It was the week after Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States, had Booker Washington, a famous negro educator, at the White House for dinner with him, and the press of the land had sent the news broadcast.

“Good morning, Uncle Derrick, where are you off for to-day?” asked Dr. F. L. Smith of Concord, of his fellow-townsman, Derrick Alexander, the old colored wood-chopper, as he trudged along the street.

“I’s gwine to de Big House at Washington, where de President lives,” said the old darkey.

“Yes, sir, I’s on my way to see President Roseanfelt.”

“What are you going to see him for?” inquired Dr. Smith.

“Why, ain’t you been readin’ in de papers ’bout dem big festerbuls dat Mr. Roseanfelt an’ his fine lady’s been havin’ spechully fer de niggers? Dat’s it, sir! Dere’s where Uncle Derrick’s goin’.”

The old fellow was in earnest. He wore his best shoes—a new pair of number fourteen brogans—a weather-beaten stovepipe hat and an antiquated suit of livery. In a bandanna handkerchief, swung over the end of a stout cane across his shoulder, he carried a few odds and ends of dress.

“Well, Uncle Derrick, how much money are you taking with you? Can you go in good style?”

“Boss, dat’s de weak p’int ’bout my trip. De ole nigger’s des got ernuff to git to Salisbury, but ef he can’t fine er frien’ dere to hep him on he’ll walk. I’s gwine to go ef de Lawd lets me live. De time dat I’s been waitin’ fer is done come. It sho’ is. All de niggers in my part uv de town is talkin’ ’bout goin’. President Roseanfelt (dat’s what de Dutch folks uv Keebarrus county calls him) sho’ is de frien’ uv de nigger. Think uv it! Niggers wid deyer shinin’ clothes on eatin’ wid de rich white folks uv de lan’! I ain’t got no fine clothes, but ef de ole nigger kin des git dere he’ll be all right; some good white gem’man frum de Souf will hand me out er thanky-suit. No, sir, I ain’t ’spectin’ no trouble arter I git dere fer de ole nigger’s mighty handy ’bout de house. Ef I can’t git in at de fust table I kin at de secon’.”

“But, Uncle Derrick, they won’t let a cornfield negro go in the White House; it’s high-toned negroes, like Booker Washington and John Dancy, that attend the receptions of the President.”

“What? Dem yaller niggers! Dey ain’t fitten to go wid de quality. It’s de right black nigger dat’s got de ’ristocrat blood in him. My ole marster uster say dat a light-skin nigger an’ er roan mule wuz de wust things in de worl’.

“No, sir, I ain’t skeered uv no nigger wid er yaller skin. Ef I des kin git to de Big House dat’s all I ax; I’ll do de rest.”

Dr. Smith, seeing that Derrick was serious, furnished him with money to buy a ticket to Washington and urged him to go forth and be merry.

But, a week later, Derrick returned to Concord, ragged and bruised. His clothes had been rent in many places and his head badly wounded. He hobbled up town and called on Dr. Smith, to whom he told the story of his visit to Washington, and recited the fearful tale of woe that follows:

“Marster, I ’clare ’fo’ Gawd dat I’ll never leave home ergin while I live. Dere’s mo’ good foks in Concord dan anywhere else. I’ll die right here. Dem Washington foks is de meanes’ people dat I ever seed. De niggers is bigity an’ de white men don’t pay no ’tention to you, an’ dat’s one place de poleesmens don’t take no draggin’ fer dey’ll knock you down fer lookin’ mad. I sho’ did think that judgment day had come when I got dere.

“De trip up dere on de train wuz fust-class. I seed lots uv fine people on de way. But no sooner dan I lit on de groun’ at Washington my trouble started.

“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.

“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.’

“I didn’t know who it wuz den, but I hearn later dat it wuz Congressman Theo. Kluttz, from Salisbury. I had fetched water fer him ter drink at er speakin’ at Concord one day.

“Dey took me ter de lock-up an’ put me in er iron cell an’ it wuz late in de day ’fo’ I knowed er thing. Den I waked up an’ looked ’round me. I seed niggers in all de cells, an’ mos’ uv dem had sore heads. Dey had been tryin’ to git in de White House. I cried des la’k er chile an’ wish dat I wuz back at Concord wid de people dat I know. I imagined dat I seed all de good fo’ks here.

“Early de nex’ mornin’ de bossman uv de place come to me an’ say, ‘Ef you’ll git outen dis town des as fas’ as you kin hustle, we’ll let you go. A gem’man lef’ er ticket home fer you. Take it an’ git!’

“Dat sho’ was sweet music to my ears. I wuz ready to go right den. I went out de do’ an’ almos’ skip to de depot.

“Thank Gawd dat de ole nigger’s back home ergin. Dat’s where he’s goin’ ter stay. Dem niggers what want to go to de White House ’ceptions kin go, but give me my ole fryin’ pan, er big fat ’possum, a peck uv taters an’ er pint uv gravy. Dat’s what suits dis nigger. I ain’t hankerin’ arter shakin’ nobudy’s han’.”