“If you please, Missis,” said she.

“Well, Chloe, what is it?” said her mistress, rising, and going to the end of the balcony.

“If Missis would come and look at dis yer lot o’ poetry.”

Chloe had a particular fancy for calling poultry poetry,—­an application of language in which she always persisted, notwithstanding frequent corrections and advisings from the young members of the family.

“La sakes!” she would say, “I can’t see; one jis good as turry,—­poetry suthin good, any how;” and so poetry Chloe continued to call it.

Mrs. Shelby smiled as she saw a prostrate lot of chickens and ducks, over which Chloe stood, with a very grave face of consideration.

“I’m a thinkin whether Missis would be a havin a chicken pie o’ dese yer.”

“Really, Aunt Chloe, I don’t much care;—­serve them any way you like.”

Chloe stood handling them over abstractedly; it was quite evident that the chickens were not what she was thinking of.  At last, with the short laugh with which her tribe often introduce a doubtful proposal, she said,

“Laws me, Missis! what should Mas’r and Missis be a troublin theirselves ’bout de money, and not a usin what’s right in der hands?” and Chloe laughed again.

“I don’t understand you, Chloe,” said Mrs. Shelby, nothing doubting, from her knowledge of Chloe’s manner, that she had heard every word of the conversation that had passed between her and her husband.

“Why, laws me, Missis!” said Chloe, laughing again, “other folks hires out der niggers and makes money on ’em!  Don’t keep sich a tribe eatin ’em out of house and home.”

“Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire out?”

“Laws!  I an’t a proposin nothin; only Sam he said der was one of dese yer perfectioners, dey calls ’em, in Louisville, said he wanted a good hand at cake and pastry; and said he’d give four dollars a week to one, he did.”

“Well, Chloe.”

“Well, laws, I ’s a thinkin, Missis, it’s time Sally was put along to be doin’ something.  Sally ’s been under my care, now, dis some time, and she does most as well as me, considerin; and if Missis would only let me go, I would help fetch up de money.  I an’t afraid to put my cake, nor pies nother, ’long side no perfectioner’s.

“Confectioner’s, Chloe.”

“Law sakes, Missis! ’tan’t no odds;—­words is so curis, can’t never get ’em right!”

“But, Chloe, do you want to leave your children?”

“Laws, Missis! de boys is big enough to do day’s works; dey does well enough; and Sally, she’ll take de baby,—­she’s such a peart young un, she won’t take no lookin arter.”

“Louisville is a good way off.”

“Law sakes! who’s afeard?—­it’s down river, somer near my old man, perhaps?” said Chloe, speaking the last in the tone of a question, and looking at Mrs. Shelby.

“No, Chloe; it’s many a hundred miles off,” said Mrs. Shelby.