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Aunt Jane was regarding the quilt with worshipful eyes, and it really was an effective combination of color and form.

‘Many a time while I was piecin’ that,’ she said, ‘I thought about the man that laid the pavement in that old church, and wondered what his name was, and how he looked, and what he’d think if he knew there was a old woman down here in Kentucky usin’ his patterns to make a bed quilt.’

It was indeed a far cry from the Florentine artisan of centuries ago to this humble worker in calico and worsted, but between the two stretched a cord of sympathy that made them one – the eternal aspiration after beauty.

‘Honey,’ said Aunt Jane, suddenly, ‘did I ever show you my premiums?’

And then, with pleasant excitement in her manner, she arose, fumbled in her deep pocket for an ancient bunch of keys, and unlocked a cupboard on one side of the fireplace. One by one she drew them out, unrolled the soft yellow tissue-paper that enfolded them, and ranged them in a stately line on the old cherry center-table – nineteen sterling silver cups and goblets. ‘Abram took some of ’em on his fine stock, and I took some of ’em on my quilts and salt-risin’ bread and cakes,’ she said, impressively.

To the artist his medals, to the soldier his cross of the Legion of Honor [23] the Legion of Hono(u)r – the National Order of the Legion of Honour, a military and civil order of the French Republic, created by Napoleon in 1802. , and to Aunt Jane her silver cups. All the triumph of a humble life was symbolized in these shining things. They were simple and genuine as the days in which they were made. A few of them boasted a beaded edge or a golden lining, but no engraving or embossing marred their silver purity. On the bottom of each was the stamp: ‘John B. Akin, Danville, Ky.’ There they stood,

‘Filled to the brim with precious memories,’ – memories of the time when she and Abram had worked together in field or garden or home, and the County Fair brought to all a yearly opportunity to stand on the height of achievement and know somewhat the taste of Fame’s enchanted cup.

‘There’s one for every child and every grandchild,’ she said, quietly, as she began wrapping them in the silky paper, and storing them carefully away in the cupboard, there to rest until the day when children and grandchildren would claim their own, and the treasures of the dead would come forth from the darkness to stand as heirlooms on fashionable sideboards and damask [24] damask – a silk, fine, patterned fabric, originally produced in Damascus, Syria. -covered tables.

‘Did you ever think, child,’ she said, presently, ‘how much piecin’ a quilt’s like livin’ a life? And as for sermons, why, they ain’t no better sermon to me than a patchwork quilt, and the doctrines is right there a heap plainer’n they are in the catechism [25] catechism – a religious instruction in the form of questions and answers. . Many a time I’ve set and listened to Parson Page preachin’ about predestination and free-will, and I’ve said to myself, ‘Well, I ain’t never been through Centre College up at Danville, but if I could jest git up in the pulpit with one of my quilts, I could make it a heap plainer to folks than parson’s makin’ it with all his big words.’ You see, you start out with jest so much caliker; you don’t go to the store and pick it out and buy it, but the neighbors will give you a piece here and a piece there, and you’ll have a piece left every time you cut out a dress, and you take jest what happens to come. And that’s like predestination. But when it comes to the cuttin’ out, why, you’re free to choose your own pattern. You can give the same kind o’ pieces to two persons, and one’ll make a “nine-patch” and one’ll make a “wild-goose chase,” and there’ll be two quilts made out o’ the same kind o’ pieces, and jest as different as they can be. And that is jest the way with livin’. The Lord sends us the pieces, but we can cut ’em out and put ’em together pretty much to suit ourselves, and there’s a heap more in the cuttin’ out and the sewin’ than there is in the caliker. The same sort o’ things comes into all lives, jest as the Apostle says, “There hath no trouble taken you but is common to all men.”

‘The same trouble’ll come into two people’s lives, and one’ll take it and make one thing out of it, and the other’ll make somethin’ entirely different. There was Mary Harris and Mandy Crawford. They both lost their husbands the same year; and Mandy set down and cried and worried and wondered what on earth she was goin’ to do, and the farm went to wrack and the children turned out bad, and she had to live with her son-in-law in her old age. But Mary, she got up and went to work, and made everybody about her work, too; and she managed the farm better’n it ever had been managed before, and the boys all come up steady, hard-workin’ men, and there wasn’t a woman in the county better fixed up than Mary Harris. Things is predestined to come to us, honey, but we’re jest as free as air to make what we please out of ’em. And when it comes to puttin’ the pieces together, there’s another time when we’re free. You don’t trust to luck for the caliker to put your quilt together with; you go to the store and pick it out yourself, any color you like. There’s folks that always looks on the bright side and makes the best of everything, and that’s like puttin’ your quilt together with blue or pink or white or some other pretty color; and there’s folks that never see anything but the dark side, and always lookin’ for trouble, and treasurin’ it up after they git it, and they’re puttin’ their lives together with black, jest like you would put a quilt together with some dark, ugly color. You can spoil the prettiest quilt pieces that ever was made jest by puttin’ ’em together with the wrong color, and the best sort o’ life is miserable if you don’t look at things right and think about ’em right.

‘Then there’s another thing. I’ve seen folks piece and piece, but when it come to puttin’ the blocks together and quiltin’ and linin’ it, they’d give out; and that’s like folks that do a little here and a little there, but their lives ain’t of much use after all, any more’n a lot o’ loose pieces o’ patchwork. And then while you’re livin’ your life, it looks pretty much like a jumble o’ quilt pieces before they’re put together; but when you git through with it, or pretty nigh through, as I am now, you’ll see the use and the purpose of everything in it. Everything’ll be in its right place jest like the squares in this “four-patch,” and one piece may be pretty and another one ugly, but it all looks right when you see it finished and joined together.’

Did I say that every pattern was represented? No, there was one notable omission. Not a single ‘crazy quilt’ was there in the collection. I called Aunt Jane’s attention to this lack.

‘Child,’ she said, ‘I used to say there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do if I made up my mind to it. But I hadn’t seen a “crazy quilt” then. The first one I ever seen was up at Danville at Mary Frances’, and Henrietta says, “Now, grandma, you’ve got to make a crazy quilt; you’ve made every other sort that ever was heard of.” And she brought me the pieces and showed me how to baste ’em on the square, and said she’d work the fancy stitches around ’em for me. Well, I set there all the mornin’ tryin’ to fix up that square, and the more I tried, the uglier and crookeder the thing looked. And finally I says: “Here, child, take your pieces. If I was to make this the way you want me to, they’d be a crazy quilt and a crazy woman, too.”’