"Had a good sleep, Jimmy?" she asked briskly. Then in a very different
tone she said, as if to herself, "My, how you do look like your father!" I
remembered that my father had been her little boy; she must often have
come to wake him like this when he overslept. "Here are your clean
clothes," she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand as she
talked. "But first you come down to the kitchen with me, and have a nice
warm bath behind the stove. Bring your things; there's nobody about."
"Down to the kitchen" struck me as curious; it was always "out in the
kitchen" at home. I picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her
through the living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This
basement was divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a
kitchen at the left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed--the plaster
laid directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in dugouts. The floor
was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling there were little
half-windows with white curtains, and pots of geraniums and wandering Jew
in the deep sills. As I entered the kitchen I sniffed a pleasant smell of
gingerbread baking. The stove was very large, with bright nickel
trimmings, and behind it there was a long wooden bench against the wall,
and a tin washtub, into which grandmother poured hot and cold water. When
she brought the soap and towels, I told her that I was used to taking my
bath without help.
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