When the day was nearly spent, and the family supper was over, and Uncle Billy had gone out to see that barn and stable and sheepfold were well secured, and all else right outside, and when Aunt Molly had gone her rounds in poultry yard and dairy, and was putting her children to bed, then Aunt Sukey, Rosemary and the negro girl, Henny, would retire into Aunt Sukey's room, to utilize the lingering light of the short winter day by working at whatever tasks were on hand, for never did holiday begin until the candle should be lighted.
It was some homely, country work always. And Aunt Sukey would probably be knitting. Rosemary sewing together scraps for a patchwork quilt and the negro girl, Henny, seated on a stool, would be engaged in winding off the yarn from a "jack" into balls.
It was usually little Rosemary who would give the signal for stopping work, by saying, in pleading tones:
"Aunt Sukey, ain't it most time to let down the blinds and light the candle?"
Whereupon the negro girl would set her reel jack in the corner, and untie and drop the paper blinds before the two windows, and light the tallow dip on the mantelpiece.
Rosemary would roll up her "pieces," and put away her work in a little homemade chip basket, which she would hang upon its own nail.
Last of all, Aunt Sukey would draw her knitting needle from its sheaf, roll up the half-finished stocking, and put it away in a workbag hanging on a hook, near the chimney corner.
And then began the dissipations of the evening. Innocent enough dissipations, though they were howled at by some folks.
Aunt Sukey would resume her seat in the rocker.
Henny would set a little table near her mistress, and place on it the lighted candle and a pair of snuffers.
Rosemary would bring out from the top drawer of the bureau a hoarded and treasured volume, and lay it beside them.
Then, when all were seated--the lady in her rocker, the child on a little chair at her feet, and the negro girl on the floor in the corner of the chimney--Aunt Sukey would open the book, and begin where she left off the night before, and go on with the fortunes of "Evelina," "Camilla," "Clarissa Harlowe," or "Amanda Fitzallen," as the case might be; novels, which, however excellent in themselves, would scarcely be read in these days, though in those they were "devoured," so much so that if one of them appeared in any house, it was sure to go the round of the whole county, and be read to rags before it got home again, if it ever did. In this respect the neighborhood was a free, unorganized, irresponsible circulating library.
