she did this on
purpose. Like the most of her race she was invincibly shy about
acknowledging her beliefs in charms and conjuring.

Soap which failed to thicken properly lacked grease. To put in enough,
yet not too much, was a matter of nice judgment. Tallow did not mix well
with hog fat. Therefore it had commonly its smaller special pot, whose
results were molded for hand-soap, being hard and rather light-colored.

Since our washerwomen much preferred soft soap, most of the spring
making went straight into the barrel. The barrel had to be very
tight--soap has nearly as great a faculty of creeping through seams as
even hot lard. One kettleful, however, would have salt stirred through
it, then be allowed to cool, and be cut out in long bars, which were
laid high and dry to age. Old soap was much better for washing fine
prints, lawns, ginghams and so on--in fact whatever needed cleansing
without fading.

Sundry other fine soap makers emptied their salted soap, just as it was
on the point of hardening, into shallow pans, cloth-lined, and shaped it
with bare hands into balls the size of two fists. This they did with the
whole batch, holding hard soap so much easier kept, and saying it was
no trouble whatever to soften a ball in a little hot water upon wash
days. But Mammy would have none of such practices--said give her good
soft soap and sand rock, she could scour anything. Sand rock was a
variety of limestone, which burning made crumbly, but did not turn to
lime. Mammy picked it up wherever she found it, beat it fine and used it
on everything--shelves, floors, hollow-ware, milk pans, piggins, cedar
water buckets--it made their brass hoops shine like gold. While she
scoured she told us tales of the pewter era--when she had gone, a
barefoot child, with her mother, to the Rush Branch, to come home with a
sheaf of rushes, whereby the pewter was made to shine. It hurts even
yet, recalling the last end of that pewter. As glass and crockery grew
plenty, the boys--my uncles, there were five of them--melted it down for
rifle bullets, when by chance they ran out of lead. Yet--who am I, to
reproach them--did not I myself, melt down for a purpose less legitimate
a fine Brittania ware teapot, whose only fault was a tiny leak? Now I
should prize it beyond silver and gold.

Harking back to candle-making--we had no candle-berries in our wilds,
and only a few wax-berries as ornaments of our gardens. But from what I
know by observatio