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. [Illustration: "'YAS, MISSY, I WAS TWENTY FO' HOND'ED YEARS OLE, LAS' EASTER SUNDAY'"] 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!"