"Dat's enough roses to bury up de dishes. Rub yo' nose down in 'em.
Ain't dey sweet! Now, come along wid me, Major. I done tole Henny 'bout
you an' de tar'pins an' de times de gemmen had. Dis way, Major; won't
take a minute, an' ef ye all go back to-night,--an' I yerd Mister
Englishman say _he_ got to go,--you mightn't hab anudder chance.
Henny's cookin', ye know. Dis way. Step underdat honeysuckle!"
I looked through an open door and into a dingy, smoke-dried interior,
ceiled with heavy rafters, and hung with herbs, red peppers, onions,
and the like. This was lighted by three small windows, and furnished
with a row of dressers filled with crockery and kitchen ware, and
permeated by that savory smell which presages a generous breakfast On
one side of the fireplace rested the great hominy mortar, cut from a
tree trunk, found in all Virginia kitchens, and on the other the
universal brick oven with its iron doors,--the very doors, I thought,
that had closed over Chad's goose when Henny was a girl. Between the
mortar and the oven opened, or rather caverned, a fireplace as wide
as the colonel's hospitality, and high and deep enough to turn a coach
in.
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