Nobody knew how old Easter was. Indeed, she did not know herself, and when any one asked her, she would say, "I 'spec' I mus' be 'long about twenty-fo'," or, "Don't you reckon I mus' be purty nigh on to nineteen?" And then, when she saw from her questioner's face that she had made a mistake, she would add, quickly: "I means twenty-fo' hund'ed, honey," or, "I means a hund'ed an' nineteen," which latter amendment no doubt came nearer the truth.
Having arrived at a figure that seemed to be acceptable, she would generally repeat it, in this way:
"Yas, missy; I was twenty-fo' hund'ed years ole las' Easter Sunday."
The old woman had never forgotten that she had been named Easter because she was born on that day, and so she always claimed Easter Sunday as her birthday, and no amount of explanation would convince her that this was not always true.
"What diff'ence do it make ter me ef it comes soon or late, I like ter know?" she would argue. "Ef it comes soon, I gits my birfday presents dat much quicker; an' ef it comes late, you all got dat much mo' time ter buy me some mo'. 'Tain't fur me ter deny my birfday caze it moves round."
And then she would add, with a peal of her high, cracked laughter: "Seem ter me, de way I keeps a-livin' on—an' a-livin' on—an' a-livin' on—maybe deze heah slip-aroun' birfdays don't pin a pusson down ter ole age so close't as de clock-work reg'lars does."
And then, if she were in the mood for it, she would set her basket down, and, without lifting her feet from the ground, go through a number of quick and comical movements, posing with her arms and body in a way that was absurdly like dancing.
Old Easter had been a very clever woman in her day, and many an extra picayune had been dropped into her wrinkled palm—nobody remembered the time when it wasn't wrinkled—in the old days, just because of some witty answer she had given while she untied the corner of her handkerchief for the coins to make change in selling her candy.
"'YAS, MISSY, I WAS TWENTY FO' HOND'ED YEARS OLE, LAS' EASTER SUNDAY'"