"Well," answered the old ex-slave, "I can't rightly tell mah age no
udder way. My mammy, she tole me, I wuz bawned de same night ez Miss
Willie wuz, en mammy allus tole me effen I ever want ter know how ole I
is, jes' ask my white folks how ole Miss Willie is."

When I had pencilled the birthdate on a scrap of paper torn from my note
book and she had tucked it carefully away in a pocket in her clean blue
checked gingham apron, Emmaline began to talk of the old days on my
grandfather's farm.

"Miss Sarah, Ah sho did love yo' aunt Willie. We wuz chilluns growin' up
tergedder on Marse Billie's place. You mought not know it, but black
chilluns gits grown heap faster den white chilluns, en whilst us played
'round de yard, en orchards, en pastures out dar, I wuz sposed ter take
care er Miss Willie en not let her git hurt, er nuthin' happen ter her."

"My mammy say dat whan Marse Billie cum hom' frum de War, he call all
his niggers tergedder en tell 'am dey is free, en doan b'long ter nobody
no mo'. He say dat eny uf 'um dat want to, kin go 'way and live whar dey
laks, en do lak dey wanter. Howsome ebber, he do say effen enybody wants
ter stay wid him, en live right on in de same cabins, dey kin do it,
effen dey promise him ter be good niggers en mine him lak dey allus
done."

"Most all de niggers stayed wid Marse Billie, 'ceppen two er thee brash,
good fer nuthin's."

Standing there in the cemetery, as I listened to old Emmaline tell of
the old days, I could see cotton being loaded on freight cars at the
depot. I asked Emmaline to tell what she could remember of the days whan