a stew-pan, and anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of
a bake-kettle, from whence steam forth indubitable intimations of
"something good." A round, black, shining face is hers, so glossy as
to suggest the idea that she might have been washed over with white of
eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her whole plump countenance beams
with satisfaction and contentment from under her well-starched checked
turban, bearing on it, however, if we must confess it, a little of
that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the
neighborhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.

A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. Not
a chicken or turkey or duck in the barn-yard but looked grave when they
saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on their
latter end; and certain it was that she was always meditating on
trussing, stuffing and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to
inspire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its
varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous
to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised compounders; and
she would shake her fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she
would narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her compeers
had made to attain to her elevation.

The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinners and
suppers "in style," awoke all the energies of her soul; and no sight
was more welcome to her than a pile of travelling trunks launched on the
verandah, for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs.

Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the bake-pan; in
which congenial operation we shall leave her till we finish our picture
of the cottage.