"Mistus b'lieved in lookin' atter her niggers w'en dey was sick. She would give 'em medicine at home. Candy an' tea, made wid ho'e houn' an' butterfly root tea was good for worms; dewberry wine, lak'wise dewberry root tea was good for de stomach ache; samson snake root an' poplar bark tea was good medicine for coles an' so'e th'oats, an' w'en you was in pain, de red pepper bag would sho' help lots sometimes. If de homemade medicine diden' cyore 'em, den Mistus sont for de doctor.

"Slaves went to de white folkses chu'ch an' sot up in de gallery. Dey stayed all day at chu'ch, an' had big dinners on de groun'. Dem was sho' 'nough good dinners. Us had big times on meetin' days.

"Our slaves had prayer meetin' twict a week in deir quarters, 'til dey got 'roun' to all de cabins den dey would start over again. Dey prayed an' sung all de old songs, and some of 'em as I 'member are: 'Roll Jordan Roll,'—'Better Mind How you Step on de Cross,'—'Cause You Ain' Gon 'er be Here Long,'—'Tell de Story Bye an' Bye,'—'All God's Chilluns are a Gatherin' Home,' an' 'We'll Understand Better Bye an' Bye.' Dey really could sing dem old songs. Mistus would let me go to dem cabin prayer meetin's an' I sho' did enjoy 'em.

"W'en slaves died dey jes' tuk 'em off an buried 'em. I doan' 'member 'em ever havin' a funeral, 'til way atter freedom done come an' niggers got dey own chu'ches.

"I 'member one night dey had a quiltin' in de quarters. De quilt was up in de frame, an' dey was all jes' quiltin' an' singin', 'All God's Chilluns are a Gatherin' Home,' w'en a drunk man wannid to preach, an' he jumped up on de quilt. Hit all fell down on de flo', an' dey all got fightin' mad at 'im. Dey locked 'im in de smokehouse 'til mornin', but dey diden' nobody tell Mistus nuffin' 'bout it.

"Us chilluns had to pick peas; two baskets full 'fo' dinner an' two 'fo' night, an' dey was big baskets too. I 'member dere was a white widow 'oman what lived near our place, an' she had two boys. Mistus let dem boys pick 'em some peas w'en us would be pickin', an' us would run 'em off, cause us diden' lak' po' white trash. But Mistus made us let 'em pick all dey wannid.

"I was 'bout twelve years old w'en freedom come, an' was big 'nough to wait on Mistus good den. I 'member how I used to run to de spring wid a little tin bucket w'en she wannid a fresh drink of water.

"Mos' of de slaves stayed with Mistus atter freedom come, 'cause dey all loved her, an' dey diden' have no place to go. Mistus fed 'em jes' lak' she had allus done and paid 'em a little money too. Us diden' never have no fussin' an' fightin' on our place, an' de Ku Klux Klan never come 'roun' dar, but de niggers had to have a ticket if dey lef' de place on Sunday. Dat was so de paddyrollers woulden' whip 'em if dey cotch 'em.

"All de niggers on de udder places, called us free niggers long 'fo' freedom come, 'cause we diden' have no whippin' post, an' if any of us jes' had to be whipped, Mistus would see dat dey warn't beat bad 'nough to leave no stripes.

"My pappy left de old Smith plantation, soon atter he got 'is freedom, an' went to Augusta, Georgia whar he died in jes' 'bout two years.

"I waked up one mornin' an' heered Mistus makin' a funny fuss. She was tryin' to git up an' pullin' at her gown. I was plum skeert an' I runned atter some of de udder folkses. Dey come a runnin' but she never did speak no mo', an' diden' live but jes' a few hours longer. De white folkses made me go to 'er funeral. Dere sho' was a big crowd of folkses dar, 'cause evvybody loved Mistus; she was so good to evvybody. Dey diden' preach long, mos'ly jes' prayed an' sung Mistus' favorite songs: 'All God's Chillun are a Gatherin' Home,' and', 'We'll Understand Bye an' Bye.'

"I lef' de old place not long atter Mistus died, 'cause hit was too lonesome dar an' I missed her so much, I come to town an' jes' wukked for white folkses. I doan' 'member all of 'em. But I cain' wuk no mo' now, an' hit woan' be so long 'til I see my old Mistus again, an' den I can still wait on her, an' we woan' have to part no mo'."



[HW: Dist. 2 Ex Slave 101]

EX-SLAVE INTERVIEW: MARY SMITH 910 Spruce Street Augusta, Georgia (Richmond County)

BY: (Mrs.) Margaret Johnson Editor Fed. Writer's Proj. Augusta, Georgia [Date Stamp: MAY 8 1937]

Such a hovel, such squalor it would be hard to imagine. Only first hand observation could be a reliable witness to such conditions.

Into a tiny room was squeezed a double and a single bed with a passage-way barely wide enough to walk between the two beds. The door from the small porch could be opened only enough to allow one to enter, as the head on the single bed was against it. A small fire burned in the open fire place. An old man, ragged but respectful, and two old women were sitting in the room, one on a broken chair, the other on an empty nail keg. As we entered the room one of the old women got up, took a badly clipped and handleless teacup from the hearth and offered it to a girl lying in the single bed, in a smother of dirty quilts.

Mary was a squat figure, her head tied up in a dirty towel, her dress ragged and dirty, and much too small for her abundant figure. She welcomed us telling us the "po chile was bad sick" but she would talk to us. As the door of the lean-to kitchen was open, it offered a breath of outside air, even though polluted with the garbage scattered on the ground, and the odors from chickens, cats and dogs meandering about.

Mary's round face was unwrinkled, but the wisps of wool showing beneath her "head rag" were grey, and her eyes were rheumy with age. She was entirely toothless and her large tongue rolled ceaselessly in her mouth, chewing nothing.

Her articulation necessarily was very poor. "I wus seven yeres old when Freedum cum. My ma and pa belonged to Mr. McNorrell of Burke County. Miss Sally was a good lady and kind to evebody. My marster was a good man cuz he was a preacher, I never member him whuppin' anybody. I 'members slavry, yes mam, I 'members all the slaves' meals wus cooked in de yard, in big pots hung up on hooks on a iron bar. The fust wurk I ever done wus to push fire wood under dem pots. Mostly I stayed home and minded de baby. My ma uster pin a piece of fat back on my dres' before she went to de fiel' and when de baby cry I tek him up and let 'em suck 'em. My brudder you see sittin' in dere, he de baby I uster mine. My pa wuz the blacksmith on the plantashun, and he mek all de plows and tings like dat. My ma tek me to de fiel when I wuz 'bout sever yeres ole and teach me to chop cotton, I don't member what happen when freedom come, tings wuz 'bout de same, fur as we chillun knowed."



Elizabeth Watson M.G. 7/15/37

MELVIN SMITH, Ex-Slave, 96 Years [Date Stamp: JUL 28 1937]

"Yes'm, I show does 'member all 'about my white folks an' th' war 'cause I was twenty-four year ole when th' war was over. I was born in 1841 an' that makes me 'bout eighty-seven now, don't it?"

Old Melvin Smith sat back in his chair with a smile of satisfaction on his face. He was seated on the narrow porch of his little cabin with the bright sunshine beaming down upon him. But his blind eyes could not notice the glare from the sun. His wife and daughter appeared from around the corner of the house and took their places near him to hear again the story that they had heard many times before.

"My white folks lived in Beaufort, South Ca'lina, an' that's whar I was born," Melvin continued. "My old Miss, I called her Miss Mary, took care of me 'till I was eight year old. Then she give me back to my ma. You see, it was this a-way. My ma an' pa was sold in Beaufort; I don't know whar they come from before that. When I was born Miss Mary took me in th' big house with her an' thar I stayed, jest like I told you, 'till I was eight. Old Miss jest wanted me to be in th' room with her an' I slep' on a pallet right near her bed. In the daytime I played in th' yard an' I pick up chips for old Miss. Then when I got most big enuff to work she give me back to my ma.

"Then I live in a cabin like the rest of th' niggers. Th' quarters was stretched out in a line behind Marse Jim's house. Ever' nigger fam'ly had a house to theyselves. Me an' my pa an' ma, they names was Nancy an' Henry Smith, live in a cabin with my sisters. They names was Saphronia an' Annie. We had beds in them cabins made out of cypress. They looked jest like they do now. Ever'body cooked on th' fire place. They had pots an' boilers that hung over th' fire an' we put th' vittles in thar an' they cooked an' we et 'em. 'Course we never et so much in th' cabin 'cause ever mornin' th' folks all went to th' field. Ma an' Pa was field hands an' I worked thar too when I got big enuff. Saphronia an' Annie, they worked to th' big house. All th' nigger chillun stayed all day with a woman that was hired to take care of them."

When asked about the kind of food they ate, Melvin replied:

"We had enuff for anybody. Th' vittles was cooked in great big pots over th' fire jest like they was cookin' for stock. Peas in this pot, greens in that one. Corn-bread was made up an' put back in th' husks an' cooked in th' ashes. They called that a ash cake. Well, when ever'thing was done th' vittles was poured in a trough an' we all et. We had spoons cut out of wood that we et with. Thar was a big lake on th' plantation whar we could fish an' they show was good when we had 'em for supper. Sometimes we go huntin' an' then we had possum an' squirrel to eat. Th' possums was best of all."

Melvin was asked to tell something about his master's family.

"Old Marster was name Jim Farrell an' his wife was Miss Mary. They had three chillun name Mary, Jim an' Martha. They live in a big white house sot off from th' road 'bout two an' a half mile from Beaufort. Marster was rich I reckon 'cause he had 'bout a sixteen horse farm an' a whole hoodle of niggers. If you measured 'em it would a-been several cowpens full. Heap of them niggers worked in Marster's house to wait on th' white folks. They had a heap of comp'ny so they had to have a heap of niggers. Marster was good to his niggers but he had a overseer that was a mean man. He beat th' niggers so bad that Marster showed him th' road an' told him to git. Then th' Boss an' his son looked after th' hands theyselves 'till they could git another one. That overseer's name was Jimmy.

"Ever' mornin' at four clock th' overseer blowed a conchshell an' all us niggers knowed it was time to git up an' go to work. Sometimes he blowed a bugle that'd wake up the nation. Ever'body worked from sunup 'till sundown. If we didn't git up when we was s'posed to we got a beatin'. Marster'd make 'em beat the part that couldn't be bought." Melvin chuckled at his own sly way of saying that the slaves were whipped through their clothes.

"In the summertime," he continued, "We wore shirts that come down to here." Melvin measured to his ankle. "In the wintertime we wore heavy jeans over them shirts an' brogan shoes. They made shoes on the plantation but mine was store-bought. Marster give us all the vittles an' clothes we needed. He was good to ever'body. I 'member all the po' white trash that lived near us. Marster all time send 'em meat an' bread an' help 'em with they crop. Some of 'em come from Goldsboro, North Ca'lina to git a crop whar we lived. They was so sorry they couldn't git no crop whar they come frum, so they moved near us. Sometimes they even come to see the niggers an' et with us. We went to see them, too, but we had more to eat than them. They was sorry folks."

After a pause, Melvin asked:

"Did you ever hear how the niggers was sold? They was put on a stage on the courthouse square an' sold kinder like they was stock. The prettiest one got the biggest bid. They said that they was a market in North Ca'lina but I never see'd it. The ones I saw was jest sold like I told you. Then they went home with they marsters. If they tried to run away they sont the hounds after them. Them dogs would sniff around an' first news you knowed they caught them niggers. Marster's niggers run away some but they always come back. They'd hear that they could have a better time up north so they think they try it. But they found out that they wasn't no easy way to live away from Marster. He always took 'em back, didn't beat 'em nor nothin'. I run away once myself but I never went nowhere." Melvin's long body shook with laughter as he thought of his prank. He shifted in his chair and then began:

"I was 'bout sixteen an' I took a notion I was grown. So I got under the house right under Marster's dinin' room an' thar I stayed for three months. Nobody but the cook knowed whar I was. They was a hole cut in the floor so ever' day she lifted the lid an' give me something to eat. Ever' day I sneaked out an' got some water an' walked about a bit but I never let nobody see me. I jest got biggety like chillun does now. When I got ready to come out for good I went 'way round by the barn an' come up so nobody know whar I been. Ol' Miss was standin' in the yard an' she spy me an' say, 'Jim," she always call all us niggers Jim 'cause that was Marster's name. She say, "Jim, whar you been so long?' I say, 'I been to Mr. Jones's workin' but I don't like the way they treat me. You all treats me better over here so I come back home.' I say, 'You ain't gonna whip me is you, Miss?' Ol' Miss say, 'No, I ain't gonna whip you this time but if you do such a thing again I'm gonna use all the leather on this place on you." So I went on 'bout my business an' they never bothered me."

Melvin was asked about the church he attended. To this he replied:

"The niggers had a church in the bush arbor right thar on the place. Preacher Sam Bell come ever' Sunday mornin' at ten clock an' we sot thar an' listened to him 'till 'leven thirty. Then we tear home an' eat our dinner an' lie round till four-thirty. We'd go back to church an' stay 'bout hour an' come home for supper. The preacher was the onliest one that could read the Bible. When a nigger joined the church he was baptized in the creek near the bush arbor." And in a low tone he began to speak the words of the old song though he became somewhat confused.

"Lord, remember all Thy dying groans, And then remember me. While others fought to win the prize And sailed through bloody sea.

"Through many dangers, toils an' snares, I have already come. I once was lost but now am found, Was blind but now I see."

"I've knowed that song for a long time. I been a member of the church for sixty year."

When asked about the war, Melvin became somewhat excited. He rose feebly to his feet and clasped his walking stick as if it were a gun.

"I see'd the Yankee soldiers drill right thar in front of our house," he said. "They'd be marchin' 'long this way (Melvin stumblingly took a few steps across the porch) an' the cap'n say, 'Right' an' they turn back this here way." Melvin retraced his steps to illustrate his words. "Cap'n say, 'Aim' an' they aim." He lifted his stick and aimed. "Cap'n say, 'Fire' an' they fire. I see'd 'em most ever' day. Ol' Marster was a cap'n in our army. I hear big guns a-boomin' all a-time an' the sights I did see! Streets jest runnin' with blood jest like it was water. Here lay a man on this side with his legs shot off; on that thar side they was a man with his arms shot off. Some of them never had no head. It was a terrible sight. I wasn't scared 'cause I knowed they wouldn't hurt me. Them Yankees never bothered nothin' we had. I hear some folks say that they stole they vittles but they never bothered ours 'cause they had plenty of they own. After the war Marster called us together an' say, 'You is free an' can go if you want to' an' I left, so that's all I know."

A few days later a second visit was made to Melvin. This time he was on the inside of his little cabin and was all alone. He came forward, a broad smile on his face, when he heard familiar voices.

"I been thinkin' 'bout what I told you an' I b'lieve that's 'bout all I 'member," he said.

Then he was asked if he remembered any days when the slaves did not have to work.

"Yes'm," was the reply. "We never worked on Christmas or the Fourth of July. Marster always give us big sacks of fruit an' candy on Christmas an' a barbecue the Fourth of July. We never worked none New Year's Day, neither. We jest sot around an' et chicken, fish an' biscuit. Durin' the week on Wednesday an' Thursday night we had dances an' then they was a lot of fiddlin' an' banjo playin'. We was glad to see days when we never had to work 'cause then we could sleep. It seem like the niggers had to git up soon's they lay down. Marster was good to us but the overseer was mean. He wan't no po' white trash; he was up-to-date but he like to beat on niggers."

When asked if he has been happier since he was freed, he replied:

"In a sense the niggers is better off since freedom come. Ol' Marster was good an' kind but I like to be free to go whar I please. Back then we couldn't go nowhar 'less we had a pass. We don't have no overseer to bother us now. It ain't that I didn't love my Marster but I jest likes to be free. Jest as soon as Marster said I didn't b'long to nobody no more I left an' went to Tallahassee. Mr. Charlie Pearce come an' wanted some hands to work in orange groves an' fish for him so that's what I done. He took a whole crew. While we was down thar Miss Carrie Standard, a white lady, had a school for the colored folks. 'Course, my ol' Miss had done taught me to read an' write out of the old blue back Webster but I had done forgot how. Miss Carrie had 'bout fifteen in her class.

"I stayed in Tallahassee three years an' that's whar I married the first time. I was jest romancin' about an' happened to see Ca'line Harris so I married her. That was a year after the war. We never had no preacher but after we been goin' together for such a long time folks say we married. We married jest like the colored folks does now. When I left Tallahassee I moved to another place in Florida, thirteen mile from Thomasville, Ga. I stay thar 'bout thirty-seven year. My first wife died an' I married another. The second one lived twenty-one year an' I married again. The one what's livin' now is my third one. In 1905 she had a baby that was born with two lower teeth. It never lived but a year. In all, I've had twenty-three chillun. They most all lives in Florida an' I don't know what they doin' or how many chillun they got. I got four gran'-chillun livin' here."

Melvin was asked to tell what he knew of the Ku Klux Klan. He answered:

"I don't know nothin' 'bout that, I hear somethin' 'bout it but I never b'lieved in it. I b'lieve in h'ants, though. I ain't never see'd one but I'se heard 'em. When you walkin' 'long an' a twig snaps an' you feel like you want to run an' your legs won't move an' your hair feels like it's goin' to rise off your head, that's a ha'nt after you. That sho is the evil sperrit. An' if you ain't good somethin' bad'll happen to you."

When asked why he joined the church, he replied:

"So many people is tryin' to live on flowery beds of ease that the world is in a gamblin' position an' if it wasn't for the Christian part, the world would be destroyed. They ask God for mercy an' He grants it. When they git in trouble they can send a telegram wire an' git relief from on high."



PLANTATION LIFE as viewed by Ex-Slave

NANCY SMITH, Age about 80 129 Plum Street Athens, Georgia

Written by: Grace McCune Athens

Edited by: Sarah H. Hall Athens

and John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7

Nancy Smith was in bed when the interviewer called. The aged Negress appeared to be quite feeble but, even though she was alone in the house, her head was tied up in a snowy white cloth and the sickroom was neat and clean. The bowl of fresh flowers on her bedside table was no gayer than Nancy's cheerful chuckle as she repeated the doctor's instructions that she must stay in bed because of a weak heart. "Lawsy Chile," she said, "I ain't dead yit." Nancy stated that the grandson who lives with her has been preparing breakfast and cleaning the room since she has been bedridden, and that a niece who lives nearby comes in occasionally during the day to look after her.

Asked if she felt strong enough to talk about the old plantation days, she answered: "I jus' loves to talk 'bout old times, and I spends a lot of dis lonesome time here by myself jus' a-studyin' 'bout dem days. But now listen, Chile, and understand dis. I warn't no plantation Negro. Our white folks was town folks, dey was. My Mammy and Daddy was Julia and Jack Carlton. Dey belonged to old Marster, Dr. Joe Carlton, and us lived right here in town in a big white house dat had a upstairs and a downstairs in it. Our house stood right whar de courthouse is now. Marster had all dat square and his mother, Mist'ess Bessie Carlton, lived on de square de other side of Marse Joe's. His office was on de corner whar de Georgia (Georgian) Hotel is now, and his hoss stable was right whar da Cain's boardin' house is. Honey, you jus' ought to have seed Marse Joe's hoss stable for it sho' was a big one.

"No Mam, I don't know 'zactly how old I is. I was born 'fore de war, and Marse Joe kept de records of all of us and evvything, but somehow dem books got lost. Folks said I was 'bout de age of Marse Joe's son, Dr. Willie. Marster had three boys: Dr. Joe, Jr., Dr. Willie, and Dr. Jimmie, and dere was one little Mist'ess. She was Miss Julia. Us all played 'round in de yard together.

"Daddy, he was de car'iage driver. He driv Marse Joe 'round, 'cept when Mist'ess wanted to go somewhar. Den Daddy driv de coach for her, and Marse Joe let another boy go wid him.

"De biggest, bestest fireplace up at de big house was in de kitchen whar Mammy done de cookin'. It had a great wide hearth wid four big swingin' racks and four big old pots. Two of de ovens was big and two was little. Dat was better cookin' 'rangements and fixin's dan most of de other white folks in dis town had den. When dat fire got good and hot and dere was plenty of ashes, den Mammy started cookin' ash cakes and 'taters. One of Mammy's good ash-roasted 'taters would be awful good right now wid some of dat good old home-made butter to go wid it. Marster allus kept jus' barrels and barrels of good old home-made 'lasses sirup, 'cause he said dat was what made slave chilluns grow fast and be strong. Folks don't know how to have plenty of good things to eat lak us had den. Jus' think of Marse Joe's big old plantation down nigh de Georgia Railroad whar he raised our somepin' t'eat: vegetables sich as green corn, 'taters, cabbages, onions, collards, turnip greens, beans, peas—more than I could think up all day—and dere was plenty of wheat, rye, and corn for our bread.

"Out dar de pastur's was full of cows, hogs and sheep, and dey raised lots of chickens and turkeys on dat farm. Dey clipped wool from dem sheep to weave wid de cotton when dey made cloth for our winter clothes.

"Marster had a overseer to look atter his plantation, but us chillun in town sho'ly did love to be 'lowed to go wid him or whoever went out dar when dey needed somepin' at de big house from de farm. Dey needed us to open and shut gates and run errands, and whilest dey was gittin' up what was to be took back to town, us would run 'round seein' evvything us could.

"Honey, de clothes us wore den warn' t lak what folks has now. Little gals jus' wore slips cut all in one piece, and boys didn't wear nothin' but long shirts 'til dey was big enough to wuk in de fields. Dat was summertime clothes. In winter, dey give us plenty of warm clothes wid flannel petticoats and brass-toed shoes. Grown-up Negroes had dresses what was made wid waisties and skirts sewed together. Dey had a few gathers in de skirts, but not many. De men wore homespun britches wid galluses to hold 'em up. White folks had lots better clothes. Mist'ess' dresses had full, ruffled skirts and, no foolin', her clothes was sho'ly pretty. De white menfolks wore plain britches, but dey had bright colored coats and silk vests dat warn't lak de vests de men wears now. Dem vests was more lak fancy coats dat didn't have no sleeves. Some folks called 'em 'wescoats.' White chillun never had no special clothes for Sunday.

"Miss Julia used to make me sweep de yard wid a little brushbroom and I had to wear a bonnet den to keep dust out of my hair. Dat bonnet was ruffled 'round de front and had staves to hold de brim stiff, but in de back it didn't have no ruffle; jus' de bottom of de crown what us called de bonnet tail. Dem bonnets looked good enough in front but mighty bob-tailed in de back.

"Dey used to have big 'tracted meetin's in Pierce's Chapel nigh Foundry Street and Hancock Avenue, and us was allus glad for dem meetin' times to come. Through de week dey preached at night, but when Sunday come it was all day long and dinner on de ground. Pierce's Chapel was a old fashioned place, but you forgot all 'bout dat when Brother Thomas got in de pulpit and preached dem old time sermons 'bout how de devil gwine to git you if you don't repent and be washed in de blood of de Lamb. De call to come up to de mourner's bench brought dem Negroes jus' rollin' over one another in de 'citement. Soon dey got happy and dere was shoutin' all over de place. Some of 'em jus' fell out. When de 'tracted meetin' closed and de baptizin' dey come, dat was de happiest time of all. Most of de time dere was a big crowd for Brother Thomas to lead down into de river, and dem Negroes riz up out of de water a-singin': Lord, I'm comin' Home, Whar de Healin' Waters Flow, Roll, Jordan Roll, All God's Chillun Got Wings, and sich lak. You jus' knowed dey was happy.

"No Mam, I don't 'member much 'bout folks dyin' in dem days 'cause I never did love to go 'round dead folks. De first corpse I ever seed was Marse Joe's boy, young Marse Jimmy. I was skeered to go in dat room 'til I had done seed him so peaceful lak and still in dat pretty white casket. It was a sho' 'nough casket, a mighty nice one; not lak dem old home-made coffins most folks was buried in. Hamp Thomas, a colored man dat lived right below us, made coffins for white folks and slaves too. Some of dem coffins was right nice. Dey was made out of pine mostly, and sometimes he painted 'em and put a nice linin' over cotton paddin'. Dat made 'em look better dan de rough boxes de porest folks was buried in. Mammy said dat when slaves died out on de plantation day wropped de 'omans in windin' sheets and laid 'em on coolin' boards 'til de coffins was made, Dey put a suit of homespun clothes on de mens when dey laid 'em out. Dey jus' had a prayer when dey buried plantation slaves, but when de crops was laid by, maybe a long time atter de burial, dey would have a white man come preach a fun'ral sermon and de folks would all sing: Harps (Hark) From De Tomb and Callin' God's Chillun Home.

"Dere warn't no patterollers in town, but slaves had to have passes if dey was out atter 9:00 o'clock at night or de town marshal would put a fine on 'em if dey couldn't show no pass.

"De fust I knowed 'bout de war was when Marse Joe's brother, Marse Bennie Carlton, left wid de other sojers and pretty soon he got kilt. I was little den, and it was de fust time I had ever seed our Mist'ess cry. She jus' walked up and down in de yard a-wringin' her hands and cryin'. 'Poor Benny's been killed,' she would say over and over.

"When dem yankee sojers come, us warn't much skeered 'cause Marse Joe had done told us all 'bout 'em and said to spect 'em 'fore long. Sho' 'nough, one day dey come a-lopin' up in Marse Joe's yard. Dey had dem old blue uniforms on and evvy one of 'em had a tin can and a sack tied to his saddle. Marster told us dey kept drinkin' water in dem cans and dey called 'em canteens. De sacks was to carry deir victuals in. Dem fellows went all through out big house and stole whatever dey wanted. Dey got all of Mist'ess' best silver 'cause us didn't have no time to hide it atter us knowed dey was nigh 'round de place. Dey tuk all de somepin' t'eat dere was in de big house. When dey had done et all dey wanted and tuk evvything else dey could carry off, dey called us Negroes up 'fore deir captain, and he said all of us was free and could go any time and anywhar us wanted to go. Dey left, and us never seed 'em in dat yard no more. Marse Joe said all of us dat wanted to could stay on wid him. None of us had nowhar else to go and 'sides nobody wanted to go nowhar else, so evvy one of Marse Joe's Negroes stayed right on wid him dat next year. Us warn't skeered of dem Kluxers (Ku Klux Klan) here in town, but dey was right bad out on de plantations.

"'Bout de time I was old enough to go to school, Daddy moved away from Marse Joe's. Us went over to de other side of de river nigh whar de old check mill is. Dey had made guns dar durin' de war, and us chillun used to go and look all through dat old mill house. Us played 'long de river banks and went swimmin' in de river. Dem was de good old days, but us never realized it den.

"I never went to school much, 'cause I jus' couldn't seem to larn nothin'. Our teachers said I didn't have no talent for book larnin'. School was taught in Pierce's Chapel by a Negro man named Randolph, and he sho'ly did make kids toe da mark. You had better know dem lessons or you was gwine to git fanned out and have to stay in atter school. Us got out of school evvy day at 2:00 o'clock. Dat was 'cause us was town chillun. I was glad I didn't live in de country 'cause country schools kept de chillun all day long.

"It was sort of funny to be able to walk out and go in town whenever us wanted to widout gittin' Marster's consent, but dere warn't nothin' much to go to town for 'less you wanted to buy somepin. A few stores, mostly on Broad Street, de Town Hall, and de Fire Hall was de places us headed for. Us did love to hang 'round whar dat fire engine was, 'cause when a fire broke out evvybody went, jus' evvybody. Folks would form lines from de nearest cisterns and wells and pass dem buckets of water on from one to another 'til dey got to de man nighest de fire.

"Soon as I was big enough, I went to wuk for white folks. Dey never paid me much in cash money, but things was so much cheaper dan now dat you could take a little cash and buy lots of things. I wukked a long time for a yankee fambly named Palmer dat lived on Oconee Street right below de old Michael house, jus' 'fore you go down de hill. Dey had two or three chillun and I ain't never gwine to forgit de day dat little Miss Eunice was runnin' and playin' in de kitchen and fell 'gainst de hot stove. All of us was skeered most to death 'cause it did seem den lak her face was plumb ruint, and for days folks was 'most sho' she was gwine to die. Atter a long, long time Miss Eunice got well and growed up to be a fine school teacher. Some of dem scars still shows on her face.

"Me and Sam Smith got married when I was 17. No Chile, us didn't waste no money on a big weddin' but I did have a right pretty weddin' dress. It was nice and new and was made out of white silk. My sister was a-cookin' for Mrs. White at dat time, and dey had a fine two-room kitchen in de back yard set off from de big house. My sister lived in one of dem rooms and cooked for de Whites in de other one. Mrs. White let us git married in her nice big kitchen and all de white folks come out from de big house to see Brother Thomas tie de knot for us. Den me and Sam built dis very same house whar you is a-settin', and I done been livin' here ever since.

"Us was livin' right here when dey put on dem fust new streetcars. Little bitty mules pulled 'em 'long and sometimes dey had a right hard time draggin' dem big old cars through mud and bad weather. Now and den day got too frisky and run away; dat was when dem cars would rock and roll and you wished you could git off and walk. Most of de time dem little mules done good and us was jus' crazy 'bout ridin' on de streetcars."

When Nancy tired of talking she tactfully remarked: "I spects I better git quiet and rest now lak de doctor ordered, but I'm mighty glad you come, and I hopes you'll be back again 'fore long. Most folks don't take up no time wid old wore-out Negroes. Good-bye, Missy."



PLANTATION LIFE AS VIEWED BY EX-SLAVE

NELLIE SMITH, Age 78 660 W. Hancock Avenue Athens, Georgia

Written by: Miss Grace McCune Athens

Edited by: Mrs. Sarah H. Hall Athens

and John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7 Augusta Georgia

September 2, 1938

Large pecan trees shaded the small, well-kept yard that led to Nellie Smith's five-room frame house. The front porch of her white cottage was almost obscured by a white cloud of fragrant clematis in full blossom, and the yard was filled with roses and other flowers.

A small mulatto woman sat in the porch swing, a walking stick across her lap. Her straight, white hair was done in a prim coil low on the neck, and her print dress and white apron were clean and neat. In answer to the visitor's inquiry, she smiled and said: "This is Nellie Smith. Won't you come in out of the hot sun? I just knows you is plumb tuckered out. Walkin' around in this hot weather is goin' to make you sick if you don't be mighty careful.

"'Scuse me for not gittin' up. I can't hardly make it by myself since I fell and got hurt so bad. My arm was broke and it looks lak my old back never will stop hurtin' no more. Our doctor says I'll have to stay bandaged up this way two or three weeks longer, but I 'spects that's on account of my age. You know old folks' bones don't knit and heal quick lak young folks' and, jus' let me tell you, I've done been around here a mighty long time. Are you comfortable, Child? Wouldn't you lak to have a glass of water? I'll call my daughter; she's back in the kitchen."

Nellie rapped heavily on the floor with her walking stick, and a tall, stout, mulatto in a freshly laundered house frock made her appearance. "This is my daughter, Amanda," said Nellie, and, addressing her off-spring, she continued: "Bring this lady a drink of water. She needs it after walkin' 'way out here in this hot sun." Ice tinkled in the glass that the smiling Amanda offered as she inquired solicitously if there was anything else she could do. Amanda soon went back to her work and Nellie began her narrative.

"Lordy, Honey, them days when I was a child, is so far back that I don't s'pect I can 'member much 'bout 'em. I does love to talk about them times, but there ain't many folks what keers anything 'bout listening to us old folks these days. If you don't mind we'll go to my room where it'll be more comfortable." Amanda appeared again, helped Nellie to her room, and placed her in a large chair with pillows to support the broken arm. Amanda laughed happily when she noticed her mother's enthusiasm for the opportunity to relate her life story. "Mother likes that," she said, "and I'm so glad you asked her to talk about those old times she thinks so much about. I'll be right back in the kitchen ironing; if you want anything, just call me."

Nellie now began again: "I was born right near where the Coordinate College is now; it was the old Weir place then. I don't know nothin' 'bout my Daddy, but my Mother's name was Harriet Weir, and she was owned by Marster Jack Weir. He had a great big old plantation then and the homeplace is still standin', but it has been improved and changed so much that it don't look lak the same house. As Marse Jack's sons married off he give each one of 'em a home and two slaves, but he never did sell none of his slaves, and he told them boys they better not never sell none neither.

"Slaves slept in log cabins what had rock chimblies at the end. The rocks was put together with red clay. All the slaves was fed at the big house kitchen. The fireplace, where they done the cookin', was so big it went 'most across one end of that big old kitchen. It had long swingin' cranes to hang the pots on, and there was so many folks to cook for at one time that often there was five or six pots over the fire at the same time. Them pots was large too—not lak the little cookin' vessels we use these days. For the bakin', they had all sizes of ovens. Now Child, let me tell you, that was good eatin'. Folks don't take time enough to cook right now; They are always in too big a hurry to be doin' something else and don't cook things long enough. Back in dem days they put the vegetables on to cook early in the mornin' and biled 'em 'til they was good and done. The biggest diffunce I see is that folks didn't git sick and stay sick with stomach troubles then half as much as they does now. When my grandma took a roast out of one of them old ovens it would be brown and juicy, with lots of rich, brown gravy. Sweet potatoes baked and browned in the pan with it would taste mighty fine too. With some of her good biscuits, that roast meat, brown gravy, and potatoes, you had food good enough for anybody. I just wish I could taste some more of it one more time before I die.

"Why, Child, two of the best cake-makers I ever knew used them old ovens for bakin' the finest kinds of pound cakes and fruit cakes, and evvybody knows them cakes was the hardest kinds to bake we had in them days. Aunt Betsey Cole was a great cake-baker then. She belonged to the Hulls, what lived off down below here somewhere but, when there was to be a big weddin' or some 'specially important dinner in Athens, folks 'most always sent for Aunt Betsey to bake the cakes. Aunt Laura McCrary was a great cake-maker too; she baked the cake for President Taft when he was entertained at Mrs. Maggie Welch's home here.

"In them days you didn't have to be runnin' to the store evvy time you wanted to cook a extra good meal; folks raised evvything they needed right there at home. They had all the kinds of vegetables they knowed about then in their own gardens, and there was big fields of corn, rye, and wheat. Evvy big plantation raised its own cows for plenty of milk and butter, as well as lots of beef cattle, hogs, goats, and sheep. 'Most all of 'em had droves of chickens, geese, and turkeys, and on our place there were lots of peafowls. When it was goin' to rain them old peafowls set up a big holler. I never knew rain to fail after them peafowls started their racket.

"All our clothes and shoes was home-made, and I mean by that they growed the cotton, wool, and cattle and made the cloth and leather on the plantation. Summer clothes was made of cotton homespun, and cotton and wool was wove together for winter clothin'. Marse Jack owned a man what he kept there to do nothin' but make shoes. He had another slave to do all the carpenterin' and to make all the coffins for the folks that died on the plantation. That same carpenter made 'most all the beds the white folks and us slaves slept on. Them old beds—they called 'em teesters—had cords for springs; nobody never heard of no metal springs them days. They jus' wove them cords criss-cross, from one side to the other and from head to foot. When they stretched and sagged they was tightened up with keys what was made for that purpose.

"Jus' look at my room," Nellie laughed. "I saw you lookin' at my bed. It was made at Wood's Furniture Shop, right here in Athens, and I've had it ever since I got married the first time. Take a good look at it, for there ain't many lak it left." Nellie's pride in her attractively furnished room was evident as she told of many offers she has had for this furniture, but she added: "I want to keep it all here to use myself jus' as long as I live. Shucks, I done got plumb off from what I was tellin' you jus' ravin' 'bout my old furniture and things.

"My Mother died when I was jus' a little girl and she's buried in the old family graveyard on the Weir place, but there are several other slaves buried there and I don't know which grave is hers. Grandma raised me, and I was jus' gittin' big enough to handle that old peafowl-tail fly brush they used to keep the flies off the table when we were set free.

"It wasn't long after the War when the Yankees come to Athens. Folks had to bury or hide evvything they could, for them Yankees jus' took anything they could git their hands on, 'specially good food. They would catch up other folks' chickens and take hams from the smokehouses, and they jus' laughed in folks' faces if they said anything 'bout it. They camped in the woods here on Hancock Avenue, but of course it wasn't settled then lak it is now. I was mighty scared of them Yankees and they didn't lak me neither. One of 'em called me a little white-headed devil.

"One of my aunts worked for a northern lady that they called Mrs. Meeker, who lived where the old Barrow home is now. Evvy summer when she went back up North she would leave my aunt and uncle to take care of her place. It was right close to the Yankees' camp, and the soldiers made my aunt cook for them sometimes. I was livin' with her then, and I was so scared of 'em that I stayed right by her. She never had to worry 'bout where I was them days, for I was right by her side as long as the Yankees was hangin' 'round Athens. My uncle used to say that he had seen them Yankees ride to places and shoot down turkeys, then make the folks that owned them turkeys cook and serve 'em. Folks used to talk lots 'bout the Yankees stoppin' a white 'oman on the street and takin' her earrings right out of her ears to put 'em on a Negro 'oman; I never saw that, I jus' heard it.

"After the war was over Grandpa bought one of the old slave cabins from Marse Jack and we lived there for a long time; then we moved out to Rock Spring. I was about eight or nine years old then, and they found out I was a regular tomboy. The woods was all 'round Rock Spring then, and I did have a big time climbin' them trees. I jus' fairly lived in 'em durin' the daytime, but when dark come I wanted to be as close to Grandpa as I could git.

"One time, durin' those days at Rock Spring, I wanted to go to a Fourth of July celebration. Those celebrations was mighty rough them days and Grandpa didn't think that would be a good place for a decent little girl, so he didn't want me to go. I cried and hollered and cut up something awful. Grandma told him to give me a good thrashin' but Grandpa didn't lak to do that, so he promised me I could go to ride if I wouldn't go to that celebration. That jus' tickled me to death, for I did lak to ride. Grandpa had two young mules what was still wild, and when he said I could ride one of 'em Grandma tried hard to keep me off of it, for she said that critter would be sure to kill me, but I was so crazy to go that nobody couldn't tell me nothin'. Auntie lent me her domino coat to wear for a ridin' habit and I sneaked and slipped a pair of spurs, then Grandpa put a saddle on the critter and helped me to git up on him. I used them spurs, and then I really went to ride. That mule showed his heels straight through them woods and way on out in the country. I couldn't stop him, so I jus' kept on kickin' him with them spurs and didn't have sense to know that was what was makin' him run. I thought them spurs was to make him mind me, and all the time I was I lammin' him with the spurs I was hollerin': 'Stop! Oh, Stop!' When I got to where I was too scared to kick him with the spurs or do nothin' 'cept hang on to that saddle, that young mule quit his runnin' and trotted home as nice and peaceable as you please. I never did have no more use for spurs.

"Grandpa used to send me to Phinizy's mill to have corn and wheat ground. It would take all day long, so they let me take a lunch with me, and I always had the best sort of time when I went to mill. Uncle Isham run the mill then and he would let me think I was helpin' him. Then, while he helped me eat my lunch, he would call me his little 'tomboy gal' and would tell me about the things he used to do when he was 'bout my age.

"My first schoolin' was in old Pierce's Chapel that set right spang in the middle of Hancock Avenue at Foundry Street. Our teacher was a Yankee man, and we were mighty surprised to find out that he wasn't very hard on us. We had to do something real bad to git a whippin', but when we talked or was late gittin' to school we had to stand up in the back of the schoolroom and hold up one hand. Pierce's chapel was where the colored folks had preachin' then—preachin' on Sunday and teachin' on week days, all in the same buildin'. A long time before then it had been the white folks' church, and Preacher Pierce was the first one to preach there after it was built, so they named it for him. When the white folks built them a new church they gave the old chapel to the colored folks, and, Honey, there was some real preachin' done in that old place. Me, I was a Methodist, but I was baptized just lak the Baptists was down there in the Oconee River.

"Me and my first husband was too young to know what we was doin' when we got married, but our folks give us a grand big weddin'. I think my weddin' cake was 'bout the biggest one I ever saw baked in one of them old ovens in the open fireplace. They iced it in white and decorated it with grapes. A shoat was cooked whole and brought to the table with a big red apple in his mouth. You know a shoat ain't nothin' but a young hog that's done got bigger than a little pig. We had chicken and pies and just evvything good that went to make up a fine weddin' supper.

"Our weddin' took place at night, and I wore a white dress made with a tight-fittin' waist and a long, full skirt that was jus' covered with ruffles. My sleeves was tight at the wrists but puffed at the shoulders, and my long veil of white net was fastened to my head with pretty flowers. I was a mighty dressed up bride. The bridegroom wore a real dark-colored cutaway coat with a white vest. We did have a swell weddin' and supper, but there wasn't no dancin' 'cause we was all good church folks.

"We was so young we jus' started out havin' a good time and didn't miss nothin' that meant fun and frolic. We was mighty much in love with each other too. It didn't seem long before we had three children, and then one night he was taken sick all of a sudden and didn't live but a little while. Soon as he was taken sick I sent for the doctor, but my husband told me then he was dyin' fast and that he wasn't ready to die. He said: 'Nellie, here we is with these three little children and neither one of us had been fit to raise 'em. Now I've got to leave you and you will have to raise one of 'em, but the other two will come right on after me.'"

For several moments Nellie was still and quiet; then she raised her head and said: "Honey, it was jus' lak he said it would be. He was gone in jus' a little while and it wasn't two weeks 'fore the two youngest children was gone lak their daddy. I worried lots after my husband and babies was taken. I wanted to be saved to raise my little girl right, and I was too proud to let anybody know how troubled I was or what it was all about, so I kept it to myself. I lost weight, I couldn't sleep, and was jus' dyin' away with sin. I would go to church but that didn't git me no relief.

"One day a dear, good white lady sent for me to come to the hotel where she was stayin'. She had been a mighty good friend to me for a long, long time, and I had all the faith in the world in her. She told me that she had a good job for me and wanted me to take it because it would let me keep my little girl with me. She said her best friend's maid had died and this friend of hers needed someone to work for her. 'I want you to go there and work for her,' said the white lady, 'for she will be good to you and your child. I've already talked with her about it.'

"I took her advice and went to work for Mrs. R.L. Bloomfield whose husband operated the old check mill. Honey, Mrs. Bloomfield was one of God's children and one of the best folks I have ever known. Right away she told her cook: 'Amanda, look after Nellie good 'cause she's too thin.' It wasn't long before Mrs. Bloomfield handed me a note and told me to take it to Dr. Carlton. When he read it he laughed and said; 'Come on Nellie, I've got to see what's wrong with you.' I tried to tell him I wasn't sick, but he examined me all over, then called to see Mrs. Bloomfield and told her that I didn't need nothin' but plenty of rest and to eat enough good food. Bless her dear old heart, she done evvything she could for me, but there wasn't no medicine, rest, or food that could help the trouble that was wearin' me down then.

"Soon they started a revival at our church. One night I wanted to go, but Aunt Amanda begged me not to, for she said I needed to go to bed and rest; later she said she would go along with me to hear that preachin'. Honey, I never will forgit that night. The text of the sermon was: 'Come unto me all you weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' When they began callin' the mourners to come up to the mourners' bench something seemed to be jus' a-pullin' me in that direction, but I was too proud to go. I didn't think then I ever could go to no mourners' bench or shout. After a while they started singin' Almost Persuaded, and I couldn't wait; I jus' got up and run to that blessed mourners' bench and I prayed there. Honey, I shouted too, for I found the Blessed Lord that very night and I've kept Him right with me ever since. I don't aim to lose Him no more. Aunt Amanda was most nigh happy as I was and, from that night when the burden was lifted from my heart, I begun gittin' better.

"I worked on for Mrs. Bloomfield 'til I got married again, and then I quit work 'cept for nursin' sick folks now and then. I made good money nursin' and kept that up 'til I got too old to work outside my own family.

"My second husband was Scott Smith. We didn't have no big, fancy weddin' for I had done been married and had all the trimmin's one time. We jus' had a nice quiet weddin' with a few close friends and kinfolks invited. I had on a very pretty, plain, white dress. Again I was blessed with a good husband. Scott fixed up that nice mantelpiece you see in this room for me, and he was mighty handy about the house; he loved to keep things repaired and in order. Best of all, he was jus' as good to my little girl as he was to the girl and boy that were born to us later. All three of my children are grown and married now, and they are mighty good to their old mother. One of my daughters lives in New York.

"Soon after we married, we moved in a big old house called the old White place that was jus' around the corner from here on Pope Street. People said it was haunted, and we could hear something walkin' up and down the stairs that sounded lak folks. To keep 'em from bein' so scared, I used to try to make the others believe it was jus' our big Newfoundland dog, but one night my sister heard it. She got up and found the dog lyin' sound asleep on the front porch, so it was up to me to find out what it was. I walked up the stairs without seein' a thing, but, Honey, when I put my foot on that top step such a feelin' come over me as I had never had before in all my life. My body trembled 'til I had to hold tight to the stair-rail to keep from fallin', and I felt the hair risin' up all over my head. While it seemed like hours before I was able to move, it was really only a very few seconds. I went down those stairs in a hurry and, from that night to this day, I have never hunted ghosts no more and I don't aim to do it again, never.

"I've been here a long time, Honey. When them first street lights was put up and lit, Athens was still mostly woods. Them old street lights would be funny to you now, but they was great things to us then, even if they wasn't nothin' but little lanterns what burned plain old lamp-oil hung out on posts. The Old Town Hall was standin' then right in the middle of Market (Washington) Street, between Lumpkin and Pulaski Streets. The lowest floor was the jail, and part of the ground floor was the old market place. Upstairs was the big hall where they held court, and that was where they had so many fine shows. Whenever any white folks had a big speech to make they went to that big old room upstairs in Town Hall and spoke it to the crowd.

"You is too young to remember them first streetcars what was pulled by little bitsy Texas mules with bells around their necks. Hearing them bells was sweet music to us when they meant we was goin' to git a ride on them streetcars. Some folks was too precise to say 'streetcars'; they said 'horsecars', but them horsecars was pulled through the streets by mules, so what's the diffunce? Sometimes them little mules would mire up so deep in the mud they would have to be pulled out, and sometimes, when they was feelin' sassy and good, they would jus' up and run away with them streetcars. Them little critters could git the worst tangled up in them lines." Here Nellie laughed heartily. "Sometimes they would even try to climb inside the cars. It was lots of fun ridin' them cars, for you never did know what was goin' to happen before you got back home, but I never heard of no real bad streetcar accidents here."

Nellie now began jumping erratically from one subject to another. "Did you notice my pretty flowers and ferns on the front porch?" she asked. "I jus' know you didn't guess what I made them two hangin' baskets out of. Them's the helmets that my son and my son-in-law wore when they was fightin' in the World War. I puts my nicest flowers in 'em evvy year as a sort of memorial to the ones that didn't git to fetch their helmets back home. Yes Mam, I had two stars on my service flag and, while I hated mighty bad that there had to be war, I wanted my family to do their part.

"Honey, old Nellie is gittin' a little tired, but jus' you listen to this: I went to meetin' one night to hear the first 'oman preacher that ever had held a meetin' in this town. She was meanin' to preach at a place out on Rock Spring Street, and there was more folks there than could git inside that little old weather-boarded house. The place was packed and jammed, but me and Scott managed to git in. When I saw an old Hardshell Baptist friend of mine in there, I asked her how come she was at this kind of meetin'. 'Curiosity, my child,' she said, 'jus' plain old curiosity.' The 'oman got up to preach and, out of pure devilment, somebody on the outside hollered; 'The house is fallin' down.' Now Child, I know it ain't right to laugh at preachin's of any sort, but that was one funny scene. Evvybody was tryin' to git out at one time; such cryin', prayin', and testifyin' to the Lord I ain't never heard before. The crowd jus' went plumb crazy with fright. I was pushed down and trampled over in the rush before Scott could git me out; they mighty near killed me." The old woman stopped and laughed until the tears streamed down her face. "You know, Honey," she said, when she could control her voice sufficiently to resume her story, "Niggers ain't got no sense at all when they gits scared. When they throwed one gal out of a window, she called out: 'Thank you, Lord,' for the poor thing thought the Lord was savin' her from a fallin' buildin'. Poor old Martha Holbrook,"—The sentence was not finished until Nellie's almost hysterical giggles had attracted her daughter who came to see if something was wrong—"Martha Holbrook," Nellie repeated, "was climbin' backwards out of a window and her clothes got fastened on a nail. She slipped on down and there she was with her legs kickin' around on the outside and the rest of her muffled up in her clothes. It looked lak her clothes was jus' goin' to peel off over her head. It took the menfolks a long time to git her uncaught and out of that predicament in the window. Pretty soon the folks began to come to their senses and they found there wasn't nothin' wrong with the house 'cept that some doors and windows had been torn out by the crowd. They sho did git mad, but nobody seemed to know who started that ruction. My old Hardshell Baptist friend came up then and said: 'Curiosity brought us here, and curiosity like to have killed the cat.'"

Seeing that Nellie was tired, the visitor prepared to leave. "Goodbye and God bless you," were the old woman's farewell words. At the front door Amanda said: "I haven't heard my Mother laugh that way in a long, long time, and I jus' know she is goin' to feel more cheerful after this. Thank you for givin' her this pleasure, and I hope you can come back again."



EX-SLAVE INTERVIEW with PAUL SMITH, Age 74 429 China Street Athens, Georgia

Written by: Miss Grace McCune Athens

Edited by: Mrs. Sarah H. Hall Athens

Mrs. Leila Harris Augusta

and John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7 Augusta, Georgia

Paul Smith's house stands on China Street, a narrow rutted alley deriving its name from the large chinaberry tree that stands at one end of the alley.

Large water oaks furnish ample shade for the tidy yard where an old well, whose bucket hanging from a rickety windlass frame, was supplying water for two Negro women, who were leaning over washtubs. As they rubbed the clothes against the washboards, their arms kept time to the chant of Lord I'se Comin' Home. Paul and two Negro men, barefooted and dressed in overalls rolled to their knees, were taking their ease under the largest tree, and two small mulatto children were frolicking about with a kitten.

As the visitor approached, the young men leaped to their feet and hastened to offer a chair and Paul said: "Howdy-do, Missy, how is you? Won't you have a cheer and rest? I knows you is tired plumb out. Dis old sun is too hot for folkses to be walkin' 'round out doors," Turning to one of the boys he continued: "Son, run and fetch Missy some fresh water; dat'll make her feel better. Jus' how far is you done walked?" asked Paul. Then he stopped one of the women from the washing and bade her "run into the house and fetch a fan for Missy."

Paul is a large man, and a fringe of kinky white hair frames his face. His manner is very friendly for, noticing that the visitor was looking with some curiosity at the leather bands that encircled his wrists, the old man grinned. "Dem's jus' to make sho' dat I won't have no rheumatiz," he declared. "Mind if I cuts me a chaw of 'baccy? I'se jus' plumb lost widout no 'baccy."

Paul readily agreed to give the story of his life. "I can't git over it, dat you done walked way out here from de courthouse jus' to listen to dis old Nigger talk 'bout dem good old days.

"Mammy belonged to Marse Jack Ellis, and he owned de big old Ellis Plantation in Oglethorpe County whar I was borned. Marse Jack give mammy to his daughter, young Miss Matt, and when her and Marse Nunnally got married up, she tuk my mammy 'long wid her. Mistess Hah'iet (Harriet) Smith owned my daddy. Him and mammy never did git married. My granddaddy and grandmammy was owned by Marse Jim Stroud of Oconee County, and I dug de graves whar bofe of 'em's buried in Mars Hill graveyard.

"All I knows 'bout slavery time is what I heared folkses say, for de war was most over when I was borned, but things hadn't changed much, as I was raised up.

"I warn't but 'bout 2 years old when young Miss Matt tuk my mammy off, and she put me out 'cause she didn't want me. Missy, dey was sho good to me. Marse Jack's wife was Mistess Lizzie. She done her best to raise me right, and de ways she larnt me is done stayed wid me all dese years; many's de time dey's kept old Paul out of trouble. No Mam, I ain't never been in no jailhouse in all my days, and I sho ain't aimin' to de nothin' to make 'em put me dar now.

"In dem days, when chillun got big enough to eat, dey was kept at de big house, 'cause deir mammies had to wuk off in de fields and Old Miss wanted all de chillun whar she could see atter 'em. Most times dere was a old slave 'oman what didn't have nothin' else to do 'cept take keer of slave chillun and feed 'em. Pickaninnies sho had to mind too, 'cause dem old 'omans would evermore lay on de switch. Us et out of wooden trays, and for supper us warn't 'lowed nothin' but bread and milk.

"Long as us was little, us didn't have to wuk at nothin' 'cept little jobs lak pickin' up chips, bringin' in a little wood, and sometimes de biggest boys had to slop de hogs. Long 'bout de fust of March, dey tuk de pants 'way from all de boys and give 'em little shirts to wear from den 'til frost. Yes Mam, dem shirts was all us boys had to wear in summer 'til us was big enough to wuk in de fields. Gals jus' wore one piece of clothes in summertime too; dey wore a plain cotton dress. All our clothes, for summer and winter too, was made right dere on dat plantation. Dey wove de cloth on de looms; plain cotton for summer, and cotton mixed wid a little wool for winter. Dere was a man on de plantation what made all our brogans for winter. Marster made sho us had plenty of good warm clothes and shoes to keep us warm when winter come.

"Folkses raised deir livin', all of it, at home den. Dey growed all sorts of gyarden truck sech as corn, peas, beans, sallet, 'taters, collards, ingons, and squashes. Dey had big fields of grain. Don't forgit dem good old watermillions; Niggers couldn't do widout 'em. Marster's old smokehouse was plumb full of meat all de time, and he had more cows, hogs, sheep, goats, chickens, turkeys, geese, and de lak, dan I ever larnt how to count. Dere warn't no runnin' off to de sto' evvy time dey started cookin' a company meal.

"Dem home-made cotton gins was mighty slow. Us never seed no fast sto'-bought gins dem days. Our old gins was turned by a long pole what was pulled around by mules and oxen, and it tuk a long time to git de seeds out of de cotton dat way. I'se seed 'em tie bundles of fodder in front of de critters so dey would go faster tryin' to git to de fodder. Dey grez dem gins wid homemade tar. De big sight was dem old home-made cotton presses. When dem old mules went round a time or two pullin' dat heavy weight down, dat cotton was sho pressed.

"Us chillun sho did lak to see 'em run dat old gin, 'cause 'fore dey ever had a gin Marster used to make us pick a shoe-full of cotton seeds out evvy night 'fore us went to bed. Now dat don't sound so bad, Missy, but did you ever try to pick any seeds out of cotton?

"Course evvybody cooked on open fireplaces dem days, and dat was whar us picked out dem cotton seeds, 'round dat big old fireplace in de kitchen. All de slaves et together up dar at de big house, and us had some mighty good times in dat old kitchen. Slave quarters was jus' little one room log cabins what had chimblies made of sticks and red mud. Dem old chimblies was all de time a-ketchin' on fire. De mud was daubed 'twixt de logs to chink up de cracks, and sometimes dey chinked up cracks in de roof wid red mud. Dere warn't no glass windows in dem cabins, and dey didn't have but one window of no sort; it was jus' a plain wooden shutter. De cabins was a long ways off from de big house, close by de big old spring whar de wash-place was. Dey had long benches for de wash-tubs to set on, a big old oversize washpot, and you mustn't leave out 'bout dat big old battlin' block whar dey beat de dirt out of de clothes. Dem Niggers would sing, and deir battlin' sticks kept time to de music. You could hear de singin' and de sound of de battlin' sticks from a mighty long ways off.

"I ain't never been to school a day in all my life. My time as chillun was all tuk up nussin' Mistess' little chillun, and I sho didn't never git nary a lick 'bout dem chillun. Mistess said dat a white 'oman got atter her one time 'bout lettin' a little Nigger look atter her chillun, and dat 'oman got herself told. I ain't never uneasy 'bout my chillun when Paul is wid 'em,' Mistess said. When dey started to school, it was my job to see dat dey got dere and when school was out in de evenin', I had to be dere to fetch dem chillun back home safe and sound. School didn't turn out 'til four o'clock den, and it was a right fur piece from dat schoolhouse out to our big house. Us had to cross a crick, and when it rained de water would back up and make it mighty bad to git from one side to t'other. Marster kept a buggy jus' for us to use gwine back and forth to school. One time atter it had done been rainin' for days, dat crick was so high I was 'fraid to try to take Mistess' chillun crost it by myself, so I got a man named Blue to do de drivin' so I could look atter de chillun. Us pulled up safe on de other side and den dere warn't no way to git him back to his own side. I told him to ride back in de buggy, den tie de lines, and de old mule would come straight back to us by hisself. Blue laughed and said dere warn't no mule wid dat much sense, but he soon seed dat I was right, cause dat old mule come right on back jus' lak I said he would.

"Us chillun had good times back den, yes Mam, us sho did. Some of our best times was at de old swimmin' hole. De place whar us dammed up de crick for our swimmin' hole was a right smart piece off from de big house. Us picked dat place 'cause it had so many big trees to keep de water shady and cool. One Sunday, when dere was a big crowd of white and colored chillun havin' a big time splashin' 'round in de water, a white man what lived close by tuk all our clothes and hid 'em way up at his house; den he got up in a tree and hollered lak evvything was atter him. Lawsy, Miss, us chillun all come out of dat crick skeered plumb stiff and run for our clothes. Dey was all gone, but dat never stopped us for long. Us lit out straight for dat man's house. He had done beat us gitting dar, and when us come runnin' up widout no clothes on, he laughed fit to kill at us. Atter while he told us he skeered us to keep us from stayin' too long in de crick and gittin' drownded, but dat didn't slow us up none 'bout playing in de swimmin' hole.

"Talkin' 'bout being skeered, dere was one time I was skeered I was plumb ruint. Missy, dat was de time I stole somepin' and didn't even know I was stealin'. A boy had come by our place dat day and axed me to go to de shop on a neighbor's place wid him. Mistess 'lowed me to go, and atter he had done got what he said he was sont atter, he said dat now us would git us some apples. He was lots bigger dan me, and I jus' s'posed his old marster had done told him he could git some apples out of dat big old orchard. Missy, I jus' plumb filled my shirt and pockets wid dem fine apples, and us was havin' de finest sort of time when de overseer cotch us. He let me go, but dat big boy had to wuk seven long months to pay for dat piece of foolishment. I sho didn't never go nowhar else wid dat fellow, 'cause my good old mistess said he would git me in a peck of trouble if I did, and I had done larn't dat our mistess was allus right.

"Times has sho done changed lots since dem days; chillun warn't 'lowed to run 'round den. When I went off to church on a Sunday, I knowed I had to be back home not no later dan four o'clock. Now chillun jus' goes all de time, whar-some-ever dey wants to go. Dey stays out most all night sometimes, and deir mammies don't never know whar dey is half de time. 'Tain't right, Missy, folkses don't raise deir chillun right no more; dey don't larn 'em to be 'bejient and don't go wid 'em to church to hear de Word of de Lawd preached lak dey should ought to.

"Fore de war, colored folkses went to de same church wid deir white folkses and listened to de white preacher. Slaves sot way back in de meetin'-house or up in a gallery, but us could hear dem good old sermons, and dem days dey preached some mighty powerful ones. All my folkses jined de Baptist Church, and Dr. John Mell's father, Dr. Pat Mell, baptized evvy one of 'em. Course I growed up to be a Baptist too lak our own white folkses.

"Slaves had to wuk hard dem days, but dey had good times too. Our white folkses looked atter us and seed dat us had what-some-ever us needed. When talk come 'round 'bout havin' separate churches for slaves, our white folkses give us deir old meetin'-house and built deyselfs a new one, but for a long time atter dat it warn't nothin' to see white folkses visitin' our meetin's, cause dey wanted to help us git started off right. One old white lady—us called her Aunty Peggy—never did stop comin' to pray and sing and shout wid us 'til she jus' went off to sleep and woke up in de better world. Dat sho was one good 'oman.

"Some of dem slaves never wanted no 'ligion, and dey jus' laughed at us cause us testified and shouted. One day at church a good old 'oman got right 'hind a Nigger dat she had done made up her mind she was gwine to see saved 'fore dat meetin' ended. She drug 'im up to de mourner's bench. He 'lowed he never made no prep'ration to come in dis world and dat he didn't mean to make none to leave it. She prayed and prayed, but dat fool Nigger jus' laughed right out at her. Finally de 'oman got mad. 'Laugh if you will,' she told dat man, 'De Good Lawd is gwine to purge out your sins for sho, and when you gits full of biles and sores you'll be powerful glad to git somebody to pray for you. Dat ain't all; de same Good Lawd is gwine to lick you a thousand lashes for evvy time you is done made fun of dis very meetin'.' Missy, would you believe it, it warn't no time 'fore dat man sickened and died right out wid a cancer in his mouf. Does you 'member dat old sayin' 'De ways of de Lawd is slow but sho?'

"Corpses was washed good soon atter de folkses died and deir clothes put on 'em, den dey was laid on coolin' boards 'til deir coffins was made up. Why Missy, didn't you know dey didn't have no sto'-bought coffins dem days? Dey made 'em up right dere on de plantation. De corpse was measured and de coffin made to fit it. Sometimes dey was lined wid black calico, and sometimes dey painted 'em black on de outside. Dere warn't no undytakers den, and dere warn't none of dem vaults to set coffins in neither; dey jus' laid planks crost de top of a coffin 'fore de dirt was piled in de grave.

"When dere was a death 'round our neighborhood, evvybody went and paid deir 'spects to de fambly of de dead. Folkses set up all night wid de corpse and sung and prayed. Dat settin' up was mostly to keep cats offen de corpse. Cats sho is bad atter dead folks; I'se heared tell dat dey most et up some corpses what nobody warn't watchin'. When de time come to bury de dead, dey loaded de coffin on to a wagon, and most times de fambly rode to de graveyard in a wagon too, but if it warn't no fur piece off, most of de other folkses walked. Dey started singin' when dey left de house and sung right on 'til dat corpse was put in de grave. When de preacher had done said a prayer, dey all sung: I'se Born to Die and Lay Dis Body Down. Dat was 'bout all dere was to de buryin', but later on dey had de funeral sermon preached in church, maybe six months atter de buryin'. De white folkses had all deir funeral sermons preached at de time of de buryin'.

"Yes Mam, I 'members de fust money I ever wuked for. Marster paid me 50 cents a day when I got big enough to wuk, and dat was plumb good wages den. When I got to whar I could pick more'n a hunnerd pounds of cotton in one day he paid me more. I thought I was rich den. Dem was good old days when us lived back on de plantation. I 'members dem old folkses what used to live 'round Lexin'ton, down in Oglethorpe County.

"When us warn't out in de fields, us done little jobs 'round de big house, de cabins, barns, and yards. Us used to holp de older slaves git out whiteoak splits, and dey larnt us to make cheer bottoms and baskets out of dem splits. De best cheer bottoms what lasted de longest was dem what us made wid red ellum withes. Dem old shuck bottoms was fine too; dey plaited dem shucks and wound 'em 'round for cheer bottoms and footsmats. De 'omans made nice hats out of shucks and wheat straw. Dey plaited de shucks and put 'em together wid plaits of wheat straw. Dey warn't counted much for Sunday wear, but dey made fine sun hats.

"Whilst us was all a-wukin' away at house and yard jobs, de old folkses would tell us 'bout times 'fore us was borned. Dey said slave dealers used to come 'round wid a big long line of slaves a-marchin' to whar dere was gwine to be a big slave sale. Sometimes dey marched 'em here from as fur as Virginny. Old folkses said dey had done been fetched to dis country on boats. Dem boats was painted red, real bright red, and dey went plumb to Africa to git de niggers. When dey got dere, dey got off and left de bright red boats empty for a while. Niggers laks red, and dey would git on dem boats to see what dem red things was. When de boats was full of dem foolish Niggers, de slave dealers would sail off wid 'em and fetch 'em to dis country to sell 'em to folkses what had plantations. Dem slave sales was awful bad in some ways, 'cause sometimes dey sold mammies away from deir babies and famblies got scattered. Some of 'em never knowed what 'comed of deir brudders and sisters and daddies and mammies.

"I seed dem Yankees when dey come, but I was too little to know much about what dey done. Old folkses said dey give de Athens people smallpox and dat dey died out right and left, jus' lots of 'em. 'Fore dey got rid of it, dey had to burn up beds and clothes and a few houses. Dey said dey put Lake Brown and Clarence Bush out in de swamp to die, but dey got well, come out of dat swamp, and lived here for years and years.

"Granddaddy told us 'bout how some slaves used to rum off from deir marsters and live in caves and dugouts. He said a man and a 'oman run away and lived for years in one of dem places not no great ways from de slave quarters on his marster's place. Atter a long, long time, some little white chillun was playin' in de woods one day and clumb up in some trees. Lookin' out from high up in a tree one of 'em seed two little pickaninnies but he couldn't find whar dey went. When he went back home and told 'bout it, evvybody went to huntin' 'em, s'posin' dey was lost chillun. Dey traced 'em to a dugout, and dere dey found dem two grown slaves what had done run away years ago, and dey had done had two little chillun born in dat dugout. Deir marster come and got 'em and tuk 'em home, but de chillun went plumb blind when dey tried to live out in de sunlight. Dey had done lived under ground too long, and it warn't long 'fore bofe of dem chillun was daid.

"Dem old slavery-time weddin's warn't lak de way folkses does when dey gits married up now; dey never had to buy no license den. When a slave man wanted to git married up wid a gal he axed his marster, and if it was all right wid de marster den him and de gal come up to de big house to jump de broomstick 'fore deir white folkses. De gal jumped one way and de man de other. Most times dere was a big dance de night dey got married.

"If a slave wanted to git married up wid a gal what didn't live on dat same plantation he told his marster, den his marster went and talked to de gal's marster. If bofe deir marsters 'greed den dey jumped de broomstick; if neither one of de marsters wouldn't sell to de other one, de wife jus' stayed on her marster's place and de husband was 'lowed a pass what let him visit her twict a week on Wednesday and Sadday nights. If he didn't keep dat pass to show when de patterollers cotch him, dey was more'n apt to beat de skin right off his back. Dem patterollers was allus watchin' and dey was awful rough. No Mam, dey never did git to beat me up. I out run 'em one time, but I evermore did have to make tracks to keep ahead of 'em.

"Us didn't know much 'bout folkses bein' kilt 'round whar us stayed. Sometimes dere was talk 'bout devilment a long ways off. De mostest troubles us knowed 'bout was on de Jim Smith plantation. Dat sho was a big old place wid a heap of slaves on it. Dey says dat fightin' didn't 'mount to nothin'. Marse Jim Smith got to be mighty rich and he lived to be an old man. He died out widout never gittin' married. Folkses said a nigger boy dat was his son was willed heaps of dat propity, but folkses beat him out of it and, all of a sudden, he drapped out of sight. Some says he was kilt, but I don't know nothin' 'bout dat.

"Now Missy, how come you wants to know 'bout dem frolics us had dem days? Most of 'em ended up scandlous, plumb scandlous. At harvest season dere was cornshuckin's, wheat-thrashin's, syrup-cookin's, and logrollin's. All dem frolics come in deir own good time. Cornshuckin's was de most fun of 'em all. Evvybody come from miles around to dem frolics. Soon atter de wuk got started, marster got out his little brown jug, and when it started gwine de rounds de wuk would speed up wid sich singin' as you never heared, and dem Niggers was wuking in time wid de music. Evvy red ear of corn meant an extra swig of liquor for de Nigger what found it. When de wuk was done and dey was ready to go to de tables out in de yard to eat dem big barbecue suppers, dey grabbed up deir marster and tuk him to de big house on deir shoulders. When de supper was et, de liquor was passed some more and dancin' started, and sometimes it lasted all night. Folkses sometimes had frolics what dey called fairs; dey lasted two or three days. Wid so much dancin', eatin', and liquor drinkin' gwine on for dat long, lots of fightin' took place. It was awful. Dey cut on one another wid razors and knives jus' lak dey was cuttin' on wood. I 'spects I was bad as de rest of 'em 'bout dem razor fights, but not whar my good old mist'ess could larn 'bout it. I never did no fightin' 'round de meetin'-house. It was plumb sinful de way some of dem Niggers would git in ruckuses right in meetin' and break up de services.

"Brudder Bradberry used to come to our house to hold prayermeetin's, but Lawsey, Missy, dat man could eat more dan any Nigger I ever seed from dat day to dis. When us knowed he was a-comin' Mistess let us cook up heaps of stuff, enough to fill dat long old table plumb full, but dat table was allus empty when he left. Yes Mam, he prayed whilst he was dere, but he et too. Dem prayers must'a made him mighty weak.

"Marster Joe Campbell, what lived in our settlement, was sho a queer man. He had a good farm and plenty of most evvything. He would plant his craps evvy year and den, Missy, he would go plumb crazy evvy blessed year. Folkses would jine in and wuk his craps out for him and, come harvest time, dey had to gather 'em in his barns, cause he never paid 'em no mind atter dey was planted. When de wuk was all done for him, Marster Joe's mind allus come back and he was all right 'til next crap-time. I told my good old marster dat white man warn't no ways crazy; he had plumb good sense, gittin' all dat wuk done whilst he jus' rested. Marster was a mighty good man, so he jus' grinned and said 'Paul, us mustn't jedge nobody.'

"When marster moved here to Athens I come right 'long wid 'im. Us started us a wuk-shop down on dis same old Oconee River, close by whar Oconee Street is now. Dis was mostly jus' woods. Dere warn't none of dese new-fangled stock laws den, and folkses jus' fenced in deir gyardens and let de stock run evvywhar. Dey marked hogs so evvybody would know his own; some cut notches in de ears, some cut off de tails or marked noses, and some put marks on de hoof part of de foots. Mr. Barrow owned 'bout 20 acres in woods spread over Oconee Hill, and de hogs made for dem woods whar dey jus' run wild. Cows run out too and got so wild dey would fight when dey didn't want to come home. It warn't no extra sight den to see folkses gwine atter deir cows on mules. Chickens run out, and folkses had a time findin' de aigs and knowin' who dem aigs b'longed to. Most and gen'ally finders was keepers far as aigs was consarnt but, in spite of all dat, us allus had plenty, and Mistess would find somepin' to give folkses dat needed to be holped.

"When us come to Athens de old Georgy Railroad hadn't never crost de river to come into town. De depot was on de east side of de river on what dey called Depot Street. Daddy said he holped to build dat fust railroad. It was way back in slavery times. Mist'ess Hah'iet Smith's husband had done died out, and de 'minstrator of de 'state hired out most all of Mist'ess' slaves to wuk on de railroad. It was a long time 'fore she could git 'em back home.

"Missy, did you know dat Indians camped at Skull Shoals, down in Greene County, a long time ago? Old folkses said dey used to be 'round here too, 'specially at Cherokee Corners. At dem places, it was a long time 'fore dey stopped plowin' up bones whar Indians had done been buried. Right down on dis old river, nigh Mr. Aycock's place, dey says you kin still see caves whar folkses lived when de Indians owned dese parts. If high waters ain't washed 'em all away, de skeletons of some of dem folkses what lived dar is still in dem caves. Slaves used to hide in dem same caves when dey was runnin' off from deir marsters or tryin' to keep out of de way of de law. Dat's how dem caves was found; by white folkses huntin' runaway slaves.

"Now Missy, you don't keer nothin' 'bout my weddin'. To tell de trufe, I never had no weddin'; I had to steal dat gal of mine. I had done axed her mammy for her, but she jus' wouldn't 'gree for me to have Mary, so I jus' up and told her I was gwine to steal dat gal. Dat old 'oman 'lowed she would see 'bout dat, and she kept Mary in her sight day and night, inside de house mos'ly. It looked lak I never was gwine to git a chance to steal my gal, but one day a white boy bought my license for me and I got Brudder Bill Mitchell to go dar wid me whilst Mary's ma was asleep. Us went inside de house and got married right dar in de room next to whar she was sleepin'. When she waked up dere was hot times 'round dat place for a while, but good old Brudder Mitchell stayed right dar and holped us through de trouble. Mary's done been gone a long time now and I misses her mighty bad, but it won't be long now 'fore de Lawd calls me to go whar she is.

"I done tried to live right, to keep all de laws, and to pay up my jus' and honest debts, cause mist'ess larnt me dat. I was up in Virginny wukin' on de railroad a few years ago. De boss man called me aside one day and said; 'Paul, you ain't lak dese other Niggers. I kin tell dat white folks raised you.' It sho made me proud to hear him say dat, for I knows dat old Miss up yonder kin see dat de little Nigger she tuk in and raised is still tryin' to live lak she larnt him to do."

When the visitor arose to leave, old Paul smiled and said "Goodby Missy. I'se had a good time bringin' back dem old days. Goodby, and God bless you."



[HW: Dist. 1 Ex-Slave 102]

SUBJECT: EMELINE STEPNEY, A DAUGHTER OF SLAVERY DISTRICT: W.P.A. NO. 1 RESEARCH WORKER: JOSEPH E. JAFFEE EDITOR: JOHN N. BOOTH SUPERVISOR: JOSEPH E. JAFFEE (ASST.) [Date Stamp: MAY 8 1937]

Emeline Stepney, as she came into the office that July day, was a perfect vignette from a past era. Over 90 years old, and unable to walk without support, she was still quick witted and her speech, although halting, was full of dry humor. Emeline was clad in a homespun dress with high collar and long sleeves with wristbands. On her feet she wore "old ladies' comforts." She was toothless and her hands were gnarled and twisted from rheumatism and hard work.

Emeline's father, John Smith, had come from Virginia and belonged to "Cap'n Tom Wilson." Her mother, Sally, "wuz a Georgia borned nigger" who belonged to "Mars Shelton Terry." The two plantations near Greensboro, in Greene County, were five miles apart and the father came to see his family only on Wednesday and Saturday nights. The arrangement evidently had no effect in the direction of birth control for Emeline was the second of thirteen children.

Life on the Terry place was a fairly pleasant existence. The master was an old bachelor and he had two old maid sisters, Miss Sarah and Miss Rebecca. The plantation was in charge of two overseers who were reasonably kind to the Negroes.

No crops of any kind were sold and consequently the plantation had to be self-sustaining. Cotton was spun into clothing in the master's own spinning room and the garments were worn by the master and slaves alike. A small amount of flax was raised each year and from this the master's two sisters made household linens. Food crops consisted of corn, wheat (there was a mill on the plantation to grind these into flour and meal), sweet potatoes, and peas. In the smoke house there was always plenty of pork, beef, mutton, and kid. The wool from the sheep was made into blankets and woolen garments.

The Terry household was not like other menages of the time. There were only one or two house servants, the vast majority being employed in the fields. Work began each morning at eight o'clock and was over at sundown. No work was done on Saturday, the day being spent in preparation for Sunday or in fishing, visiting, or "jes frolickin'". The master frequently let them have dances in the yards on Saturday afternoon. To supply the music they beat on tin buckets with sticks.

On Sunday the Negroes were allowed to attend the "white folks' church" where a balcony was reserved for them. Some masters required their "people" to go to church; but Emeline's master thought it a matter for the individual to decide for himself.