“I go on up de yavenue an’ meet all de fo’ks. I didn’t know dat dere wuz so many people in de worl’. I step in front uv a nice lookin’ man an’ ax, ‘Boss, is chuch out?’ I seed de crowd an’ thought dat wuz de trouble. But de man hain’t answer my question yit. He look me in de eye, stick out his han’ to shake wid me, an’ say, ‘Jones is my name. What did you say yourn wuz?’ Dat wuz somefin’ else. I wuzn’t uster shakin’ wid white fo’ks, but I thought he might be kin to de President, so I ketched his han’ an’ ’clare, ‘My name is Derrick Alexander, frum Concord, North Caroliny.’ Well, de bref lef’ me when he say, ‘What kin I do fer you, Mr. Alexander?’ I’se ninety years ole, but dat’s de fust time dat er white man ever calt me ‘Mister.’ I slip erway fum de man quick fer I knowed dat he wuz one uv dem Yankees dat ole marster uster cuss so hard. I went on up de yavenue, but kep’ lookin’ back to see ef he wuz arter me. Frum dat time on it seem to me dat all de fo’ks dat I see wuz Yankees. Dey la’k ter driv’ me crazy. Dat’s de truf. “Dat wuz de longes’ street dat I ever seed, for it took me er half er day to git to de Big House yard. I wuz des wile fer all de niggers dat I seed wuz bigity an’ de white fo’ks wuz mean. De little niggers look at me an’ laugh. Ef I had been back in Concord I’d busted some uv deyer noggin’s, but I wuz skeered to do it up dere. By de time I got to de Big House gate I wuz mad an’ ’stracted. It ’peers dat everybudy wuz ergin me. As I started to step up in de gate er man wearin’ er uneeform an’ brass buttons come out frum behint er bush an’ say, sassy la’k, ‘Don’t come in here, ole man! Dis’s no place fer niggers!’ “Well, sir, dat raised my dander. I des made up my mine to go in dere anyhow. So I say, ‘I’m goin’ to see de President ef I have ter lick you.’ He grin back at me an’ ’clare, ‘Dere’s de President now. He an’ his boy, goin’ fer er ride.’ “I turnt my head an’ looked roun’ an’ sho’ ’nuff, dere wuz er man an’ er boy ridin’ bob-tail horses. I yell out, ‘Hello, Mr. President! Dis ole Derrick, frum Concord. He’s come to yo’ festerbul.’ I don’t know why, but dat peered to make him mad an’ his upper lip histed up lack er winder shade an’ his lower lip fall down. I ’clare fo’ de Lawd dat I never seed sich a mouf full uv teef in my life. Dey shine so dat dey look la’k dem new tombstones in Red Hill graveyard. An’ he ain’t stop at grinnin’, fer he say to de plesman close to me, ‘’Rest dat crank uv er nigger an’ lock him up!’ Dat wuz de las’ straw. I des square mysef fer to fight. But dat’s all dat I know den, fer de man wid de uneeform whack me over de head wid his billy-stick an’ put me ter sleep. Dat’s what made de hole in my foid. As I wuz on de way to de gard house wid de officer, I hearn somebudy say, ‘Why, dat’s ole Derrick Alexander. What’s he bin doin’, Mr. Officer?’ ‘Tryin’ to git to de White House.’ ‘Well, des as soon as he gits able to travel I’ll send him home.’