One of the very interesting things about the old woman was her memory. It was really very pleasant to talk with a person who could distinctly recall General Jackson and Governor Claiborne, who would tell blood-curdling tales of Lafitte the pirate and of her own wonderful experiences when as a young girl she had served his table at Barataria.
If, as her memory failed her, the old creature was tempted into making up stories to supply the growing demand, it would not be fair to blame her too severely. Indeed, 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."