“Meh deah chile, I cud tell you heap mo’ ’boutin dem days; but when I look ober da—Ole Mars’ gone, all de hoss ches’nut, elms an’ poplars (dey call dem Lombardy poplars) dead—de apple an’ de peach archard ’stroyed wid age, de cobe wha dey use ter swim de hosses so shaller dat uh kildee kin wa’k ’cross, an’ wussa yit, de man what wuz wonce uh oberseer libbin’ in de ole house, how you ’speck I feel? An’ much ez I lub de ole place, I’s ’fear’d ter go da; fuh dey tell me Leetle Billy plays de fiddle an’ dances in de yard sometimes, an’ he bin dead six monfs nex’ harves’. Ef’n I hadn’ preserbation in meh hyart, an’ ’long ter de chuch, I’d be ’fear’d ter lib heah. Do you ’long ter de chuch? Ef’n you don’ git salbation rite ’way, den yo’ mag’zine will bloom jes’ like de blossoms on dem crabapple trees, an’ you will long fuh de chuch jes’ ez much ez uh hen longs fuh huh los’ chickens. Ef’n I hadn’ jine de chuch I, tu, mout be uh ghose like po’ Billy—he died fum eatin’ tu much watahmillion he stole—an’ I mout uh bin wid him. “Ef’n Ole Mars wuz libbin’ dem crabapple trees wud hab uh new fence ’roun’ dem. Das wha’ he burried Cicero, he favorite p’inter dog. Hunny, I will nebber fogit dat name; I recommember it jes’ ez well ez I recommember yistiddy. All de niggahs in de mansion call him Cis, an’ it meck Ole Mars ’stracted. He stan’ us all, young an’ ole, leetle an’ big, Aunt Phillis, tu, all in uh line, befo’ de po’ch, an’ he say: ‘Dem me, ef’n I don’ sell you all ter Georgy ef’n you don’ stop callin’ dat dog Cis. He’s uh gre’t dog, an’ name arfter uh gre’t man; I won’ hab it. I will wuck de plantation wid free niggahs ’fo’ I hab it.’ An’ he tell de leetle niggahs dey kyant play ’roun’ de po’ch fuh uh monf ef’n dey don’ learn ter call dat dog Cicero. Den he meck us all say arfter him, C-i-c-e-r-o, C-i-c-e-r-o, C-i-c-e-r-o—Cicero! “When he wuz uh young dog, boutin two year ole, Ole Mars cum fum partridge shootin’ one day, an’ all de dogs jump out de wagon at de po’ch ’ceppin’ Cicero; he wuz almos’ tu tired an’ sleepy ter mobe. But when Mammy Phillis call him he got hongry rite ’way; jump out an’ struck he haid ’gin de iron scraper dey teck de mud of’n deah boots wid, an’ kill hissef. Hongry an’ thusty ez Ole Mars wuz, he wep’! An’ he say, ‘I wan’ you an’ Reubin ter dig uh grabe un’er dem crabapple trees, an’ in de mawnin’ we will burry him.’ An’ so de nex’ mawnin’ Uncle Reubin an’ I wuz stan’in’ by de grabe meddowtatin’, an’ heah wuz me, heah wuz Uncle Reubin, an’ heah wuz Cis. Pres’ny Marster cum an’ put Cis in de grabe, an’ I thowd uh spade full ub uth on Cis; an’ Uncle Reubin riz up his haid, an’ he say, ‘Mars Nickey, ain’ you gwine ter say nuffin?’ An’ Mars Nickey he luck like his hyart wud breck, an’ he say ‘Nuffin, Reubin!’ Den Uncle Reubin thowd in uh spade full ub uth, lean on he shovel an’ sorter whispuh like, ‘Den I will say he wuz uh good _ole_ dog!’