NICEY KI1~NEY
~	~ 86.


	.	~& narrow path under large water oaks led through a well~kept yard where a profusion of summer flowers surrounded Nioey Kinney‘s two-story frame house. The porch floor and a large portion of the roof had. rotted down, and even the old stone chimney at one end of the structure seemed to sag. The middle-aged mulatto woman who answered the door shook her head when asked it she was Micey Kinney. . “No, niam,“ she protested, “but dat‘s my mother and she‘s sick in bed. She gits mighty lonesonie lyth‘ der in de bed and she sho does love to talk. Us wuld be mighty proud if you would come in and see her.“

	~ioey was propped up in bed an, althoi~h the heat of the September day was oppressIve, the sick woman wore a black shoulder cape over her thick flannel nightgown; heavy quilts and blankets were piled close about her thin form, and the window at the side of ner bed was tightly closed. Not a lock of her hair escaped the nightcap that enveloped her head. The daughter removed an enipty food tray arid announced, “Manl]ny, dis lady‘s corne to see you and I ‘spects you is gwine to lak her fine ‘cause she wants to hear ‘bout dem old days dat you loves so good to tell about.“ Nicey smiled. “I‘se so glad you come to see me,“ she said, “‘cause I gits so
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