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Monthly Bundle Sample, Boxwooder 365, p.2 
those times of remembrance, I’ve felt the trickle of a good many tears as they
made their way down my cheeks.
At the time of the story telling, I was ten years old—young in years, but impressionable to the point of everlasting remembrance. We knew the story teller only as Joshua. For some reason, he refused to tell anyone his full name, but it didn’t matter. Joshua was all the name we needed. We felt no compulsion to know any more than that. I once asked my father about Joshua, and he said that Joshua just up and appeared in the community during the fall months of 1857. Father said that no one knew anything about him although it was rumored that at one time he had been the head of house servants on one of the largest plantations in the whole of the South, and in that connection, no one knew whether as a slave he had been freed or had just up and run away. On the night of the story telling, I learned from Joshua himself that he had, indeed, been a head slave on just such a plantation. Joshua prefaced his story by claiming that he did not have to rely altogether on the Biblical account of the birth of Christ; he said his came from a dream, a dream of things that had happened in the long, long ago. Actually Joshua didn’t call it a dream; he claimed that it was an outright vision, a Biblical kind of vision. Well, I don’t know which
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