Again it scrambles
pettishly, sings snatches of some merry plantation song, pulls its
braided hat about the floor, climbs upon the table to see what is in
the basket.
Passing to the cabin of Ellen Juvarna, we see her in the same
confusion which seems to have beset the plantation: her dark,
piercing eyes, display more of that melancholy which marks
Clotilda's; nor does thoughtfulness pervade her countenance, and yet
there is the restlessness of an Indian about her,--she is Indian by
blood and birth; her look calls up all the sad associations of her
forefathers; her black glossy hair, in heavy folds, hangs carelessly
about her olive shoulders, contrasting strangely with the other.
"And you, Nicholas! remember what your father will say: but you must
not call him such," she says, taking by the hand a child we have
described, who is impatient to join the gay group.
"That ain't no harm, mother! Father always is fondling about me when
nobody's lookin'," the child answers, with a pertness indicating a
knowledge of his parentage rather in advance of his years.
We pass to the kitchen,--a little, dingy cabin, presenting the most
indescribable portion of the scene, the smoke issuing from every
crevice. Here old Peggy, the cook,--an enveloped representative of
smoke and grease,--as if emerging from the regions of Vulcan, moves
her fat sides with the independence of a sovereign. In this
miniature smoke-pit she sweats and frets, runs to the door every few
minutes, adjusts the points of her flashy bandana, and takes a
wistful look at the movements without.
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