Ive had a heap o comfort all my life makin quilts, and now in my old age I wouldnt take a fortune for em. Set down here, child, where you can see out o the winder and smell the lilacs, and well look at em all. You see, some folks has albums to put folks pictures in to remember em by, and some folks has a book and writes down the things that happen every day so they wont forgit em; but, honey, these quilts is my albums and my diries, and whenever the weathers bad and I cant git out to see folks, I jest spread out my quilts and look at em and study over em, and its jest like goin back fifty or sixty years and livin my life over agin.
There aint nothin like a piece o caliker for bringin back old times, child, unless its a flower or a bunch o thyme or a piece o pennyroyl anything that smells sweet. Why, I can go out yonder in the yard and gether a bunch o that purple lilac and jest shut my eyes and see faces I aint seen for fifty years, and somethin goes through me like a flash o lightnin, and it seems like Im young agin jest for that minute.
Aunt Janes hands were stroking lovingly a nine-patch that resembled the coat of many colors.
Now this quilt, honey, she said, I made out o the pieces o my childrens clothes, their little dresses and waists and aprons. Some of ems dead, and some of ems grown and married and a long way off from me, further off than the ones thats dead, I sometimes think. But when I set down and look at this quilt and think over the pieces, it seems like they all come back, and I can see em playin around the floors and goin in and out, and hear em cryin and laughin and callin me jest like they used to do before they grew up to men and women, and before there was any little graves o mine out in the old buryin-ground over yonder.
Wonderful imagination of motherhood that can bring childhood back from the dust of the grave and banish the wrinkles and gray hairs of age with no other talisman than a scrap of faded calico!
The old womans hands were moving tremulously over the surface of the quilt as if they touched the golden curls of the little dream children who had vanished from her hearth so many years ago. But there were no tears either in her eyes or in her voice. I had long noticed that Aunt Jane always smiled when she spoke of the people whom the world calls dead, or the things it calls lost or past. These words seemed to have for her higher and tenderer meanings than are placed on them by the sorrowful heart of humanity.
But the moments were passing, and one could not dwell too long on any quilt, however well beloved. Aunt Jane rose briskly, folded up the one that lay across her knees, and whisked out another from the huge pile in an old splint-bottomed chair.
Heres a piece o one o Sally Anns purple caliker dresses. Sally Ann always thought a heap o purple caliker. Heres one o Milly Amos ginghams that pink-and-white one. And that piece o white with the rosebuds in it, thats Miss Penelopes. She give it to me the summer before she died. Bless her soul! That dress jest matched her face exactly. Somehow her and her clothes always looked alike, and her voice matched her face, too. One o the things Im lookin forward to, child, is seein Miss Penelope agin and hearin her sing. Voices and faces is alike; theres some that you cant remember, and theres some you cant forgit. Ive seen a heap o people and heard a heap o voices, but Miss Penelopes face was different from all the rest, and so was her voice. Why, if she said Good morning to you, youd hear that Good mornin all day, and her singin I know there never was anything like it in this world. My grandchildren all laugh at me for thinkin so much o Miss Penelopes singin, but then they never heard her, and I have: thats the difference. My grandchild Henrietta was down here three or four years ago, and says she, Grandma, dont you want to go up to Louisville with me and hear Patti sing? And says I, Patty who, child? Says I, If it was to hear Miss Penelope sing, Id carry these old bones o mine clear from here to New York. But there aint anybody else I want to hear sing bad enough to go up to Louisville or anywhere else. And some o these days, says I, Im goin to hear Miss Penelope sing.
Aunt Jane laughed blithely, and it was impossible not to laugh with her.
Honey, she said, in the next breath, lowering her voice and laying her finger on the rosebud piece, honey, theres one thing I cant git over. Heres a piece o Miss Penelopes dress, but wheres Miss Penelope? Aint it strange that a piece o calikerll outlast you and me? Dont it look like folks ought o hold on to their bodies as long as other folks holds on to a piece o the dresses they used to wear?
Questions as old as the human heart and its human grief! Here is the glove, but where is the hand it held but yesterday? Here the jewel that she wore, but where is she?
Where is the Pompadour[17] now? This was the Pompadours fan!
Strange, that such things as gloves, jewels, fans, and dresses can outlast a womans form.
Strange, that such things as gloves, jewels, fans, and dresses can outlast a womans form.
Behold! I show you a mystery the mystery of mortality. And an eery feeling came over me as I entered into the old womans mood and thought of the strong, vital bodies that had clothed themselves in those fabrics of purple and pink and white, and that now were dust and ashes lying in sad, neglected graves on farm and lonely roadside. There lay the quilt on our knees, and the gay scraps of calico seemed to mock us with their vivid colors. Aunt Janes cheerful voice called me back from the tombs.
Heres a piece o one o my dresses, she said; brown ground with a red ring in it. Abram picked it out. And heres another one, that light yeller ground with the vine runnin through it. I never had so many caliker dresses that I didnt want one more, for in my day folks used to think a caliker dress was good enough to wear anywhere. Abram knew my failin, and two or three times a year hed bring me a dress when he come from town. And the dresses hed pick out always suited me bettern the ones I picked.
I ricollect I finished this quilt the summer before Mary Frances was born, and Sally Ann and Milly Amos and Maria Petty come over and give me a lift on the quiltin. Heres Millys work, heres Sally Anns, and heres Marias.
I looked, but my inexperienced eye could see no difference in the handiwork of the three women. Aunt Jane saw my look of incredulity.
Now, child, she said, earnestly, you think Im foolin you, but, la! theres jest as much difference in folks sewin as there is in their handwritin. Milly made a fine stitch, but she couldnt keep on the line to save her life; Maria never could make a reglar stitch, somed be long and some short, and Sally Anns was reglar, but all of em coarse. I can see em now stoopin over the quiltin frames Milly talkin as hard as she sewed, Sally Ann throwin in a word now and then, and Maria never openin her mouth except to ask for the thread or the chalk. I ricollect they come over after dinner, and we got the quilt out o the frames long before sundown, and the next day I begun bindin it, and I got the premium on it that year at the Fair.
I hardly ever showed a quilt at the Fair that I didnt take the premium, but heres one quilt that Sarah Jane Mitchell beat me on.
And Aunt Jane dragged out a ponderous, red-lined affair, the very antithesis of the silken, down-filled comfortable that rests so lightly on the couch of the modern dame.
It makes me laugh jest to think o that time, and how happy Sarah Jane was. It was way back yonder in the fifties. I ricollect we had a mighty fine Fair that year. The crops was all fine that season, and such apples and pears and grapes you never did see. The Floral Hall was full o things, and the whole county turned out to go to the Fair. Abram and me got there the first day bright and early, and we was walkin around the ampitheater and lookin at the townfolks and the sights, and we met Sally Ann. She stopped us, and says she, Sarah Jane Mitchells got a quilt in the Floral Hall in competition with yours and Milly Amos. Says I, Is that all the competition there is? And Sally Ann says, All that amounts to anything. Theres one more, but its about as bad a piece o sewin as Sarah Janes, and that looks like itd hardly hold together till the Fairs over. And, says she, I dont believe therell be any more. It looks like this was an off year on that particular kind o quilt. I didnt get mine done, says she, and neither did Maria Petty, and maybe its a good thing after all.
Well, I saw in a minute what Sally Ann was aimin at. And I says to Abram, Abram, havent you got somethin to do with appintin the judges for the womens things? And he says, Yes. And I says, Well, you see to it that Sally Ann gits appinted to help judge the caliker quilts. And bless your soul, Abram got me and Sally Ann both appinted. The other judge was Mis Doctor Brigham, one o the town ladies. We told her all about what we wanted to do, and she jest laughed and says, Well, if that aint the kindest, nicest thing! Of course well do it.
Seein that I had a quilt there, I hadnt a bit o business bein a judge; but the first thing I did was to fold my quilt up and hide it under Maria Pettys big worsted quilt, and then we pinned the blue ribbon on Sarah Janes and the red on Millys. Id fixed it all up with Milly, and she was jest as willin as I was for Sarah Jane to have the premium. There was jest one thing I was afraid of: Milly was a good-hearted woman, but she never had much control over her tongue. And I says to her, says I: Milly, its mighty good of you to give up your chance for the premium, but if Sarah Jane ever finds it out, thatll spoil everything. For, says I, there aint any kindness in doin a person a favor and then tellin everybody about it. And Milly laughed, and says she: I know what you mean, Aunt Jane. Its mighty hard for me to keep from tellin everything I know and some things I dont know, but, says she, Im never goin to tell this, even to Sam. And she kept her word, too. Every once in a while shed come up to me and whisper, I aint told it yet, Aunt Jane, jest to see me laugh.