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My mammy's name was Lucy Frye. She came out here in slav'y time,
wid Marse Bob, frum Char'ston, South Ca'lina, in er wagin. Didn't
none of her folks come wid her, jes' her by herself, en she say
she didn't never see non of em no mo'. Den I was born here, right
here in dis here yard, and didn't never know no pappy, but I was
her fore Marse Bob died, en 'fore his two boys Mr. Joe and Mr.
Johnny died too, en once dey's gone ain't no comin' back. I can't
recollec' Miss Ca'line much, caze my 'membrance is shaller, but she
was us old Mistress. I knows she had a heap er trouble; I hear mammy
say dat. I used to wash en iron de shirts en look atter de house
in dem days, en jes' lack Marse Bob lef' hit, dats jes' lack he
found hit. But ain't nothin' lef' now to look atter. Ev'ything
done drunk up an' in ruination. Mr. Charlie mos' done come to de
end of de row, en my tiredness done come down on me too. I don't
'zactly know how old I is, but I knows I is gettin' on, but you
better go 'long now, Miss," she said, "caze I'se got plenty ter do
'fore dark en hits mighty nigh fust dust now."

I apologized for having taken up so much of her time, and then
remembered to say that I had been invited into the "gre't house," as
she called it, by on old Negro man. "Must er been 'Bokay'," she said,
"but he don't b'long here no more en you does, he jes roams about caze
he ain't got no place ter stay at, en he's sorter franzy-minded too.
He can't do nothin' much 'cept chop her little wood now en den."

I understood now something of her dialect. She was a Gullah
Negro, at least her mother was, and it was the influence of Scotch
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