One cold, rainy night a little group were assembled around a crackling
wood fire in the nursery; Mammy was seated in a low chair, with Tot in
her arms; Dumps was rocking her doll back and forth, and Diddie was
sitting at the table reading; Aunt Milly was knitting, and the three
little darkies were nodding by the fire.

"Mammy," said Dumps, "s'posin' you tell us a tale." Tot warmly seconded
the motion, and Mammy, who was never more delighted than when
astonishing the children with her wonderful stories, at once assumed a
meditative air. "Lem me see," said the old woman, scratching her head;
"I reckon I'll tell yer 'bout de wushin'-stone, ain't neber told yer dat
yit. I know yer've maybe hearn on it, leastways Milly has; but den she
mayn't have hearn de straight on it, fur 'taint eb'y nigger knows it.
Yer see, Milly, my mammy was er 'riginal Guinea nigger, an' she knowed
'bout de wushin'-stone herse'f, an' she told me one Wednesday night on
de full er de moon, an' w'at I'm gwine ter tell yer is de truff."

Having thus authenticated her story beyond a doubt, Mammy hugged Tot a
little closer and began:

"Once 'pon er time dar wuz a beautiful gyarden wid all kind er nice
blossoms, an' trees, an' brooks, an' things, whar all de little chil'en
usen ter go and play, an' in dis gyarden de grass wuz allers green, de
blossoms allers bright, and de streams allers clar, caze hit b'longed to
er little Fraid, named Cheery."

"A 'little Fraid,'" interrupted Diddie, contemptuously. "Why, Mammy,
there's no such a thing as a 'Fraid.'"