But Aunt Patsy's ideas about dress were those of by-gone days, and she was too old now to change them, and her brightest handkerchief had been selected for her head on this important day.

Above her she held a parasol, which had been graciously loaned by her descendant of the fourth generation.

It was white, and lined with pink, and on the edges still lingered some fragments of cotton lace.
Uncle Isham now took his position by the side of his oxen, and started them; and slowly creaking, Aunt Patsy's vehicle moved off, followed by the two boys on mules, three colored women and two girls on foot, and by two little black urchins who were sometimes on foot, but invariably on the tail of the cart when they could manage to evade the backward turn of Uncle Isham's eye.
"Ef I should go to glory on de road, Uncle Isham," said Aunt Patsy, as the right wheel of the cart emerged from a rather awkward rut, "I don' want no fuss made 'bout me.

You kin jes' bury me in de clothes.

I got on, 'cep'n de pararsol, ob course, which is Liza's.