pose you've ever heard of Sisseretta Jones, the Black Patti, or Ernest Hogan, or Williams and Walker, or Cole and Johnson. . . .
I've heard of them all, Mary replied, although mostly they came before my time, but I've seen Bert Williams and, of course, Rosamond Johnson. . . .
Well, poor Bob Cole is dead, and Hogan is dead, and George Walker and Bert Williams and Aida Overton. . . . A tear glistened in Adora's eyes. . . . They were all my friends. I've appeared with them all. Those were the days. New York will never see coloured shows like 'em again. Why, these young whippersnappers today don't know anything about the profession . . . except how to dance the Charleston. Some of 'em can't even do that! You should have seen George Walker do the strut!
Well, Adora went on, it was in those days that I met Lasca. She came up from Louisiana. Her father was a country-preacher, one of the Camp-meeting kind. A shoutin' exhorter. You know, hell and brimstone, and the congregation moanin' no end. Amen! . . . Tickled with the recollection of one of these ceremonies, Adora gave vent to a hearty chuckle. . . . I'd just like to be hearing one now. . . . She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. . . . You've never been South, have you, Mary?
No, Mary replied.
Well, Adora continued, Lasca began by teaching
