d, it is not at all certain that, as the years
passed, she herself knew which of the marvellous tales she related were
true and which made to order.

"Yas, sir," she would say, "I ricollec' when all dis heah town wasn't
nothin' but a alligator swamp--no houses--no fences--no streets--no
gas-postes--no 'lection lights--no--_no river_--_no nothin'_!"

If she had only stopped before she got to the river, she would have kept
the faith of her hearers better, but it wouldn't have been half so
funny.

"There wasn't anything here then but you and the snakes, I suppose?" So
a boy answered her one day, thinking to tease her a little.

"Yas, me an' de snakes an' alligators an' Gineral Jackson an' my ole
marster's gran'daddy an'--"

"And Adam?" added the mischievous fellow, still determined to worry her
if possible.

"Yas, Marse Adam an' ole Mistus, Mis' Eve, an' de great big p'isonous
fork-tailed snake wha' snatch de apple dat Marse Adam an' Mis' Eve was
squabblin' over--an' et it up!"

When she had gotten this far, while the children chuckled, she began
reaching for her basket, that she had set down upon the _banquette_.
Lifting it to her head, now, she walled her eyes around mysteriously as
she added:

"Yas, an' you better look out fur dat p'isonous fork-tailed snake, caze
he's agoin' roun' hear right now; an' de favoristest dinner dat he
craves ter eat is des sech no-'count, sassy, questionin' street-boys
like you is."

And with a toss of her head that set her candy-basket swaying and a peal
of saw-teeth laughter, she started off, while her would-be teaser found
that the laugh was turned on himself.

It was sometimes hard to know when Easter was serious or when she was
amusing herself--when she was sensible or when she wandered in her mind.
And to the thoughtless it was always hard to take her seriously.

Only those who, through all her miserable rags and absurdities, saw the
very poor and pitiful old, old woman, who seemed always to be
companionless and alone, would sometimes wonder about her, and, saying a
kind and encouraging word, drop a few coins in her slim, black hand
without making her lower her basket. Or they would invite her to "call
at the house" for some old worn flannels or odds and ends of cold
victuals.

And there were a few who never forgot her in their Easter offerings, for
which, as for all other gifts, she was requested to "call at the back
gate." This seemed, indeed, the only way of reaching