and, I quickly put in some ashes,
and covered them with embers, to roast them. All this I{43} did
at the risk of getting a brutual thumping, for Aunt Katy could beat, as
well as starve me. My corn was not long in roasting, and, with my keen
appetite, it did not matter even if the grains were not exactly done. I
eagerly pulled them out, and placed them on my stool, in a clever little
pile. Just as I began to help myself to my very dry meal, in came my
dear mother. And now, dear reader, a scene occurred which was altogether
worth beholding, and to me it was instructive as well as interesting.
The friendless and hungry boy, in his extremest need--and when he did
not dare to look for succor--found himself in the strong, protecting
arms of a mother; a mother who was, at the moment (being endowed with
high powers of manner as well as matter) more than a match for all
his enemies. I shall never forget the indescribable expression of her
countenance, when I told her that I had had no food since morning; and
that Aunt Katy said she "meant to starve the life out of me." There was
pity in her glance at me, and a fiery indignation at Aunt Katy at the
same time; and, while she took the corn from me, and gave me a large
ginger cake, in its stead, she read Aunt Katy a lecture which she never
forgot. My mother threatened her with complaining to old master in my
behalf; for the latter, though harsh and cruel himself, at times, did
not sanction the meanness, injustice, partiality and oppressions enacted
by Aunt Katy in the kitchen. That night I learned the fact, that I was,
not only a child, but _somebody's_ child. The "sweet cake" my mother
gave me was in the shape of a heart, with a rich, dark ring glazed upon
the edge of it. I was victorious, and well off for the moment; prouder,
on my mother's knee, than a king upon his throne. But my triumph was
short. I dropped off to sleep, and waked in the morning only to find my
mother gone, and myself left at the mercy of the sable virago, dominant
in my old master's kitchen, whose fiery wrath was my constant dread.

I do not remember to have seen my mother after this occurrence. Death
soon ended the little communication that had{44} existed between us;
and with it, I believe, a life judging from her weary, sad, down-cast
countenance and mute demeanor--full of heartfelt sorrow. I was not
allowed to visit her during any part of her long illness; nor did I see
her for a long time before she was ta