she had had time to solve those originally presented; yet it would be hard to fancy a more tranquil order of things than that of which she was a humble part.

The cabin was shaded by grand old oaks and pines, through which the afternoon sun shone in mild radiance, streaming into the doorway and making a broad track of light over the uneven floor.  But Aun’ Jinkey kept back in the congenial dusk, oblivious to the loveliness of nature without.  At last she removed her pipe from her mouth and revealed her mental processes in words.

“In all my projeckin’ dat chile’s wuss’n old mars’r en miss, en de wah, en de preachin’.  I kin kin’ ob see troo dem, en w’at dey dribin’ at, but dat chile grow mo’ quare en on’countable eb’y day.  Long as she wus took up wid her doll en tame rabbits en pony dar wa’n’t no circum’cutions ’bout her, en now she am all circum’cution.  Not’n gwine ‘long plain wid her.  She like de run down dar—­but win’ en win’ ez ef hit had ter go on, en hit couldn’t mek up hits min’ which way ter go.  Sometime hit larfin’ in de sun en den hit steal away whar you kyant mos’ fin’ hit.  Dat de way wid Miss Lou.  She seem right hyar wid us—­she only lil gyurl toder day—­en now she ‘clinin’ to notions ob her own, en she steal away to whar she tink no one see her en tink on heaps ob tings.  Won’er ef eber, like de run, she wanter go way off fum us?

“Ole mars’r en ole miss dunno en doan see not’n.  Dey kyant.  Dey tinks de worl’ al’ays gwine des so, dat means de way dey tink hit orter go.  Ef hit go any oder way, de worl’s wrong, not dey.  I ain’ sayin’ dey is wrong, fer I ain’ des tink dat all out’n.  ’Long ez she keeps her foots on de chalk line dey mark out dey ain’ projeckin’ how her min’ go yere en dar, zigerty-zag wid notions ob her own.”

The door darkened, if the radiant girl standing on the threshold could be said to darken any door.  She did not represent the ordinary Southern type, for her hair was gold in the sun and her eyes blue as the violets by the brook.  They were full of mirth now as she said:  “There you are, Aun’ Jinkey, smoking and ‘projeckin’ as usual.  You look like an old Voudoo woman, and if I didn’t know you as my old mammy—­if I should just happen in as a stranger, I’d be afraid of you.”