"She was de daughter o' de wreckin' mahater, a Nassau niggah by de name
o' Aleck Gator. W'en de crew done got us off de shoal and was towin' de
wreck in, dere she was, stahndin' on de dock, waitin' fer her daddy.
Big, overgrown gal, black an' devilish-lookin', noways handsome; but
somehow I jes' couldn't keep my eyes offen her. I notice she keep eyein'
me, too.

"W'en we gits ashore, I didn't lose no time gittin in a good word f'
mahse'r. 'Fore I knowed it, we was talkin' 'bout wha' we gwine live ...
Fifty-one years is a mighty long time to stick to one woman, 'specially
w'en you be'n lookin' over so many 'fore makin' up yo' mind ... Dis is
her."

Uncle Dave extended a tinted photograph. His gnarled fingers trembled as
he handed it over, and there was a suspicious softness in the lines of
his wrinkled old face, as he looked fondly at the likeness of the
stolid, dark features.

"Hit be'n mighty lonesome since she done lef' dis worl' fo' year ago,"
he said with feeling, as he carefully wrapped up the picture and put it
away.

Uncle Dave has definite ideas of his own regarding domestic economy.
"Trouble wid young folks nowadays is dey don't have no good
unnerstahndin' 'fore dey gits married. 'Fore we ever faces de preacher,
I tells her she ain't gittin' no model man fer a husban'. I lake my
likker, an' I gwine have it w'en I wants it.

"'Now lissen,' I tells 'er, 'effen I comes home drunk, don't you go t'
bressin' ee[TR:?] out. Don't you even _tetch_ me; jes' gimme a li'l
piller an' lemme go lay down on de flo' somewheres. Atter I drop off t'
sleep, you kin tear de house down, and hit don't botha me none. Wen I
wakes up, I be all right.'

"Well, de fust time I come home full o' likker she done ferget w'at I
tell her, an' staht shovin' me. I done bus' 'er on de jaw so pow'ful
hahd hit lif' her feet offen de flo' an' she lan' in de corner on her
haid. W'en I wakes up an' sees w'at I done, I wish I could hit mahse'f
de same way. F'm dat day on, we nevah had no mo' trouble 'bout de
likker question."

The weight of years has at last cooled the hot blood, but a hint of
departed swashbuckling days still glistens in the old eyes as he sits
on his narrow porch and recalls scenes of the old days.

To one interested in the psychology of the Southern negro, this
shriveled old man, with his half-bantering, half-pathetic attitude
offers an interesting study. Borrowed from a page of history, he seems a
curiosity, like a foss