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«A great, rudely built stone chimney was smoking languidly one afternoon. Leaning against this chimney, as if for protection and support, was a little cabin gray and decrepit with age. The door of the cabin stood wide open, for the warm spring was well advanced in the South. There was no need of a fire, but Aun' Jinkey, the mistress of the abode, said she «kep' hit bunin' fer comp'ny.» She sat by it now, smoking as lazily as her chimney, in an old chair which creaked as if in pain when she rocked.»
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