Short Fiction - Kate Chopin (animal farm read .txt) 📗

window. Presently the weary girl slept as profoundly as Nonomme. A little dog sneaked into the room, and socially licked her bare feet. The touch, moist and warm, awakened Lolotte.

The cabin was dark and quiet. Nonomme was crying softly, because the mosquitoes were biting him. In the room beyond, old Sylveste and the others slept. When Lolotte had quieted the child, she went outside to get a pail of cool, fresh water at the cistern. Then she crept into bed beside Nonomme, who slept again.

Lolotte’s dreams that night pictured her father returning from work, and bringing luscious oranges home in his pocket for the sick child.

When at the very break of day she heard him astir in his room, a certain comfort stole into her heart. She lay and listened to the faint noises of his preparations to go out. When he had quitted the house, she waited to hear him drive the wagon from the yard.

She waited long, but heard no sound of horse’s tread or wagon-wheel. Anxious, she went to the cabin door and looked out. The big mules were still where they had been fastened the night before. The wagon was there, too.

Her heart sank. She looked quickly along the low rafters supporting the roof of the narrow porch to where her father’s fishing pole and pail always hung. Both were gone.

“ ’T ain’ no use, ’t ain’ no use,” she said, as she turned into the house with a look of something like anguish in her eyes.

When the spare breakfast was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Lolotte turned with resolute mien to the two little brothers.

“Veveste,” she said to the older, “go see if dey got co’n in dat wagon fu feed dem mule’.”

“Yes, dey got co’n. Papa done feed ’em, fur I see de co’n-cob in de trough, me.”

“Den you goen he’p me hitch dem mule, to de wagon. Jacques, go down de lane an’ ax Aunt Minty if she come set wid Nonomme w’ile I go drive dem mule’ to de landin’.”

Lolotte had evidently determined to undertake her father’s work. Nothing could dissuade her; neither the children’s astonishment nor Aunt Minty’s scathing disapproval. The fat black negress came laboring into the yard just as Lolotte mounted upon the wagon.

“Git down f’om dah, chile! Is you plumb crazy?” she exclaimed.

“No, I ain’t crazy; I’m hungry, Aunt Minty. We all hungry. Somebody got fur work in dis fam’ly.”

“Dat ain’t no work fur a gal w’at ain’t bar’ seventeen year ole; drivin’ Marse Duplan’s mules! W’at I gwine tell yo’ pa?”

“Fu me, you kin tell ’im w’at you want. But you watch Nonomme. I done cook his rice an’ set it ’side.”

“Don’t you bodda,” replied Aunt Minty; “I got somepin heah fur my boy. I gwine ’ten’ to him.”

Lolotte had seen Aunt Minty put something out of sight when she came up, and made her produce it. It was a heavy fowl.

“Sence w’en you start raisin’ Brahma chicken’, you?” Lolotte asked mistrustfully.

“My, but you is a cu’ious somebody! Ev’ything w’at got fedders on its laigs is Brahma chicken wid you. Dis heah ole hen”⁠—

“All de same, you don’t got fur give dat chicken to eat to Nonomme. You don’t got fur cook ’im in my house.”

Aunt Minty, unheeding, turned to the house with blustering inquiry for her boy, while Lolotte drove away with great clatter.

She knew, notwithstanding her injunction, that the chicken would be cooked and eaten. Maybe she herself would partake of it when she came back, if hunger drove her too sharply.

“Nax’ thing I’m goen be one rogue,” she muttered; and the tears gathered and fell one by one upon her cheeks.

“It do look like one Brahma, Aunt Mint,” remarked the small and weazened Jacques, as he watched the woman picking the lusty fowl.

“How ole is you?” was her quiet retort.

“I don’ know, me.”

“Den if you don’t know dat much, you betta keep yo’ mouf shet, boy.”

Then silence fell, but for a monotonous chant which the woman droned as she worked. Jacques opened his lips once more.

“It do look like one o’ Ma’me Duplan’ Brahma, Aunt Mint.”

“Yonda, whar I come f’om, befo’ de wah”⁠—

“Ole Kaintuck, Aunt Mint?”

“Ole Kaintuck.”

“Dat ain’t one country like dis yere, Aunt Mint?”

“You mighty right, chile, dat ain’t no sech kentry as dis heah. Yonda, in Kaintuck, w’en boys says de word ‘Brahma chicken,’ we takes an’ gags ’em, an’ ties dar han’s behines ’em, an’ fo’ces ’em ter stan’ up watchin’ folks settin’ down eatin’ chicken soup.”

Jacques passed the back of his hand across his mouth; but lest the act should not place sufficient seal upon it; he prudently stole away to go and sit beside Nonomme, and wait there as patiently as he could the coming feast.

And what a treat it was! The luscious soup⁠—a great pot of it⁠—golden yellow, thickened with the flaky rice that Lolotte had set carefully on the shelf. Each mouthful of it seemed to carry fresh blood into the veins and a new brightness into the eyes of the hungry children who ate of it.

And that was not all. The day brought abundance with it. Their father came home with glistening perch and trout that Aunt Minty broiled deliciously over glowing embers, and basted with the rich chicken fat.

“You see,” explained old Sylveste, “w’en I git up to ’s mo’nin’ an’ see it was cloudy, I say to me, ‘Sylveste, w’en you go wid dat cotton, rememba you got no tarpaulin. Maybe it rain, an’ de cotton was spoil. Betta you go yonda to Lafirme Lake, w’ere de trout was bitin’ fas’er ’an mosquito, an’ so you git a good mess fur de chil’en.’ Lolotte⁠—w’at she goen do yonda? You ought stop Lolotte, Aunt Minty, w’en you see w’at she was want to do.”

“Did n’ I try to stop ’er? Did n’ I ax ’er, ‘W’at I gwine tell yo’ pa?’ An’ she ’low, ‘Tell ’im to go hang hisse’f, de triflind ole rapscallion! I’s de one w’at’s runnin’ dis heah fambly!’ ”

“Dat don’ soun’ like