years I
was laughed at for maintaining that no range ever turned out things to
equal open-hearth cookery. But it took paper bags to prove beyond cavil
the truth of my contention. Even paper-bagging does not quite match the
open-hearth process, though there is the same secret of superiority,
namely, cooking things in their own essence by the agency of hot air.
The sealed and loaded bag needs must be laid on a grate-shelf in a hot
oven--touch of solid hot iron is fatal to it.

Iron vessels set above smoothly spread coals got hot, but not
red-hot--red heat belonged to the lids. They were swung over the fire
and heated before setting them in place--then the blanket of coals and
embers held in heat which, radiating downward, made the cooking even.
Scorching of course was possible unless the cook knew her business, and
minded it well. Our Mammys not only knew their business but loved
it--often with a devotion that raised it to the rank of Art. Add the
palate of a _gourmet_ born, a free hand at the fat, the sweet, strong
waters and high flavors--what wonder it is to envy those of us they fed!

My individual Mammy was in figure an oblate spheroid--she stood five
feet, one inch high, weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, had a head so
flat buckets sat on it as of right, was as light on her feet, in number
twelve shoes, as the slimmest of her children and foster children, could
shame the best man on the place at lifting with the hand-stick, or chop
him to a standstill--if her axe exactly suited her. She loved her work,
her mistress, her children black and white--even me, though I was
something of a trial--her garden and her God. All these she served
fondly, faithfully, with rare good humor and the nicest judgment. Fall
soft upon her, rain and snow! Sunshine and green grass, make happy
always the slope where she rests!

She put on a clean white frock every morning--by breakfast time it was
a sickly gray along the front--the thick of the dinner-battle was writ
large on it in black smudges. She herself explained: "I ain't sech er
dirty 'ooman--hit's dest I'se so big, dirt ketches me comin' and gwine."
Air and more air she would have, regardless of weather. The big
board-window had its shutter up all day long--the glass window was a
vexation, since it opened only halfway. By way of evening things,
daubing and chinking got knocked out of at least half the cracks between
the wall logs as sure as Easter came--not to be replaced until