kitchen cabinet got it. She made this sacrifice as a matter of religious
etiquette; as a thing necessary just now, but by no means to be wrested
into a precedent; no, a week or two would limber up her piety, then she
would be rational again, and the next two dollars that got left out in
the cold would find a comforter--and she could name the comforter.

Was she bad? Was she worse than the general run of her race? No. They
had an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin to take
military advantage of the enemy--in a small way; in a small way, but not
in a large one. They would smouch provisions from the pantry whenever
they got a chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax, or an emery bag,
or a paper of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill, or small
articles of clothing, or any other property of light value; and so far
were they from considering such reprisals sinful, that they would go to
church and shout and pray the loudest and sincerest with their plunder in
their pockets. A farm smokehouse had to be kept heavily padlocked, or
even the colored deacon himself could not resist a ham when Providence
showed him in a dream, or otherwise, where such a thing hung lonesome,
and longed for someone to love. But with a hundred hanging before him,
the deacon would not take two--that is, on the same night. On frosty
nights the humane Negro prowler would warm the end of the plank and put
it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree; a drowsy hen
would step on to the comfortable board, softly clucking her gratitude,
and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and later into his stomach,
perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the man who daily robbed
him of an inestimable treasure--his liberty--he was not committing any
sin that God would remember against him in the Last Great Day.

"Name the thief!"