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An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin

THE cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, close adjoining to “the
house,” as the negro par excellence designates his master’s dwelling. In front it
had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, strawberries, raspberries, and a va-
riety of fruits and vegetables, flourished under careful tending. The whole front of
it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia and a native multiflora rose, which,
entwisting and interlacing, left scarce a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here,
also, in summer, various brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four-
o’clocks, found an indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendors, and were
the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe’s heart.

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house is over, and Aunt
Chloe, who presided over its preparation as head cook, has left to inferior officers
in the kitchen the business of clearing away and washing dishes, and come out
into her own snug territories, to “get her ole man’s supper;” therefore, doubt not
that it is her you see by the fire, presiding with anxious interest over certain friz-
zling items in 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
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