“Well, I mos’ furgits de zack meanin’,” said the old man, scratching his head; “hit’s some kin’ er writin’, do, jes like Miss Diddie say; but, let erlone dat, hit’s in de squshionary, an’ yer ma kin fin’ hit fur yer, an’ ’splain de zack meanin’ uv de word; but de Defemation uv Ondepen’ence, hit happened on de fuss Fourf uv July, an’ hit happens ev’ry Fourf uv July sence den; an’ dat’s ’cordin ’ter my onderstandin’ uv hit,” said Uncle Rob, whipping up his horses. “What’s dat, Brer Bob?” asked Daddy Jake, and as soon as Uncle Bob had yelled at him Dumps’s query and his answer to it, the old man said: “Yer wrong, Brer Bob; I ’members well de fus’ Fourf uv July; hit wuz er man, honey. Marse Fofer July wuz er _man,_ an’ de day wuz name atter him. He wuz er pow’ful fightin’ man; but den who it wuz he fit I mos’ furgot, hit’s ben so long ergo; but I ’members, do, I wuz er right smart slip uv er boy, an’ I went wid my ole marster, yer pa’s gran’pa, to er big dinner wat dey had on de Jeems Riber, in ole Furginny; an’ dat day, sar, Marse Fofer July wuz dar; an’ he made er big speech ter de white folks, caze I hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s. I nuber seed ’im but I hyeard he wuz dar, do, an’ I knows he _wuz_ dar, caze I sho’ly hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s; an’, ’cordin’ ter de way I ’members bout’n it, dis is his birfday, wat de folks keeps plum till yet caze dey ain’t no men nowerdays like Marse Fofer July. He wuz er gre’t man, an’ he had sense, too; an’ den, ’sides dat, he wuz some er de fus’ famblys in dem days. Wy, his folks usen ter visit our white folks. I helt his horse fur ’im de many er time; an’, let erlone dat, I knowed some uv his niggers; but den dat’s ben er long time ergo.” “But what was he writin’ about Daddy?” asked Diddie, who remembered the picture too well to give up the “writing part.” “He wuz jes signin’ some kin’ er deeds or sump’n,” said Daddy. “I dunno wat he wuz writin’ erbout; but den he wuz er man, caze he lived in my recommembrunce, an’ I done seed ’im myse’f.” That settled the whole matter, though Diddie was not entirely satisfied; but, as the wagon drove up to the creek bank just then, she was too much interested in the barbecue to care very much for “Marse Fofer July.” The children all had their fishing-lines and hooks, and as soon as they were on the ground started to find a good place to fish. Dilsey got some bait from the negro boys, and baited the hooks; and it was a comical sight to see all of the children, white and black, perched upon the roots of trees or seated flat on the ground, watching intently their hooks, which they kept bobbing up and down so fast that the fish must have been very quick indeed to catch them. They soon wearied of such dull sport, and began to set their wits to work to know what to do next. “Le’s go ’possum-huntin’,” suggested Dilsey. “There ain’t any ’possums in the daytime,” said Diddie.