“I followed de yudder travelers f’um de train out to de street, where I met a big buck nigger, wearin’ uv a beaver. I know’d dat he was fixin’ to go to de festerbul. He had on er Jim-swinger coat an’ high-top boots. I step up to him an’ say: ‘Is dis de day fer de President’s big blow-out to de niggers an’ de big white foks?’ De rascal look me up an’ down an’ all over an’ ax: ‘What is you talkin’ ’bout, ole Rube? What do you know ’bout de President’s functions?’ I stop right dere fer I seed de kinder nigger I wuz talkin’ to. He was too highferlutin’ fer me, talkin’ ’bout functions; when er nigger quits sayin’ festerbul it’s time to let him erlone. I axed him de way to de Big House an’ he sed, ‘Go to de yavenue an’ up.’ I say, ‘What’s dat?’ He answer, ‘It’s de bigges’ street in de town.’ “I move on till I meet er pleasant lookin’ white gem’man who say dat he’s frum Alabam. I knowed dat he wuz uv de bes’ stock in de country, fer he had on good clothes an’ er big wide brim hat, one la’k ole master useter wear. I pull off my hat an’ say, ‘Boss, does you live here?’ ‘No,’ he say, ‘why?’ “I seed dat he wuz all right, so I pop er few questions to him. ‘Boss, is dis de day uv de festerbul at de Big House fer de culled peoples an’ yudders?’ Well, sir, he smile way down to his Adam’s apple, des la’k de question do him good, and say, ‘Is you thinkin’ ’bout ’tendin’ one uv de White House to-do’s?’ “‘Yes, sir, dat’s what I come up here fer; I lives in Concord, North Caroliny, wid Marse Jim Cannon, Marse John Wadsworth an’ de rest. I sho’ do wish dat you’d hep me git in. I’se des as good as dem yaller niggers dat’s been ’vited.’ “He des chuckle when I tol’ him ’bout my bizness up dere. He reach in his pocket an’ fetch out a ticket wid his name on it an’ when he write, ‘Let dis nigger in de White House to de festerbul,’ he handed it to me an’ say, ‘Dat’ll git you in.’ “‘But, uncle,’ he say, ‘dey don’t call de to-do’s festerbuls, la’k dey do down Souf, but dey is functions an’ ceptions.’ “‘Well,’ I say, ‘des so dey have good things to eat, dat’s all dat I care ’bout. We calls ’em festerbuls.’ “‘Why,’ he ’clare, ‘dey don’t have nothin’ to eat. You des go up dere an’ shake hands wid de big fo’ks. Dat’s all you do. Dere ain’t no eatin’ ’bout it.’ “Dat didn’t suit dis nigger an’ I wuz hot under de collar, fer Marse John Wadsworth tolt me, ’fo’ I lef’ dat dey woul’ have er ’possum as big as er sheep an’ sweet-taters an’ gravy by de gallun. Dat wuz what I went fer. I kin shake han’s wid folks at home. I thought de gem’man wuz tryin’ to fool me, but I didn’t tell him so. He look at me an’ laugh, an’ den go on ’bout his bizness.