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But I'd like ter know what he cleans his pencil with, said Cindy, in conclusion, for I'm free to confess I never see brass shine so in my born days." Cindy's "free confessions" are an important feature of the book. "'Sam! what are you bothering yourself about Mr. Linden for?
Dominick, with every feather awry, was holding command of the bowl of corn-meal while her family feasted, and the Plymouth rooster stood at a respectful distance with a weather eye on both the determined mother and Cindy's broom. Retribution in the form of Mother Mayberry descended upon him swiftly and certainly, and he lost no time in seeking seclusion under the barn.
Dis fine house, suh, wid de red cyarpets and shiny bureaus, it's all hired; and de man talkin' scan'lous about de rent. Dat debble 'scuse me, Lawd he done in Yo' hands fer jedgment, now he made way wid everything." The physician's silence encouraged her to continue. The history that he gleaned from Cindy's disordered monologue was an old one, of illusion, wilfulness, disaster, cruelty and pride.
"Why, of course you must say your prayers," said his aunt, blushing at having to be reminded of her duty by this young heathen; "kneel down here by me." Billy looked at his aunt's bony frame and thought of Aunt Cindy's soft, fat, ample lap.
"Madam," he began, in the reassuring tones that had so often allayed anxiety, "there is a probability " As he slowly turned his head to face the lady, he saw her fall, white and swooning, into the arms of the old negress. "Po' lamb! po' lamb! Has dey done killed Aunt Cindy's own blessed child? May de Lawd' stroy wid his wrath dem what stole her away; what break dat angel heart; what left "
The Major stepped to the door and called: "Lydie, dear, will you come?" Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from her room. "Dar, now! What'd I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed up. You don't 'member Uncle Mose, child?" "This is Aunt Cindy's Mose, Lydia," explained the Major. "He left Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old."
And over by the long window they found Mother Mayberry standing with her hand on Cindy's shoulder, who sat with her head bowed in her apron sobbing quietly, while Martin Luther stood wide-eyed and questioning, with his little hand clutching Mother's skirts.
She was not versed in the ways of childhood and could not know that the little boy wanted to pillow his head on Aunt Cindy's soft and ample bosom, that he was homesick for his black friends, the only companions he had ever known. "I'll you a Bible story," she temporized. "You must not be a baby. You are not afraid, are you, William? God is always with you."
She made no answering comment, and the discouraged little boy was silent for a few minutes. He had worn Aunt Cindy's many-colored patches too often to be ashamed of this one for himself, but he felt that he would like to draw his aunt out and find how she stood on the subject of patches.
But it is not at all convenient for me to leave home now, and I feel that for her own good she should learn to meet such things for herself. It would be far easier, I acknowledge, if there was anything at home to occupy her, but I cannot allow her to interfere with Mom Beck's work, or Cindy's. They resent her doing anything." She repeated the conversation they had had that morning.
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