"Right after freedom, my folks worked on old man Jim Burdyne's farm. That is the first place I remember after freedom. Father taken a little deadening. You don't know what a deadening is? That's a lease. He cleaned up some land. We boys were just gettin' so we could pick up brush and tops of trees—and burn it, and one thing and another. Two years after the War was over, I got big enough to plow. I was plowing when I was nine years old. We had three boys and four girls older than me. The balance of them was born after freedom. We made crops on shares for three years after freedom, and then we commenced to rent. Shares were one-third of the cotton and one-fourth of the corn. They didn't pay everything they promised. They taken a lot of it away from us. They said figures didn't lie. You know how that was. You dassent dispute a man's word then. Sometimes a man would get mad and beat up his overseer and run him away. But my daddy wouldn't do it. He said, 'Well, if I owe anything I'll pay it. I got a large family to take care of.'

"I never got a chance to go to school any. There was too much work to do. I married when I was twenty-one. I would go off and stay a month or two and come back. Never left home permanent for a long while. Stayed 'round home till I was forty years old. I come to Arkansas in 1898. I made a living by farming at first.

"I didn't shoot no craps. I belong to the church. I have belonged to the church about forty years or more. I did play cords and shoot craps and things like that for years before I got religion.

"I come to Little Rock in 1918 and been here ever since. I worked 'round here in town first one thing and then another. Worked at the railroad and on like that.

"We used to vote right smart in Mississippi. Had a little trouble sometimes but it would soon die down. I haven't voted since I been here. Do no good nohow. Can't vote in none of these primary elections. Vote for the President. And that won't do no good. They can throw your ballot out if they want to.

"I believe in the right thing. I wouldn't believe in anything else. I try to be loyal to the state and the city. But colored folks don't have much show. Work for a man four or five years and go back to him and he don't know nothin' about you. They soon forget you and a white man's word goes far.

"I was able to work as late as 1930, but I ain't been no 'count since to do much work. I get a pension for old age from the Welfare and commodities and I depend on that for a living. Whatever they want to give me, I'll take it and make out with it. If there's any chance for me to git a slave's pension, I wish they would send it to me. For I need it awful bad. They done cut me way down now. I got heart trouble and high blood pressure but I don't give up.

"My mother sure used to make good ash cake. When she made it for my daddy, she would put a piece of paper on it on top and another on the bottom. That would keep it clean. She made it extra good. When he would git through, she would give us the rest. Sometimes, she wouldn't put the paper on it because she would be mad. He would ask, 'No paper today?' She would say, 'No.' And he wouldn't say nothin' more.

"There is some of the meanest white people in the United States in Mississippi up there on the Yellow Dog River. That's where the Devil makes meanness.

"There's some pretty mean colored folks too. There is some of them right here in Little Rock. Them boys from Dunbar give me a lot of trouble. They ride by on their bicycles and holler at us. If we say anything to them, they say, 'Shut up, old gray head.' Sometimes they say worse. I used to live by Brother Love. Christmas the boys threw at the house and gave me sass when I spoke to them. So I got out of that settlement. Here it is quiet because it is among the white folks."



Interviewer: Mrs. Carol Graham, El Dorado Division Person interviewed: Zenia Culp Age: Over 80 [Jan 29 1938]

"Yas'm, my name is Zenia, Zenia Culp 'tis now since I married. My old master's name was Billy Newton. Him and three more brothers come here and settled in this county years ago and Master Billy settled this farm. I was born and raised here and ain't never lived nowheres else. I used to be nurse girl and lived up at the big house. You know up there where Mr. John Dunbar's widow lives now. And the family burying groun' is jus' a little south of the house where you sees them trees and tomb stones out in the middle of the field.

"Master Billy's folks was so good to me and I sure thought a heap of young Master Billy. Believe I told you I was the nurse girl. Well, young Master Billy was my special care. And he was a live one too. I sure had a time keepin' up wid that young rascal. I would get him ready for bed every night. In summer time he went barefoot like all little chaps does and course I would wash his foots before I put him to bed. That little fellow would be so sleepy sometime that he would say: 'Don't wash em, Zenia, jes' wet em.' Oh, he was a sight, young Master Billy was.

"Does you know Miss Pearl? She live there in El Dorado. She is young master's widow. Miss Pearl comes out to see me sometime and we talks lots bout young Master Billy.

"Yas'm, I'se always lived here where I was born. Never moved way from de old plantation. Course things is changed lots since the days when old Master Billy was livin'. When he went off to the war he took most of the men black folks and the womens stayed home to take care of mistress and the chillun.

"My husban' been dead a long, long time and I live here wid my son. His wife is gone from home dis evenin'. So I thought I'd come out and pick off some peanuts jes' to git out in the sunshine awhile. That's my son out there makin' sorghum. My daughter-in-law is so good to me. She treats me like I was a baby.

"You asks me to tell you something bout slave days, and how we done our work then. Well, as I tell you, my job was nurse girl and all I had to do was to keep up wid young Master Billy and that wasn't no work tall, that was just fun. But while I'd be followin' roun' after him I'd see how the others would be doin' things.

"When they gathered sweet potatoes they would dig a pit and line it with straw and put the tatoes in it then cover them with straw and build a coop over it. This would keep the potatoes from rotting. The Irish potatoes they would spread out in the sand under the house and the onions they would hand up in the fence to keep them from rotting.

"In old Master Newton's day they didn' have ice boxes and they would put the milk and butter and eggs in buckets and let em down in the well to keep em cool.

"Master's niggers lived in log houses down at de quarters but they was fed out of the big house. I members they had a long table to eat off and kept hit scoured so nice and clean with sand and ashes and they scoured the floors like that too and it made em so purty and white. They made their mops cut of shucks. I always eat in the nursery with young Master Billy.

"They had big old fireplaces in Master's house and I never seen a stove till after the war.

"I member bein' down at the quarters one time and one of the women had the sideache and they put poultices on her made out of shucks and hot ashes and that sho'ly did ease the pain.

"The pickaninnies had a time playin'. Seein' these peanuts minds me that they used to bust the ends and put them on their ears for ear rings. Course Master Billy had to try it too, then let out a howl cause they pinched.

"Lan', but them was good old days when Master Billy was alive."



Texarkana District FOLKLORE SUBJECTS Name of Interviewer: Mrs. W.M. Ball Subject: Anecdotes Story:

Information given by: Albert Cummins Place of Residence: Laurel St., Texarkana, Ark. Occupation: None (Ex-Slave) Age: 86 [TR: Personal information moved from bottom of second page.]

An humble cottage, sheltered by four magnificent oak trees, houses an interesting old negro, Albert Cummins.

Texarkana people, old and young, reverence this character, and obtain from him much valuable information concerning the early life of this country. This ex-slave was freed when he was fifteen years old, but continued to live in the same family until he was a man. He says: "All de training an' advice I evah had come frum mah mistress. She wuz a beautiful Christian; if I am anybody, I owe it to her. I nevah went to school a day in mah life; whut I know I absorbed frum de white folks! Mah religion is De Golden Rule. It will take any man to heaben who follows its teachings.

"Mah mahster wuz kilt in de battle fought at Poison Springs, near Camden. We got separated in de skirmish an' I nevah did see him again. Libin' at that time wuz hard because dere wuz no way to communicate, only to sen' messages by horseback riders. It wuz months befo' I really knew dat mah mahster had been kilt, and where.

"Mr. Autrey bought mah mother when I wuz an infant, and gave us de protection an' care dat all good slave owners bestowed on their slaves. I worshipped dis man, dere has nevah been anudder like him. I sees him often in mah dreams now, an' he allus appears without food an' raiment, jus' as de South wuz left after de war."

"I came heah when Texarkana wuz only three years old, jus' a little kindly village, where we all knew each udder. Due to de location an' de comin' ob railroads, de town advanced rapidly. Not until it wuz too late did de citizens realize whut a drawback it is to be on de line between two states. Dis being Texarkana's fate, she has had a hard struggle overcoming dis handicap for sixty-three years. Still dat State Line divides de two cities like de "Mason and Dixon Line" divides the North an' South.

"Living on the Arkansas side of this city, Albert Cummins is naturally very partial to his side. "The Arkansas side is more civilized", according to his version. "Too easy fo' de Texas folks to commit a crime an' step across to Arkansas to escape arrest an' nevah be heard ob again."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Betty Curlett, Hazen, Arkansas Age: 66 [— — 1938]

"I can tell you all about my kin folks. My mama's owners was Mars John Moore and Miss Molly Moore. They come from Virginia and brought Grandma Mahaley and Grandpa Tom.

"Mr. Daniel Johnson went to North Carolina and bought Alice and John and their family. When he brought them to Mississippi, they come in a hack. It was snowing and cold. It took em so long to came they take turns walkin'. Grandma was walking long wid the hack and somewhere she cut through and climbed over a railin' fence. She lost her baby outer her quilts and went on a mile fore she knowed bout it. She say, 'Lawd, Master Daniel, if I ain't lost my baby.' They stopped the hack and she went back to see where her baby could be. She knowed where she got out the hack and she knowed she had the baby then. Fore she got to the fence she clum over, she seed her baby on the snow. She said the sun was warm and he was well wrop up. That all what saved em. She shuck him round till she woke him up. She was so scared he be froze. When he let out cryin' she knowed he be all right. She put him in the foot of the hack mong jugs of hot water what they had to keep em warm. She say he never had a cold from it. Well, that was John, my papa, what she lost in de snow. Grandma used to set and tell us that and way I can member it was my own papa she be talkin' bout.

"Papa was raised up by the Johnson family and mama by the Moore family. Den Alice Moore had em marry her and John Johnson. Their plantations joined, and joined Judge Reid's (or Reed's) place. We all had a big time on them three farms. They was good to their niggers but Mr. —— they said whooped his niggers awful heep.

"Ed Amick was Mars Daniel Johnson's overseer. He told him he wanted his slaves treated mighty good and they was good. Yes ma'am, they was good to em!! We had a plenty to eat. Every Saturday they killed a lamb, a goat or a yearlin' and divided up mong his folks and the niggers. Us childen would kill a peafowl and they let us eat em. White folks didn't eat em. They was tender seem like round the head.

"Miss Evaline was Mars Daniel's sister. She was a old maid. Miss Evaline, Aunt Selie old nigger woman and Brittain old nigger man done nuthin' but raise chickens, geese, guineas, ducks, pigeons. They had a few turkeys and peafowls all the time. When they stewed chicken it was stewed in a big black pot they kept to cook fowls in. They fry chicken in a pot er grease then turn drap sweet biscuit bread in. They put eggs in it, too. They call it marble cakes. Then they pour sweet milk in the bottom grease and make good gravy. When they rendered up lard they always made marble cakes. They cut marble cakes all kind er shapes and twisted em round like knots and rings. They take em up in big pans big as dish pans.

"We had plenty to eat and plenty flannel and cotton check dresses. Regular women done our quiltin' and made our dresses. She made our dresses plain waist, full gathered skirt and buttons down the backs on our waist.

"I was named for Miss Betty Johnson. Mars Daniel bought me books. I slip and tear ABC's outen every book he buy for me. Miss Betty say A-B-C-D; I say after her. She say, 'Betty, you ain't lookin' on the book.' I say, 'Miss Betty, I hear Miss Cornelia's baby woke up. Agin Miss Betty—she was my young mistress—ABC's me sayin' em long wid her. I say, 'Miss Betty, I smell ginger bread, can't I go git a piece?' She say, 'Betty—I'm so sorry I name you fer me. I wish I named Mary.' I say, 'Then you name Mary Betty an' give me nother name.' Miss Betty git me down agin to sayin' the ABC's, I be lookin' off. She say, 'Betty, you goin' to be a idiot.' I say, 'That what I wanter be—zactly what I wanter be.' I didn't know what a idiot was then.

"I took up crocheting. Miss Cornelia cut me some quilt pieces. She say 'Betty that's her talent' bout me. Miss Betty say, 'If she goin' to be mine I want her to be smart.' Miss Mary lernt my sister Mary fast.

"When I was bout fifteen I was goiner to the nigger school. I wanted to go to the white school wid Miss Mag. Miss Betty say, 'Betty, that white woman would whoop you every day.' I take my dinner in a bucket and go on wid Mary. I'd leave fore the teacher have time to have my lesson and git in late. The teacher said, 'Betty, Miss Cornelia and Miss Betty say they want you to be smart and you up an' run off and come in late, and do all sorts er ways. Ain't you shamed?'

"They had a big entertainment. Miss Betty learned me a piece to say—poetry. I could lern it from sayin' it over wid Miss Betty. They bought me and Mary our fust calico dresses. I lack to walked myself to death. I was so proud. It had two ruffles on the bottom of the skirt and a shash tied at the waist behind. We had red hats wid streamers hanging down the back. The dresses was red and black small checks. Mary lernt her piece at school. We had singing and speeches and a big dinner at the school closin'.

"Mr. John Moore went to war and was killed at the beginnin' of the first battle soon as he got there. They had a sayin, 'You won't last as long as John Moore when he went to war.'

"Mr. Criss Moore was kickin' a nigger boy. Old Miss say, 'Criss, quit kickin' him, you hurt him.' He say, 'I ain't hurtin' him, I'm playin' wid him!' White boys played wid nigger boys when they come round the house. Glad to meet up to get to play.

"Mr. Criss Moore, Jr. (John Moore's grandson) is a doctor way up North and so is Mr. Daniel Johnson, Jr. One of em in Washington I think. I could ask Miss Betty Carter when I go back to Mississippi.

"When I left Mississippi Mr. Criss hated to see me go. Mr. Johnson say, 'I wanted all our niggers buried on our place.' He say to Jim, my husband, 'Now when she die you let me know and I'll help bring her back and bury her in the old graveyard.' When my papa died Mr. Johnson had the hearse come out and get him and take him in it to the graveyard. He was buried by mama and nearly all the Johnson, Moore, and Reed (or Reid) niggers buried there. My husband is buried here (Hazen, Arkansas) but he was a Curlett.

"Papa set out apple trees on the old Johnson place, still bearin' apples. The old farm place is forty-eight miles from Tupelo and three miles from Houlka, Mississippi.

"My mother had eighteen children and I had sixteen but all mine dead now but three. Mama's ma and grandpapa Haley had twenty-two children. Yes ma'am, they sho did have plenty to eat. Mars Daniel say to his wife, 'Cornelia, feed my niggers.' That bout last he said when he went off to war. Mars Green, Daniel, and Jimmie three brothers. Three Johnson brothers buried their gold money in stone jars and iron cookin' pots fore they left and went to war.

"When the fightin' stopped, people was so glad they rung and rung the farm bells and blowed horns—big old cow horns. When Mars Daniel come home he went to my papa's house and says, 'John, you free.' He says, 'I been free as I wanter be whah I is.' He went on to my grandpa's house and says, 'Toby, you are free!' He raised up and says, 'You brought me here frum Africa and North Carolina and I goiner stay wid you long as ever I get sompin to eat. You gotter look after me!' Mars Daniel say, 'Well, I ain't runnin' nobody off my place long as they behave.' Purtnigh every nigger sot tight till he died of the old sets. Mars Daniel say to grandpa, 'Toby, you ain't my nigger.' Grandpa raise up an' say, 'I is, too.'

"They had to work but they had plenty that made em content. We had good times. On moonlight nights somebody ask Mars Daniel if they could have a cotton pile, then they go tell Mars Moore and Judge Reid (or Reed). They come, when the moon peep up they start pickin'. Pick out four or five bales. Then Mars Daniel say you come to the house. Ring the bell. Then we have a big supper—pot of chicken, stew and sweet potatoes roasted. Have a wash pot full of molasses candy to pull and all the goobers we could eat.

"Then we had three banjos. The musicians was William Word, Uncle Dan Porter, and Miles Porter. Did we dance? Square dance. Then if somebody been wantin' to marry they step over the broom and it be nounced they married. You can't get nobody—colored folks I mean—to step over a broom; they say it bad luck. If it fall and they step over they step back. They say if somebody sweep under your feet you won't marry that year. Folks didn't visit round much. They had some place to go they went but they had to work. They work together and done mighty little—idle vistin'. Folks took the knitting long visting lest it be Sunday.

"White women wouldn't nurse their own babies cause it would make their breast fall. They would bring a healthy woman and a clean woman up to the house. They had a house close by. She would nurse her baby and the white baby, too. They would feed her everything she wanted. She didn't have to work cause the milk would be hot to give the babies. Dannie and my brother Bradford, and Mary my sister and Miss Maggie nursed my mama. Rich women didn't nurse their babies, never did, cause it would cause their breast to be flat.

"My papa was the last slave to die. Mama died twelve months fore he died. I was born after freedom but times changed mighty little mama and papa said. Grandma learned me to cut doll dresses and Miss Cornelia learned me to sew and learned Aunt Joe (a ex-slave Negro here in town) to play Miss Betty's piano. She was their house girl. Yes ma'am, when I was small girl she was bout grown. Aunt Joe is a fine cook. Miss Cornelia learnt her how. I could learned to played too but I didn't want to. I wanted to knit and crochet and sew. Miss Cornelia said that was my talent. I made wrist warmers and lace. Sister Mary would spin. She spun yarn and cotton thread. They made feather beds. Picked the geese and sheared the sheep. I got my big feather bed now.

"When I married, Miss Betty made my weddin' dress. We had a preacher marry us at my home. My mama give me to Miss Betty and they raised me. I was the weaslingest one of her children. She give me to Miss Betty. Now she wants me to come back. I think I go back Christmas and stay. Miss Betty is old and feeble now. I got three children living here in Hazen now. All I got left.

"The men folks did all go off, white and black, and vote. I don't know how they voted. Now, honey, you know I don't know nothing bout voting.

"Times is so changed. Conditions so changed that I don't know if the young generation is improved much. They learn better but it don't do em no more good. It seems like it is the management that counts. That is the reason my grandpa didn't want to leave Mars Daniel Johnson's. He was a good manager and Miss Betty is a good manager. We don't know how to manage and ain't got much to manage wid. That the way it looks to me. Some folks is luckier than others."



Little Rock District FOLKLORE SUBJECTS Name of Interviewer: Irene Robertson [HW: Yankees Stole Food] Subject: History—Slavery Days Subject: Musical Instrument Story:—Information [TR: Additional topic moved from subsequent page.] [TR: Hand dated 11-14-36]

This information given by: Betty Curlett Place of Residence: Hazen, Arkansas Occupation: Washwoman Age: 67 [TR: Personal information moved from bottom of first page.]

"My mother said during the war and in slavery times they ate out of wooden spoons and bowls they made." They cooked a washpot full of peas for a meal or two and roasted potatoes around the pot in the ashes. They always cooked hams and greens of all kinds in the big iron pots for there were so many of them to eat and in slavery times the cook, cooked for her family in with what she cooked for the Master. They made banks of dirt, sand, leaves and plank and never washed the sweet potatoes till they went to cook them. They had rows of banks in the garden or out behind some of the houses, and had potatoes like that all winter and in the spring to bed.

They saved the ashes and put them in a barrel and poured water over them and saved the drip—lye—and made soap or corn hominy—made big pots of soap and cooked pots full of lye hominy. They carried corn to the mill and had it ground into meal and flour made like that too. The women spun, wove, and knitted. The men would hunt between crop times. If the slaves were caught stealing, the Patty Row would catch him and his master whip him.

My Grandpas and Grandmas and Mamma's Master was John Moore. Mr. John said before his daughter and wife should go to the washtub he would wade blood saddle-skirt deep. He set out to war. Went to Vicksburg and was killed.

His wifes name was Mrs. Elisabeth and his daughters name was Miss Inez. They say thats where the saying "He won't last longer than John Moore did when he went to war" sprang up but I don't know about that part of it for sure.

Grandma Becky said when the Yankees came to Mrs. Moores house and to Judge Rieds place they demanded money but they told them they didn't have none. They stole and wasted all the food clothes, beds. Just tore up what they didn't carry with them and burned it in a pile. They took two legs of the chickens and tore them apart and threw them down on the ground, leaving piles of them to waste.

Song her Mother and Grandmother sang:

Old Cow died in the fork of the branch Baby, Ba, Ba. Dock held the light, Kimbo skinned it. Ba, Ba, Ba. Old cow lived no more on the ranch and frank no more from branch, Kinba a pair of shoes, he sewed from the old cows hide he had tanned. Baby, Ba, Ba.

Musical Instrument

"The only musical instrument we had was a banjo. Some made their banjos. Take a bucket or pan a long strip of wood. 3 horse hairs twisted made the base string. 2 horsehairs twisted made the second string. 1 horse hair twisted made the fourth and the fifth string was the fine one, it was not twisted at all but drawn tight. They were all bees waxed."



Circumstances of Interview STATE—Arkansas NAME OF WORKER—Samuel S. Taylor ADDRESS—Little Rock, Arkansas DATE—December, 1938 SUBJECT—Ex-Slave [TR: Repetitive information deleted from subsequent pages.]

1. Name and address of informant—J.H. Curry, Washington, Arkansas

2. Date and time of interview—

3. Place of interview—Washington, Arkansas

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant—

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you—

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Personal History of Informant

1. Ancestry—father, Washington Curry; mother, Eliza Douglass; grandmother; Malinda Evans; grandfather, Mike Evans.

2. Place and date of birth—Born in Haywood County, Tennessee in 1862.

3. Family—

4. Places lived in, with dates—Tennessee until 1883. From 1883 until now, in Arkansas.

5. Education, with dates—He took a four-years' course at Haywood after the war.

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates—Minister

7. Special skills and interest—Church work.

8. Community and religious activities—Preacher

9. Description of informant—

10. Other points gained in interview—His father was a slave and he tells lots of slavery.

[HW: Master Educates Slave]

Text of Interview (Unedited)

"I was born in 1862, September first. I got that off the Bible. My father, he belonged to a doctor and the doctor, he was a kind of a wait man to him. And the doctor learnt him how to read and write. Right after the War, he was a teacher. He was ready to be a teacher before most other people because he learnt to read and write in slavery. There were so many folks that came to see the doctor and wanted to leave numbers and addresses that he had to have some one to 'tend to that and he taught my father to read and write so that he could do it.

"I was born in Tennessee, in Haywood County. My father was born in North Carolina, so they tell me. He was brought to Tennessee. He was a slave and my mother was a slave. His name was Washington Curry and my mother's name was Eliza Douglass before she married. Her master was named John Douglass and my father's master was named T.A. Curry, Tom Curry some folks called him.

"I don't know just how many slaves Tom Curry owned. Lemme see. There was my daddy, his four brothers, his five sisters. My father's father had ten children, and my father had the same number—five boys and six girls. Ten of us lived for forty years. My mother had ten living children when she died in 1921. Since '21, three girls died. My father died in 1892.

"My father's master had around a hundred slaves. Douglass was a richer man than my father's master. I suspect he had two hundred slaves. He was my mother's father as well as her master. I know him. He used to come to our house and he would give mama anything she wanted. He liked her. She was his daughter.

"My father's father—I can't remember what his name was. I know his mother was Candace. I never did see his father but I saw my grandma. He was dead before I was born. My mother's mother was named Malinda Evans. Only one thing I remember that was remarkable about her. Her husband was a free man named Mike Evans. He come from up North and married her in slave time and he bought her. He was a fine carpenter. They used to hire him out to build houses. He was a contractor in slave time. I remember him well.

"After the War, he used to have white men getting training for the carpenter's training under him. He was Grandma Evans' husband. He wasn't my father's father. My father was born before Grandma Evans was freed. All the rest of them were born afterward. They sold her to him but the children all belonged to the Douglasses. He probably paid for her on time and they kept the children that was born.

"The doctor was good to my father. Way after freedom, he was our family doctor. He was at my father's bedside when father died. He's dead now.

"My father was a carpenter and a wait man (waiter). He was a finished carpenter. He used to make everything 'round the house. Sometimes he went off and worked and would bring the money back to his master, and his master would give him some for himself.

"My mother worked 'round the house. She was a servant. I don't know that she ever did the work in the field. My daddy just come home every Saturday night. My father and mother always belonged to different masters in slavery time. The Douglasses and the Currys were five or six miles apart. My father would walk that distance on Saturday night and stay there all day Sunday and git up before day in the morning Monday so that he would be back home Monday morning in time for his work. I remember myself when we moved away. That's when my memory first starts.

"I could see that old white woman come out begging and saying, 'Uncle Washington, please don't carry Aunt Lize away.' But we went on away. When we got where we was going, my mother made a pallet on the floor that night, and the three children slept on the pallet on the floor. Nothing to eat—not a bite. I went to bed hungry, and you know how it is when you go to bed hungry, you can't sleep. I jerk a little nod, and then I'd be awake again with the gnawing in my stomach. One time I woke up, and there was a big light in the house, and father was working at the table, and mama reached over and said, 'Stick your head back under the cover again, you little rascal you.' I won't say what I saw. But I'll say this much. We had the finest breakfast the next morning that I ever ate in all my life.

"I used to hear my people talk about pateroles but I don't reckon I can recall now what they said. There is a man in Washington named Bob Sanders. He knows everything about slavery, and politics too. He used to be a regular politician. He is about ninety years old. They came there and got him about two year ago and paid him ten dollars a day and his fare. Man came up and got him and carried him to the capitol in his car. They were writing up something about Arkansas history.

"I have been married fifty-seven years. I married in 1881. My wife was a Lemons. I married on February tenth in Tennessee at Stanton. Nancy Lemons.

"I went to public school a little after the war. My wife and I both went to Haywood after we were married. After we married and had children, we went. I took a four-years' course there when it was a fine institution. It's gone down now.

"I was the oldest boy. We had two mules. We farmed on the halves. We made fifteen bales of cotton a year. Never did make less than ten or twelve.

"I have been in the ministry fifty-three years. I was transferred to Arkansas in 1883 in the conference which met at Humboldt. My first work here was in Searcy in 1884.

"I think the question of Negro suffrage will work itself out. As we get further away from the Civil War and the reconstruction, it will be less and less opposition to the Negro's voting. You can see a lot of signs of that now.

"I don't know about the young people. They are gone wild. I don't know what to say about them.

"I think where men are able to work I think it is best to give them work. A man that is able to work ought to be given work by the government if he can't get it any other way."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Lyttleton Dandridge 2800 W. Tenth Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 80

"I was told I was born in '57 in East Carroll Parish, Louisiana.

"Oh, I can remember before the War broke out. Yes ma'am, I had good owners. Old master and mistress was named James Railey and Matilda Railey. I called her mistress.

"I remember one time my father carried me to Natchez on Christmas to spend with his people. His parents were servants on a plantation near Natchez.

"I remember two shows I saw. They was the Daniel Rice shows. They was animal shows but they had em on a boat, kind of a flatboat. We didn't have trains and things like that—traveled on the big waters.

"I remember when we refugeed to Texas in '63. They raised tobacco there.

"We got free in '65 and the Governor or somebody ordered all the owners to take all the folks back that wanted to go.

"All the young folks, they had them in Tyler, Texas makin' bullets. My father had the care of about fifty youngsters makin' bullets.

"Old master had two plantations in Louisiana and three in Mississippi. He was a large slaveholder.

"When we got back to Louisiana from Texas, ever'thing was the same except where the levees had been cut and overflowed the land.

"Old master died before the War broke out and my mistress died in '67.

"My father died in Texas. That left my mother a widow. She spent about two weeks at the old home place in Louisiana. She pulled up then and went to Natchez to my father's people. She made two crops with my young master. His name was Otie Railey. Help her? Well, I was comin'. I had one brother and one sister.

"In '68 she worked with a colored man on the shares.

"I started to school in '67. A colored man come in there and established a private school. I went in '67, '68, and '69 and then I didn't go any more till '71 and '72. I got along pretty well in it. I know mine from the other fellows. I can write and any common business I can take care of.

"We had two or three men run off and joined the Yankees. One got drowned fore he got there and the other two come back after freedom.

"My mother worked for wages after freedom. She got three bales of cotton for her services and mine and she boarded herself.

"In '74 she rented. I still stayed with her. She lived with me all her life and died with me.

"I come over to Arkansas the twenty-third day of December in 1916. Worked for Long-Bell Lumber Company till they went down. Then I Just jobbed around. I can still work a little but not like I used to.

"I used to vote Republican when I was interested in politics but I have no interest in it now.

"The younger generation is faster now than they was in my time. They was more constrictions on the young people. When I was young I had a certain hour to come in at night. Eight o'clock was my hour—not later than that. I think the fault must be in the times but if the parents started in time they could control them.

"I remember one time a cow got after my father and he ran, but she caught up with him. He fell down and she booed him in the back. My grandfather come up with a axe and hit her in the head. She just shook her head and went off.

"Outside of my people, the best friend I ever met up with was a white man."



Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Ella Daniels 1223 W. Eleventh Street, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: 74, or over

[HW: Food Rationed]

"I was born in North Carolina, in Halifax County, in the country near Scotland Neck. My mother's name was Nellie Doggett. Her name was Hale before she married. My father's name was Tom Doggett. I never did see any of my grand people.

"My mother's master was named Lewis Hale. He was a farmer. He was fairly good himself but the overseers wasn't. They have mistreated my mother. All I know is what I heard, of course; I wasn't old enough to see for myself. My mother was a field hand. She worked on the farm. My father did the same thing.

"My father and mother belonged to different masters. I forgot now who my father said he belonged to. My father didn't live on the same plantation with my mother. He just came and visited her from time to time.

Food

"Sometimes they didn't have any food to eat. The old missis sometimes saw that my mother's children were fed. My mother's master was pretty good to her and her children, but my father's master was not. Food was issued every week. They give molasses, meal, a little flour, a little rice and along like that.

House

"My mother and father lived in old weatherboard houses. I don't know whether all of the slaves lived in weatherboarded houses or not. But I nursed the children and had to go from one house to the other and I know several of them lived in weatherboarded houses. Most of the houses had two rooms. The food that was kept by the slaves, that is the rations given them, was kept in the kitchen part of the house.

Breeding

"I don't know of any cases where slaves were compelled to breed but I have heard of them. I don't know the names of the people. Just remember hearing talk about them.

Freedom Comes

"My mother and father never found out they were free till April 1865. Some of them were freed before then. I don't know how they found it out, but I heard them talking about it.

Right after Freedom

"Right after freedom, my father and mother worked right on in the same place just like they always did. I reckon they paid them, I don't know. They did what they wanted to.

Patrollers, Ku Klux, and Reconstruction

"I remember the Ku Klux. They used to come and whip the niggers that didn't have a pass. I think them was pateroles though. There was some people too who used to steal slaves if they found them away from home, and then they would sell them. I don't know what they called them. I just remember the Ku Klux and the pateroles.

"The Ku Klux were the ones that whipped the niggers that they caught out without a pass. I don't remember any Ku Klux whipping niggers after the War because they were in politics.

Voters and Officeholders

"I have heard of Negroes voting and holding office after the War. I wasn't acquainted with any of them except a man named Kane Gibbs and another named Cicero Barnes. I heard the old people talking about them. I don't know what offices they held. They lived in another county somewhere.

Life Since Emancipation

"I went from North Carolina to Louisiana, and from Louisiana here. They had it that you could shake trees out in Louisiana and the money would fall off. They had some good land out there too. One acre would make all you wanted—corn or anything else. That was a rich land. But I don't know—I don't care what you had or what you owned when you left there, you had to leave it there. Never would give you no direct settlement or pay you anything; that is, pay you anything definite. Just gave you something from time to time. Whatever you had you had to leave it there.

Occupational Experiences

"I used to work in the field when I was able. That was when I was in the country. When I came to the city I usually did washing and ironing. Now I can't do anything. All the people I used to work for is dead. There was one woman in particular. She was a good woman, too. I don't have any help at all now, except my son. He has a family of his own—wife and seven children. Right now, he is cut off and ain't making nothing for himself nor nobody else. But I thank God for what I have because things could be much worse."

Interviewer's Comment

Here again, there is a confusion of patrollers with Ku Klux. It seems to point to a use of the word Ku Klux before the War. Of course, it is clear that the Ku Klux Klan operated after the War.

Ella Daniels' age is given as seventy-four on her insurance policy, and I have placed that age on the first page of this story in the heading. But three children were born after her and before the close of the War. She says they were born two years apart. Allowing that the youngest was born, in 1864, the one next to her would have been born in 1860, and she would have been born in 1858. This seems likely too because she speaks of nursing the children and going from house to house (page two) and must have been quite a child to have been able to do that. Born in 1858, she would have been seven years old in 1865 and would have been able to have been doing such nursing as would have been required of her for two years probably. So it appears to me that her age is eighty, but I have recorded in the heading the same age decided upon for insurance.



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Mary Allen Darrow, Forrest City, Arkansas Age: 74

"I was born at Monticello, Arkansas at the last of the Cibil (Civil) War. My parents' names was Richard and Ann Allen. They had thirteen children. Mother was a house girl and papa a blacksmith and farmer.

"My great-grandma and grandpa was killed in Indian Nation (Alabama) by Sam and Will Allen. They was coming west long 'fo'e the war from one of the Carolinas. I disremembers which they told me. Great-grandpa was a chief. They was shot and all the children run but they caught my Grandma Evaline and put her in the wagon and brought her to Monticello, Arkansas. They fixed her so she couldn't get loose from them. She was a little full-blood Indian girl then. They got her fer my great-grandpa a wife. He seen her and thought she was so pretty.

"She was wild. She wouldn't eat much else but meat and raw at that. She had a child 'fo'e ever she'd eat bread. They tamed her. Grandpa's pa that wanted the Indian wife was full-blood African. Mama was little lighter than 'gingercake' color.

"My Indian grandma was mean. I was feard of 'er. She run us down and ketch us and whoop us. She was tall slender woman. She was mean as she could be. She'd cut a cat's head off fer no cause er tall. Grandpa was kind. He'd bring me candy back if he went off. I cried after him. I played with his girl. We was about the same size. Her name was Annie Mathis. He was a Mathis. He was a blacksmith too at Monticello and later he bought a farm three and one-half miles out. I was raised on a farm. Papa died there. I washed and done field work all my life. Grandma married Bob Mathis.

"Our owner was Sam and Lizzie Allen. William Allen was his brother. I think Sam had eight children. There was a Claude Allen in Monticello and some grandchildren, Eva Allen and Lent Allen. Eva married Robert Lawson. I lived at Round Pond seventeen or eighteen years, then come to Forrest City. I been away from them Allen's and Mathis' and Gill's so long and 'bout forgot 'em. They wasn't none too good to nobody—selfish. They'd make trouble, then crap out of it. Pack it on anybody. They wasn't none too good to do nothing. Some of 'em lazy as ever was white men and women. Some of 'em I know wasn't rich—poor as 'Jobe's stucky.' I don't know nothing 'bout 'em now. They wasn't good.

"I was a baby at freedom and I don't know about that nor the Ku Klux. Grandpa started a blacksmith shop at Monticello after freedom.

"My pa was a white man. Richard Allen was mama's husband.

"Me and my husband gats ten dollars from the Old Age Pension. He is ninety-six years old. He do a little about. I had a stroke and ain't been no 'count since. He can tell you about the Cibil War."

Interviewer's Comment

I missed her husband twice. It was a long ways out there but I will see him another time.



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Alice Davis 1700 Vaugine Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 81

"I was born in Mississippi. My mistress was Jane Davis. She raised me. She owned my mother too.

"When Miss Jane's husband died, he willed the niggers to his childun and Mandy Paine owned me then. When I was one month old they said I was so white Mandy Paine thought her brother was my father, so she got me and carried me to the meat block and was goin' to cut my head off. When the childun heard, they run and cried, 'Mama's goin' to kill Harriet's baby.' Old mistress, Jane Davis, heard about it and she come and paid Miss Jane forty dollars for me and carried me to her home, and I slep right in the bed with her till the war ceasted."

"Her childun was grown and they used to come by and say, 'Ma, why don't you take that nigger out of your bed?' and she'd reach over and pat me and say, 'This the only nigger I got.'

"I stayed there two or three years after freedom. I didn't know what free meant. Big childun all laugh and say, 'All niggers free, all niggers free.' And I'd say, 'What is free?' I was lookin' for a man to come.

"I worked in the house and in the field. I had plenty chances to go to school but I didn't have no sense.

"My mother was sold to nigger traders and I never did see her again. I always say I never had no mother, and I never did know who my father was.

"I've worked hard since I got to be a women. I never been the mother of but three childun. Me and my boy stay together.

"I had a happy time when I lived with Miss Jane, but I been workin' ever since."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Charlie Davis 100 North Plum, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 76

"They said I was born in 1862, the second day of March, in Little Rock.

"I 'member the War. I 'member the bluecoats. I knowed they was fightin' but I didn't know what about.

"My old master was killed in the War. I don't know his name, I just heered 'em call him old master.

"I know old missis kept lookin' for him all durin' the War and looked for him afterward. As long as I could understand anything she was still lookin'.

"Far as I know, my parents stayed with old missis after the War.

"I 'member my father hired me out when I was a little boy. They treated, me good.

"Never have done anything 'cept farm work. I'm failin' now. Hate to say so but I found out I am.

"I never did want to go away from here. I could a went, but I think a fellow can do better where he is raised. I have watched the dumb beasts go off with others and see how they was treated, so I never did crave to go off from home. I have knowed people have went away and they'd bring 'em back dead, and I'd say to myself, 'I wonder how he died?' I've studied it over and I've just made myself satisfied.

"I went to school some but I was the biggest help the old folks had and they kept me workin'."



Interviewer: Watt McKinney Person Interviewed: D. Davis R.F.D., six miles north of Marvell, Arkansas Age: 85

Uncle D. Davis, an ex-slave, 85 years of age lives some miles north of Marvell, Arkansas with a widowed daughter on a small farm the daughter owns. Uncle D himself also owns a nice little farm some distance further up the road and which he rents out each year since he is no longer able to tend the land. This old negro, now old and bent from years of work and crippled from the effects of rheumatism hobbles about with the assistance of a crutch and a cane. His mind however is very clear and his recollection keen. As I sat with him on the porch of his daughter's home he told me the following story:

"Yes Sir, Mr. McKinney, I has been in Phillips County fer pas forty-five years and I is now pas eighty-five. I wuz a grown en settled man when I fust cum here en hed chillun nigh bout growd. Dats how cum me ter com here on er count of one of my boys. Dis boy he cum befo I did en hed done made one crop en dat boy fooled me ober here from Mississippi. Yo know how dese young bucks is, allus driftin er roun en he hed done drifted rite down dere below Marvell on de Cypress Bayou, en war wukin fer Mr. Fred Mayo when he writ me de letter ter cum ober here. I guess dat yo has heard of Mr. Fred Mayo dat owned de big plantation dere close ter Turner. Well dat is de man whut ay boy wuz wid and atter I cum I jined up wid Mr. Mayo en stayed wid him fer two years en I wud er ben wid him fer good I rekkin iffen I hadn't wanter buy me er place of my own, kase Mr. Fred Mayo he wuz a nathal good man en treted all he hands fair.

"When I cided ter git me er little place of my own, I went en got quainted wid Mr. Marve Carruth kase he hed er great name wid de niggers, en all de niggers in dem days dey went ter Mr. Carruth fer ter git de advice, en Mr. Carruth he hoped me ter git de place up de road whut is mine yit. Dere neber wuz no white man whut wuz no better dan Mr. Marve Carruth. No Sir dat is a fac.

"Yo see, Capn, I wuz borned en raised in de hills of Mississippi, in Oktibbawa County not so fer frum Starkville, en dat wuz a ole country time I hed got grown en de lan hit wuz gittin powful thin, en when I cumed ter dis state en seen how much cotton de folks mekin on de groun, en how rish de lan, I jist went crazy ober dis country en stayed rite here en mobed my fambly rite off. Folkses hed cotton piled up all er round dey houses en I cided rite off dat dis war gwine ter be my home den.

"My ole Marster wuz Tom Davis en Capn dere warnt never no finer man whut ever libed dan Marse Tom. Marse Tom wuz lubed by ebery nigger dat he hed, en Marse Tom sho hed a passel of em. He had bettern two-hundred head en de las one dey crazy bout Marse Tom Davis. He war rather old frum my fust riccolection of im, en he neber libed meny years atter de war. Marse Tom he owned a grete heap er lan. His lan hit stretch out fer God knows how fer en den too he hed de big mill whut runned wid de water wheel whar dey saw de lumber en grine de meal en de flour. Dey neber bought no flour en dem days kase dey raised de wheat on de place, en all de meat en nigh bout ebery thing whut dey hed er need of. Marse Tom he tuk de best kine er care of his slabe people en he neber blebe in buyin er sellin no niggers. Dat he didn't. He neber wud sell er one, en he neber did buy but three. Dat is er fac, Capn, en one of dem three whut he bought wuz "Henry" whut wuz my own pappy, en he buyed Henry frum Mr. Spence kase Henry hed done got married ter Malindy, whut wuz my mammy. Dat is whut my Mammy en Pappy dey bofe tole me.

"Marse Tom he neber jine de army kase he too old when de war brek out, but Marse Phil he jined up. Marse Phil dat war Marse Tom's son, en de onliest boy dat Ole Marster en Ole Mis hed, en dey jist hed one mo chile en dat wuz de girl, Miss Rachel, en atter de war ober Miss Rachel she married Capn Dan Travis whut cum from Alabama. Ole Marster he neber laked Capn Dan er bit, en he jes bucked en rared er bout Miss Rachel gwine ter git married ter dat Capn, but hit neber done him no good ter cut up kase Ole Mis she sided wid Miss Rachel, en den too Miss Rachel she hab er head of her own en she know her Pa aint gwine ter stop her. Marse Tom he didn't lak Capn Dan kase de Capn he er big sport, en mighty wild, en lub he whiskey too well, en den he a gamblin man besides dat, do he sho war a fine lookin gentman.

"Whilst Marse Tom he too old ter jine up wid de army, he hired him er man ter fite fer him in his place jes de same, en him en Ole Mis dey neber want Marse Phil ter jine up, en sey dey gwine ter hire er man fer ter tek Marse Phil's place so he won't hatter go, but Marse Phil he sey he gwine ter do he own fitin, en eben do he Ma en Pa dey cut up right smart bout Marse Phil goin ter de war, he up en jine jes de same. Marse Phil he neber wuz sich a stout, healthy pussen, en he always sorter sikly, en it warnt long fore he tuk down in de camp wid sum kine er bad spell er sikness en died. Dat wuz sho tuf on Marse Tom en de Ole Mis fer dem ter lose Marse Phil, kase dey put er heap er sto by dat boy, him bein de onliest son dat dey got, en day so tached ter im. Hit mighty nigh broke dem ole peoples up.

"No Sir, Capn, I betcha dat dere warnt airy uther er slabe-owning white man ter be foun dat wuz er finer man, er dat was mo good ter he niggers dan Marse Tom Davis. Now jes tek dis, dere wuz "Uncle Joe" whut wuz my grand-pappy, en he wuz jes bout de same age as Marse Tom, en dey growed up ter gedder, en dey tole hit dat Marse Tom's pappy git "Uncle Joe" when he war jes a boy frum de speckle-lady (speculator) fer er red hankerchief, dats how cheap he git im en, dat rite off he gib im ter Marse Tom, en atter Marse Tom git up en growd ter be er man, en he pappy died en lef him all de lan en slabes, en den atter er lot mo years pas, en Uncle Joe done raise Marse Tom seben chillun, den Marse Tom he up en sot Uncle Joe free, en gib him er home en forty acres, en sum stock kase Uncle Joe done been good en fathful all dem years, en raise Marse Tom all dem seben chillun, en one of dem seben wuz my own mammy.

"Capn, aint yo eber heard tell of de speckle-ladies? (speculators) Well, I gwine ter tell yo who dey wuz. Dey wuz dem folkses whut dealed in de niggers. Dat is whut bought em, en sole em, en dey wud be gwine round thru de country all de time wid a grete gang er peoples bofe men en womens, er tradin, en er buyin, en er sellin. Hit wuz jes lak you mite sey dat dey wud do wid er gang er mules. Jist befo dese here speckle-ladies wud git ter er town er plantation whar dey gwine ter try ter do sum bizness lak tradin er sich matter, dey stop de crowd long side er creek er pond er water en mek em wash up en clean up good lak, en comb em up rite nice, en mek de wimmens wrap up dey heads wid some nice red cloth so dey all look in good shape ter de man whut dey gwine try ter do de bizness wid. Dats zackly de way dey do Capn, jes lak curryin en fixin up mules fer ter sell, so dey look bettern dey actually is.

"Whilst Marse Tom Davis hed oberseers hired ter look atter de farmin of de lan, he hed his own way er doin de bizness, kase he know dat all he niggers is good wukkers, en dat he kin pend on em, so de fust of ebery week he gib each en ebery single man er fambly er task fer ter do dat week, en atter dat task is done den dey fru wuk fer dat week en kin den ten de patches whut he wud gib dem fer ter raise whut dey want on, en whut de slabes raise on dese patches dat he gib em wud be deres whut-sum-eber hit wud be, cotton er taters er what, hit wub be, dey own, en dey cud sell hit en hab de money fer demselves ter buy whut dey want.

"Marse Tom he wud ride out ober de place at least once a week en always on er Sattidy mornin, en ginerally he wud pass de word out mongst de folkses fer em all ter cum ter de big house er Sattidy atter noon fer er frolic. Ebery pussen on de place frum de littlest chile ter de oldest man er woman wud clean dey selves up en put on dey best clo's for ter "go befo de King", dats whut us called it. All wud gather in bak of de big house under de big oak trees en Marse Tom he wud cum out wid he fiddle under he arm, yo kno Marse Tom he war a grete fiddler, en sot hisself down in de chere whut Uncle Joe done fotched fer im, en den he tell Uncle Joe fer ter go git de barrel er whiskey en he wud gib em all er gill er two so's dey cud all feel rite good, en den Marse Tom he start dat fiddle playin rite lively en all dem niggers wid dance en hab de bes kin er frolic, en Marse Tom he git jes es much fun outen de party as de niggers demselves. Dats de kine er man whut Marse Tom wuz.

"I tell yo, Capn, my marster he sho treated his slabes fair. Dey all draw er plenty rations once ebery week en iffen dey run out tween times dey cud always git mo, en Marse Tom tell em ter git all de meal en flour at de mill eny time dat dey need hit. Dats rite, Capn, en I sho tells dis fer de truf, en dat is I say dat iffen all de slabe owning white folks lak Marse Tom Davis, den dere wudn't ben no use er freedom fer de darkies, kase Marse Tom's slabes dey long ways better off wid him in dey bondage dan dey wuz wid out im when dey sot free en him dead en gone.

"At Chrismus time on Marse Tom's place dey wud hab de fun fer er week er mo, wid no wuk gwine on at all. De candy pullin, en de dances wid be gwine on nigh bout constant, en ebery one gits er present frum de marster.

"All endurin of de war times, Marse Tom he neber raised no cotton er tall but instid he raised de wheat, en de corn en hogs fer de Confedrits, en de baggage waggins wud cum from time ter time fer de loads of flour, en meal en meat dat he wud sen ter de army. De Yankees sumhow dey missed us place en neber did fin hit, en do de damage er bruning [TR: burning?] en sich dat I is heard dat dey done in places in other parts of de state. We all heard one time dat de Yankees wuz close er roun en wuz on de way ter burn Marse Tom's mill but dey got on de wrong road en day neber did git ter our place, en us sho wuz proud er dat too. Yit en still attar de war ober, Marse Tom, he had bout four hundred bales er cotton on han at de barn en de Yankee govment dey sho tuk dat en didn't pay him er bit fer dat cotton. I knows dat ter be er fac.

"I members de war rail well, kase ye see, I wuz bout twelve year old when hit ober. En de last two er three years of de trubble I wuz big enuf ter be doin sum wuk, so dey tuk me in de big house fer ter be er waitin boy round de house, en I slept in dar too on er pallit on de floor, en er lot er times de Calvary sojers wud stop at Marse Tom's en spen de nite, en I wud be layin on de pallit but wudn't be sleep, en I cud hear dem talkin ter Marse Tom, en Marster he wud ax dem how de fite cumin on, en iffen dey whippin de Yankees, en de Calvary sojers dey say dat dey whippin de Yankees ebery day en killin em out, en Marse Tom he sey "Yo is jes er big lie, how cum yo runnin er way iffen yo whippin dem Yankees? Dem Yankees is atter yo, en yo is runnin frum em dats whut yo doin. Yo know yo aint whippin no Yankees kase if yo wuz yo wud be atter dem rite now stid dem atter yo". No Sir, dem Calvary sojers cudn't fool Marse Tom.

"Yes sir, I tell yo, Capn, de slabes dey fared well wid Marse Tom Davis, en dere wudn't neber ben no war ober de slabery question iffen every body ben lak Marse Tom. All his peoples wuz satisfied en dey didn't eben know what de Yankees en de Southern white folks wuz fitin er bout, kase dey wuzn't worried bout no freedom, yit en still atter de freedom cum dey wuz glad ter git hit, but atter dey git hit dey don't know whut ter do wid hit. En atter de bondage lifted, Marse Tom he called em all up en tell em dat dey free es he is, en dey kin lebe if dey want to, but dere wuzn't nairy nigger lef de place. Dey ebery one stayed, en I spect dat er lot of dem Davis niggers is rite dere till yit on dat same lan wid whoever hit belongs to.

"When er slabe man en woman got married in dose days dere wuzn't no sich thing as er license fer dem. All dey hed ter do wuz ter git de permit frum de Marster en den ter start in ter libbin wid each udder. Atter de freedom do, all er dem whut wuz married en libbin wid one er nudder wuz giben er slip ter sho dat dey married, en ter mek dey marriage legal.

"Atter freedom cum ter de darkies, en de trubble all ober in de fitin, en atter de surrender, Marse Tom he hed his whole place lined out by de surveyor en marked off in plots er groun, en he sell er plot er forty acres ter ebery fambly dat he hed, on de credik too, en sell em de stock wid de place so dey kin all hab er home, en dey all set in ter buy de lan frum Marse Tom, but hit warnt long atter dat till Marse Tom en ole Mis bofe died, en dat wuz when Capn Dan Travis, Miss Rachel's husband, he taken charge of de bizness en broke all de contracts dat de darkies hed made wid Marse Tom, an dat wuz de las of de lan buyin on dat place, en dat wuz de startin of de niggers er leavin de Davis place, wid Capn Dan Travis in charge, en Marse Tom gone. But Capn Dan he en Miss Rachel didn't keep dey place long atter her Pa dead, kase de Capn he too wild, en he soon fooled all de money en lan off wid he drinkin en gamblin.

"Capn, did yo eber hear of de "Chapel Hill" fight dat de colored folks en de white folks hed in Mississippi? I will tell yo bout dat fight en de leadin up ter de trubble.

"Atter de war dey hed de carpet-baggers en de Klu Klux bofe, en de white folks dey didn't lak de carpet-baggers tolerable well, dat dey didn't. I don't know who de carpet-baggers wuz but dey wuz powful mean, so de white folks say. You know sum way er udder de Yankees er de carpet-baggers er sum ob de crowd, dey put de niggers in de office at de cote house, en er makein de laws at de statehouse in Jackson. Dat wuz de craziest bizness dat dey eber cud er done, er puttin dem ignorant niggers whut cudn't read er write in dem places. I tell yo, Capn, dem whut put dose niggers in de office dey mus not had es much since es de niggers, kase dey mought know dat hit wudn't wuk, en hit sho didn't wuk long. Dey hed de niggers messed up in sum kind er clubs whut dey swaded dem to jine, en gib em all er drum ter beat, en dey all go marchin er roun er beatin de drums en goin ter de club meetins. Dem ignorant niggers wud sell out fer er seegar er a stick er candy. Hit wasn't long do till de trubble hit broke out en de fite tuk place. De Klu Klux dey wuz er ridin de country continual, en de niggers dey skeered plum sick by dem tall white lookin hants wid dey hosses all white wid de sheets, en sum sey dey jes cum outen dey grabe en er lookin fer er niggers ter tek bak wid em when de day light cum. All de time de niggers habin dey club meetins in er ole loose house dere at Chapel Hill, en de Klux er gittin more numerous all de time, en de feelin mongst de white en de black wuz er gittin wus en wus, en one night when de niggers habin er grete big meetin, en er beatin dey drums en er carryin on, here cum de Klu Klux er sumpin er shootin right en lef en er pourin de shots in ter dat ole house en at ebery niggers dey see, en de niggers dey start er shootin bak but not fer long, kase mos of em done lit out fer de woods, dats is mos all whut ain't kilt, en dat wuz de bery las of de club meetins en de bery las of de niggers er holdin de office in de cote house. I heard bout de fight de nex morn in kase Chapel Hill hit warn't fer frum whar I libed at dat time. I seed Dr. Marris Gray on de rode on he hoss, en he hoss wuz kivered wid mud frum he tall ter he head. Dr. Marris Gray he pulled up en sed, "Good mornin "D" is ye heard bout de fite whut wuz had last nite at Chapel Hill" en I sey "No Sir Doctor, whut fite wuz dat en whut dey fitin er bout?", en de doctor sey he didn't know whut dey fightin bout lessin dey jes tryin ter brake up de club meetin, en he went on ter say dat er heap er niggers wuz kilt en also sum white folks too, en sum mo wuz shot whut ain't dead yit, en dat he been tendin ter dem whut is shot en still ain't dead. En den I sey "Doctor Morris wuz yo dere when de fightin goin on"?, en de doctor he say "En cose I warn't dere yo don't think I gwine be roun what no shootin tekin place, does yo"?, en I say "Naw Suh" en de doctor he rid on down de rode den, but I knowed in my own mine dat Doctor Morris wuz in dat fightin, kass he hoss so spattered up wid mud, en I seed er long pistol barrel stickin out frum under he coat, en den sides dat I iz knowed de doctor eber since I wuz a chile when Marse Tom uster hab him ter gib de darkies de medicine when dey sik, en I seed him one night er ridin wid de Klu Klux en heard him er talkin when I wuz hid in de bushes lon side de rode when I cumin home frum catchin me er possum in de thicket, en den Doctor Morris he wid General Forrest all throo de war en he know whut fightin is, an he sho wudn't neber go outen his way to miss no shootin."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: James Davis 1112 Indiana St. (owner), Pine Bluff, Ark. Age: 96 Occupation: Cotton farmer

"This is what's left of me. How old? Me? Now listen and let me tell you how 'twas. Old mistress put all our ages in the family Bible, and I was born on Christmas morning in 1840 in Raleigh, North Carolina.

"My old master was Peter Davis and he was old Jeff Davis' brother. There was eight of them brothers and every one of em was as rich as cream.

"Old master was good to us. He said he wanted us singin' and shoutin' and workin' in the field from morning to night. He fed us well and we had plenty good clothes to wear—heavy woolen clothes and good shoes in the winter time. When I was a young man I wore good clothes.

"I served slavery about twenty-four years before peace was declared. We didn't have a thing in God's world to worry bout. Every darky old master had, he put woolen goods and good heavy shoes every winter. Oh, he was rich—had bout five or six thousand slaves. Oh, he had darkies aplenty. He run a hundred plows.

"I went to work when I was seven pullin' worms off tobacco, and I been workin' ever since. But when I was comin' up I had good times. I had better times than I ever had in my life. I used to be one of the best banjo pickers. I was good. Played for white folks and called figgers for em. In them days they said 'promenade', 'sashay', 'swing corners', 'change partners'. They don't know how to dance now. We had parties and corn shuckin's, oh lord, yes.

"I'll sing you a song

'Oh lousy nigger Oh grandmammy Knock me down with the old fence rider, Ask that pretty gal let me court her Young gal, come blow the coal.'

"When I was twenty-one I was sold to the speculator and sent to Texas. They started me at a thousand and run me up to a thousand nine hunnerd and fifty and knocked me off. He paid for me in old Jeff Davis' shin plasters.

"I runned away and I was in Mississippi makin' my way back home to North Carolina. I was hidin' in a hollow log when twenty-five of Sherman's Rough Riders come along. When they got close to me the horses jumped sudden and they said, 'Come out of there, we know you're in there!' And when I come out, all twenty-five of them guns was pointin' at that hole. They said they thought I was a Revel and 'serted the army. That was on New Years day of the year the war ended. The Yankees said, 'We's freed you all this mornin', do you want to go with us?' I said, 'If you goin' North, I'll go.' So I stayed with em till I got back to North Carolina.

"After surrender, people went here and yonder and that's how come I'm here. I emigrated here. I left Raleigh, North Carolina Christmas Eve 1883. I've seen ninety-six Christmases.

"I member the folks said the war was to keep us under bondage. The South wants us under bondage right now or they wouldn't do us like they do.

"When I come to this country of Arkansas I brought twelve chillun and left four in North Carolina. I've had six wives and had twenty-nine chillun by the six wives.

"I've seen them Ku Klux in slavery times and I've cut a many a grapevine. We'd be in the place dancin' and playin' the banjo and the grape vine strung across the road and the Ku Klux come ridin' along and run right into it and throw the horses down.

"Cose I believe in hants. They're in the air. Can't everybody see em. Some come in the shape of a cat or a dog—you know, old folks spirits. I ain't afeared of em—ain't afeared of anything cept a panter. Cose I got a gun—got three or four of em. You can't kill a spirit cept with silver.

"I was in the road one time at night next to a cemetery and I see somethin' white come right up side of me. I didn't run then. You know you can git so scared you can't run, but when I got so I could, I like to killed myself runnin'.

"I'm not able to work now, but I just go anyhow. I got a willin' mind to work and a strong constitution but I ain't got nothin' to back it. I never was sick but twice in my life.

"Since I been in Pine Bluff I worked sixteen years at night firing up and watchin' engines, makin' steam, and never lost but one night. I worked for the Cotton Belt forty-eight years. I worked up until the fust day of this last past May, five years ago, when they laid me off.

"I'm disabled wif dis rheumatism now but I works every day anyway.

"I'll show you I haven't been asleep atall. I worked for the railroad company forty-eight years and I been tryin' to get that railroad pension but there's so much Red Cross (tape) to these things they said it'd be three months before they could do anything."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Jim Davis 1112 Indiana Street Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 98

"Well, I've broke completely down. I ain't worth nothing. Got rheumatism all over me.

"I never seen inside a schoolhouse—allus looked on the outside.

"The general run of this younger generation ain't no good. What I'm speakin' of is the greatest mass of 'em. They ain't healthy either. Why, when I was comin' along people was healthy and portly lookin'. Why, look at me. I ain't never had but two spells of sickness and I ain't never had the headache. The only thing—I broke these three fingers. Hit a mule in the head. Killed him too.

"Yes'm, that was in slavery times. Why, they passed a law in Raleigh, North Carolina for me never to hit a man with my fist. That was when I was sold at one thousand nine hundred dollars.

"Ever' time they'd make me mad I'd run off in the woods.

"But they sure was good to their darkies. Plenty to eat and plenty good clothes. Sam Davis was my owner. And he wouldn't have no rough overseer."



FOLKLORE SUBJECTS Name of interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Subject: Slavery Time Songs Subject: Superstitions Story:—Information [TR: Additional topic moved from subsequent page.]

This information given by: Jim Davis Place of residence: 1112 Indiana Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Occupation: None Age: 98 [TR: Personal information moved from bottom of first page.]

[TR: Some word pronunciation was marked in this interview. Letters surrounded by [] represent long vowels.]

"I used to be a banjo picker in Civil War times. I could pick a church song just as good as I could a reel.

"Some of 'em I used to pick was 'Amazing Grace', 'Old Dan Tucker,' Used to pick one went like this

'Farewell, farewell, sweet Mary; I'm ruined forever By lovin' of you; Your parents don't like me, That I do know I am not worthy to enter your d[o].'

I used to pick

'Dark was the night Cold was the ground On which the Lord might lay.'

I could pick anything.

'Amazing grace How sweet it sounds To save a wretch like me.'

'Go preach my Gospel Says the Lord, Bid this whole earth My grace receive; Oh trust my word Ye shall be saved.'

I used to talk that on my banjo just like I talked it there."

Superstitions

"Oh, yes ma'am, I believe in all the old signs.

"You can take a rabbit foot and a black cat's bone from the left fore shoulder, and you take your mouth and scrape all the meat offin that bone, and you take that bone and sew it up in a red flannel—I know what I'm talkin' 'bout now—and you tote that in your pocket night and day—sleep with it—and it brings you good luck. But the last one I had got burnt up when my house burnt down and I been goin' back ever since.

"And these here frizzly chicken are good luck. If you have a black frizzly chicken and anybody put any poison or anything down in your yard, they'll scratch it up."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Jeff Davis 1100 Texas Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 85 [May 31 1938]

"What's my name? I got a good name. Name's Jeff Davis. Miss Mary Vinson was some of my white folks.

"Oh Lord yes, I was here in slavery times—runnin' around like you are—ten years old. I'm eighty-five even.

"Soldiers used to give me dimes and quarters. Blue coats was what they called 'em. And the Rebs was Gray.

"Yankees had a gun as long as from here to there. Had cannon-balls weighed a hundred and forty-four pounds.

"I'm a musician—played the fife. Played it to a T. Had two kinds of drums. Had different kinds of brass horns too. I 'member one time they was a fellow thought he could beat the drum till I took it.

"Had plenty to eat. Old master fed us plenty.

"Oh, I used to do a heap of work in a day.

"I was 'bout ten when freedom come. Yes ma'am."



Interviewer: Watt McKinney Person interviewed: Jeff Davis R.F.D. five miles south, Marvell, Arkansas Age: 78

"I'se now seventy-eight year old an' gwine on seventy-nine. I was borned in de Tennessee Valley not far from Huntsville, Alabama. Right soon atter I was borned my white folks, de Welborns, dey left Alabama an' come right here to Phillips County, Arkansas, an' brung all the darkies with 'em, an' that's how come me here till dis very day. I is been here all de time since then an' been makin' crops er cotton an' corn every since I been old enough. I is seen good times an' hard times, Boss, all endurin' of those years followin' de War, but de worst times I is ever seen hab been de last several years since de panic struck.

"How-some-ever I is got 'long first rate I reckon 'cause you know I owns my own place here of erbout eighty acres an' has my own meat an' all such like. I really ain't suffered any for nothin'. Still they has been times when I ain't had nary a cent an' couldn't get my hands on a dime, but I is made it out somehow. Us old darkies what come up with de country, an' was de fust one here, us cleared up de land when there wasn't nothin' here much, an' built de log houses, an' had to git 'long on just what us could raise on de land an' so on. Couldn't mind a panic bad as de young folks what is growed up in de last ginnyration.

"You see, I was borned just three years before de darkies was sot free. An' course I can't riccolect nothin' 'bout de slavery days myself but my mammy, she used to tell us chillun 'bout dem times.

"Like I first said, us belonged to de Welborns an' dey was powerful loyal to de Souf an' er heap of de young ones fit in de army, an' dey sont corn an' cows an' hogs an' all sich like supplies to de army in Tennessee an' Georgia. Dat's what my mammy tole me an' I know dey done dem things, an' dey crazy 'bout Mr. Jefferson Davis, de fust an' only President of de Confedracy, an' dat's how come me got dis name I got. Yas suh, dat is how come me named 'Jeff Davis.' An' I always has been proud of my name, 'cause dat was a sure great one what I is named after.

"My pappy was a white man, dat's what my mammy allus told me. I knows he bound to been 'cause I is too bright to not have no white blood in me. My mammy, she named 'Mary Welborn'. She say dat my pappy was a white man name 'Bill Ward' what lived back in Alabama. Dat's all my mammy ever told me about my pappy. She never say iffen he work for de Welborns er no, er iffen he was an overseer er what. I don't know nothin' 'bout him scusin' dat he er white man an' he named 'Bill Ward'. My steppappy, he was name John Sanders, an' he married my mammy when I 'bout four year old, an' dat was atter de slaves taken outen dey bondage.

"My steppappy, he was a fine carpenter an' could do most anything dat he want to do with an axe or any kind of a tool dat you work in wood with. I riccolect dat he made a heap of de culberts for de railroad what was built through Marvell from Helena to Clarendon. He made dem culberts outen logs what would be split half in two. Then he would hew out de two halves what he done split open like dey used to make a dug-out boat. Dey would put dem two halves together like a big pipe under de tracks for de water to run through.

"There was several white mens dat I knowed in dis part of de county what raised nigger famblys, but there wasn't so many at dat. I will say this for them mens though. Whilst it wasn't right for dem to do like dat, dem what did have 'em a nigger woman what dey had chillun by sure took care of de whole gang. I riccolect one white man in particular, an' I knows you is heered of him too. How-some-ever, I won't call no names. He lived down on de ribber on de island. Dis white man, he was a overseer for a widder woman what lived in Helena an' what owned de big place dat dis man oberseer was on. Dis white man, he hab him dis nigger woman for de longest. She have five chillun by him, three boys an' two gals.

"After a while dis man, he got him a place up close to Marvell where he moved to. He brought his nigger fambly with him. He built dem a good house on his farm where he kept them. He give dat woman an' dem chillun dey livin' till de chillun done grown an' de woman she dead. Then he married him a nice white woman after he moved close to Marvell. He built him a house in town where his white wife live an' she de mammy of a heap of chillun too by dis same man. So dis man, he had a white fambly an' a half nigger fambly before. De most of de chillun of dis man is livin' in this county right now.

"Yas suh, Boss, I is sure 'nough growed up with dis here county. In my young days most all de west end of this county was in de woods. There wasn't no ditches or no improvements at all. De houses an' barns was most all made of logs, but I is gwine to tell you one thing, de niggers an' de white folks, dey get erlong more better together then dan dey does at dis time. De white folks then an' de darkies, dey just had more confidence in each other seems like in dem days. I don't know how 'twas in de other states after de War, but right here in Phillips County de white folks, dey encouraged de darkies to buy 'em a home. Dey helped dem to git it. Dey sure done dat. Mr. Marve Carruth, dat was really a good white man. He helped me to get dis very place here dat I is owned for fifty years. An' then I tell you dis too, Boss, when I was coming up, de folks, dey just worked harder dan dey do these days. A good hand then naturally did just about three er four times as much work in a day as dey do now. Seems like dis young bunch awful no 'count er bustin' up and down de road day and night in de cars, er burnin' de gasoline when dey orter be studyin' 'bout makin' er livin' an' gettin' demselves er home.

"Yas suh, I riccolect all 'bout de time dat de niggers holdin' de jobs in de courthouse in Helena, but I is never took no part in that votin' business an' I allus kept out of dem arguments. I left it up to de white folks to 'tend to de 'lectin' of officers.

"De darkies what was in de courthouse dat I riccolect was: Bill Gray, he was one of de clerks; Hense Robinson, Dave Ellison, an' some more dat I don't remember. Bill Gray, he was a eddycated man, but de res', dey was just plain old ex-slave darkies an' didn't know nothing. Bill Gray, he used to be de slave of a captain on a steamboat on de ribber. He was sorter servant to he mars on de boat where he stayed all the time. The captain used to let him git some eddycation. Darkies, dey never last long in de courthouse. Dey soon git 'em out.

"I gwine tell you somepin else dat is done changed er lot since I was comin' up. Dat is, de signs what de folks used to believe in dey don't believe in no more. Yet de same signs is still here, an' I sure does believe in 'em 'cause I done seen 'em work for all dese years. De Lawd give de peoples a sign for all things. De moon an' de stars, dey is a sign for all them what can read 'em an' tells you when to plant de cotton an' de taters an' all your crops. De screech owls, dey give er warnin' dat some one gwine to die. About de best sign dat some person gwine die 'round close is for a cow to git to lowin' an' a lowin' constant in de middle of de night. Dat is a sign I hardly is ever seen fail an' I seen it work out just a few weeks ago when old Aunt Dinah died up de road. I heered dat cow a lowin' an' a lowin' an' a walkin' back an' forth down de road for 'bout four nights in a row, right past Aunt Dinah's cabin. I say to my old woman dat somepin is sure gwine to take place, an' dat some pusson gwine die soon cause dat cow, she givin' de sign just right. Dere wasn't nobody 'round sick a tall an' Aunt Dinah, she plumb well at de time. About er week from then Aunt Dinah, she took down an' start to sinkin' right off an' in less than a week she died. I knowed some pusson gwine die all right, yet an' still I didn't know who it was to be. I tell you, Boss, I is gittin' uneasy an' troubled de last day or two, 'cause I is done heered another cow a lowin' an' a lowin' in de middle of de night. She keeps a walkin' back an' forth past my house out there in de road. I is really troubled 'cause me an' de old woman both is gittin' old. We is both way up in years an' whilst both of us is in real good health, Aunt Dinah was too. Dat cow a lowin' like she do is a bad sign dat I done noticed mighty nigh allus comes true."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Jordan Davis 306 Cypress Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 86

"I was a boy in the house when the war started and I heard the mistress say the abolitionists was about to take the South. Yes ma'm. That was in Natchez, Mississippi. I was about nine or ten.

"Mistress' name was Eliza A. Hart and master's name was Dave A. Hart.

"I guess they was good to me. I lived right there in the house with then. Mistress used to send me to Sunday School and she'd say 'Now, Jordan, you come right on back to the house, don't you go playin' with them nigger chillun on the streets.'

"My daddy belonged to a man named Davis way down the river in the country and after the war he came and got me. Sure did. Carried me to Davis Bend. I was a good-sized boy about twelve or fifteen. He took me to Mrs. Leas Hamer and you know I was a good-sized boy when she put me in the kitchen and taught me how to cook. Yes'm, I sure can cook. She kept me right in the house with her children. I did her cooking and cleaned up the house. I never got any money for it, or if I did I done forgot all about it. She kept me in clothes, she sure did. I didn't need any money. I stayed five or six years with her, sure did. I thought a lot of her and her children—she was so kind to me.

"Yes ma'm, I went to school one or two years in Mississippi.

"When I come here to Arkansas on the steamboat and got off right here in Pine Bluff, there was a white man standin' there named Burks. He kept lookin' at me and directly he said 'Can you cook?' I was married then and had all my household goods with me, so he got a dray and carried me out to his house. His wife kept a first-class boarding house. Just first-class white folks stayed there. After the madam found out I had a good idea 'bout cookin' she put me in the dining room and turned things over to me.

"Miss, it's been so long, I don't study 'bout that votin' business. I have never bothered 'bout no Republican or votin' business—I never cared about it. I know one thing, the white people are the only ones ever did me any good.

"Mrs. J.B. Talbot has been very good to me. My wife used to work for her and so did I. She sure has been a friend to me. Mrs. J.B. Talbot has certainly stuck to me.

"Oh I think the colored folks ought to be free but I know some of 'em had a mighty tight time of it after the war and now too.

"Ain't nothin' to this here younger generation. I see 'em goin' down the street singin' and dancin' and half naked—ain't nothin' to 'em.

"My wife's been dead five or six years and I live here alone. Yes ma'm! I don't want nobody here with me."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Mary Jane Drucilla Davis 1612 W. Barraque, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 73

"'Little baby's gone to heaven To try on his robe Oh, Lord, I'm most done toiling here Little baby, m-m-m-m-m-m.'

"Oh, it was so mournful. And let me tell you what they'd do. They'd all march one behind the other and somebody would carry the baby's casket on their shoulder and sing that song. That's the first song I remember. I was three years old and now I'm seventy-three and crippled up with rheumatism.

"My mother had a garden and they went 'round that way to the graveyard and I thought they was buryin' it in the garden. That was in Georgia.

"In the old days when people died they used to sit up and pray all night, but they don't do that now.

"I was married young. I don't love to tell how old but I was fifteen and when I was seventeen I was a widow. I tried and tried to get another husband as good as my first one but I couldn't. I didn't marry then till I was thirty some.

"My parents brought me from Georgia when I was five years old and now I ain't got no blood kin in Pine Bluff.

"Do I believe in signs? Well, let me tell you what I do know. Before my house burned in 1937, I was sittin' on my porch, and my mother and sister come up to my house. They come a distance to the steps and went around the house. They was both dead but I could see 'em just as plain. And do you know in about two or three weeks my house burned. I think that vision was a sign of bad luck.

"And another time when I was havin' water put in my house, I dreamed that my sister who was dead told a friend of mine to tell me not to sign a contract and I didn't know there was a contract. And that next day a man come out for me to sign a contract and I said, 'No.' He wanted to know why and finally I told him, and he said, 'You're just like my mother.' It was two days 'fore I'd sign. The men had quit work waitin' for me to sign. But let me tell you when they put the water in and when they'd flush the pipes my tub overflowed. The ground was too low and I never could use the commode. Now don't you think that dream was a warning?

"Just before I had this spell of sickness I dreamed my baby—he's dead—come and knocked and said. 'Mama.' And I said, 'Yes, darlin', God bless your heart, you done been here three times and this time mama's comin'. I really thought I was goin' to die. I got up and looked in the glass. You know you can see death in the eyes, but I didn't see any sign of death and I haven't gone yet.

"Last Saturday I was prayin' to God not to let me get out of the heart of the people. You see, I have no kin people and I wanted people to come to my rescue. The next day was Sunday and more people come to see me and brought me more things.

"I been in the church fifty-seven years. I'm the oldest member in St. John's. I joined in May 1881.

"I went to school some. I went as far as the fourth grade."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Minerva Davis, Biscoe, Arkansas Age: 56

"My father was sold in Richmond, Virginia when he was eighteen years old to the nigger traders. They had nigger traders and cloth peddlers and horse traders all over the country coming by every few weeks. Papa said he traveled to Tennessee. His job was to wash their faces and hands and fix their hair—comb and cut and braid their hair and dress them to be auctioned off. They sold a lot of children from Virginia all along the way and he was put up in Tennessee and auctioned off. He was sold to the highest bidder. Bill Thomas at Brownsville, Tennessee was the one bought him. Papa was a large strong man.

"He run off and went to war. He had learned to cook and he was one-eyed and couldn't fight. All the endurin' time he cooked at the camps. Then he run off from war when he got a chance before he was mustered out and he never got a pension because of that. He said he come home pretty often and mama was expecting a baby. He thought he was needed at home worse. He was so tired of war. He didn't know it would be valuable to him in his old days. He was sorry he didn't stay till they got him mustered out. He said it was harder in the war than in slavery. They was putting up tents and moving all the time and he be scared purt nigh to death all the time. Never did know when they would be shot and killed.

"Mama said the way they bought grandma was at a well. A drove of folks come by. It was the nigger traders. She had pulled up her two or three buckets. She carried one bucket on her head and one in each hand. They said, 'Draw me up some water to drink.' She was so smart they bragged on her. They said, 'She such a smart little thing.' They went to see her owner and bought her on the spot. They took her away from her people and she never heard tell of none of them no more. She said there was a big family of them. They brought her to Brownsville, Tennessee and Johnny Williams bought her. That was my grandma.

"Mother was born there on Johnny Williams' place and she was heired by his daughter. His daughter married Bill Thomas, the one what done bought my papa. Her young mistress was named Sallie Ann Thomas. Mama got married when she was about grown. She said after she married she'd have a baby about the same time her young mistress had one. Mama had twelve children and raised eleven to be grown. Four of us are living yet. My sister was married when I was born. White folks married young and encouraged their slaves to so they have time to raise big families. Mama died when I was a year old but papa lived on with Johnny Williams where he was when she died. I lived with my married sister. I was the baby and she took me and raised me with her children.

"The Ku Klux wanted to whoop my papa. They all called him Dan. They said he was mean. His white folks protected him. They said he worked well. They wouldn't let him be whooped by them Ku Kluxes.

"Miss Sallie Ann was visiting and she had mama along to see after the children and to help the cook where she visited. They was there a right smart while from the way papa said. The pattyrollers whooped somebody on that farm while she was over there. They wasn't many slaves on her place and they was good to them. That whooping was right smart a curiosity to mama the way papa told us about it.

"When mama and papa married, Johnny Williams had a white preacher to read out of a book to them. They didn't jump over no broom he said.

"They was the biggest kind of Methodist folks and when mama was five years old Johnny Williams had all his slaves baptized into that church by his own white preacher. Papa said some of them didn't believe niggers had no soul but Johnny Williams said they did. (The Negroes must have been christened—ed.)

"Papa said folks coming through the country would tell them about freedom. Mama was working for Miss Sallie Ann and done something wrong. Miss Sallie Ann says, 'I'm a good mind to whoop you. You ain't paying 'tention to a thing you is doing the last week.' Mama says, 'Miss Sallie Ann, we is free; you ain't never got no right to whoop me no more care what I do.' When Bill come home he say, 'How come you to sass my wife? She so good to you.' Mama say, 'Master Bill, them soldiers say I'm free.' He slapped her. That the first time he laid hands on her in his life. In a few days he said, 'We going to town and see is you free. You leave the baby with Sallie Ann.' It was the courthouse. They questioned her and him both. Seemed like he couldn't understand how freedom was to be and mama didn't neither. Then papa took mama on Johnny Williams' place. He come out to Arkansas and picked cotton after freedom and then he moved his children all out here.

"Uncle Albert and grandpa take nights about going out. Uncle Albert was courting.

"They put potatoes on fire to cook when next morning they would be warm ready to eat. The fire popped out on mama. She was in a light blaze. Not a bit of water in the house. Her sisters and brothers peed (urinated) on her to put out the fire. Her stomach was burned and scarred. They was all disappointed because they thought she would be a good breeder. Miss Sallie Ann took her and cured her and when Miss Sallie Ann was going to marry, her folks didn't want to give her Minerva. She tended (contended) out and got her and Agnes both. Agnes died at about emancipation.

"I'm named for my mother. I'm her youngest child.

"I recollect my grandmother and what she told, and papa's mind went back to olden times the older he got to be. When folks would run down slavery he would say it wasn't so bad with them—him and mama. He never seen times bad as times is got to be now. Then he sure would wanted slavery back some more. He was a strong hard laboring man. He was a provider for his family till he got so no 'count.

"Times is changing up fast. Folks is worse about cutting up and carousing than they was thirty years ago to my own knowledge. I ain't old so speaking."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Rosetta Davis, Marianna, Arkansas Age: 55

"I was born in Phillips County, Arkansas. My folks' master was named Dr. Jack Spivy. Grandma belong to him. She was a field woman. I don't know if he was a good master er not. They didn't know it was freedom till three or four months. They was at work and some man come along and said he was going home, the War was over. Some of the hands asked him who win and he told them the Yankees and told them they was free fer as he knowed. They got to inquiring and found out they done been free. They made that crap I know and I don't recollect nothing else.

"I farmed at Foreman, Arkansas for Taylor Price, Steve Pierce, John Huey. I made a crap here with Will Dale. I come to Arkansas twenty-nine years ago. I come to my son. He had a cleaning and pressing shop here (Marianna). He died. I hired to the city to work on the streets. I never been in jail. I owned a house here in town till me and my wife separated. She caused me to lose it. I was married once.

"I get ten dollars a month from the gover'ment.

"The present time is queer. I guess I could git work if I was able to do it. I believe in saving some of what you make along. I saved some along and things come up so I had to spend it. I made so little.

"Education has brought about a heap of unrest somehow. Education is good fer some folks and not good fer some. Some folks git spoilt and lazy. I think it helped to do it to the people of today."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Virginia (Jennie) Davis Scott Street, Forrest City, Arkansas Age: 45 or 47

"This is what my father, Isaac Johnson, always told us:

'I was born in Raleigh, North Carolina. Mama died and left three of us children and my papa. He was a blacksmith.' I don't recollect grandpa's name now.

'A man come to buy me. I was a twin. My sisters cried and cried but I didn't cry. I wanted to ride in the surrey. I was sold and taken to Montgomery, Alabama.'

"Angeline was his oldest sister and Emmaline was his twin sister. He never seen any of his people again. He forgot their names. His old master that bought him died soon after he come back from North Carolina.

"His young master didn't even know his age. He tried to get in the army and he did get in the navy. They said he was younger than he told his age. He enlisted for three years. He was in a scrimmage with the Indians once and got wounded. He got twenty dollars then fifty dollars for his services till he died.

"He wasn't old enough to be in the Civil War. He said he remembered his mistress crying and they said Lincoln was to sign a freedom treaty. His young master told him he was free. The colored folks was having a jubilee. He had nowheres to go. He went back to the big house and sot around. They called him to eat, and he went on sleeping where he been sleeping. He had nowheres to go. He stayed there till he joined the navy. Then he come to Mississippi and married Sallie Bratcher and he went back to Alabama and taught school. He went to school at night after the Civil War till he went to the navy. He was a light-brown skin.

"Grandma, Jane Cash, was one brought from Huntingdon, Tennessee in a gang and sold at auction in Memphis, Tennessee. She said her mother, father, the baby, her brother and two sisters and herself was sold, divided out and separated. Grandma said one of her sisters had a suckling baby. She couldn't keep it from crying. They stopped and made her give it away.

"Then grandma fell in the hands of the Walls at Holly Springs, Mississippi. She was a good breeder, so she didn't have to work so hard. They wouldn't let her work when she was pregnant.

"Mrs. Walls buried her silver in the front yard. She had an old trusty colored man to dig a hole and bury it. No one ever found it. The soldiers took their meat and let the molasses run out on the ground. They ransacked her house. Mr. Walls wasn't there.

"My auntie, Eliza Williamson, was half white. She was one of her master's son's children. Her first master put her and her husband together. She lives near Conway, Arkansas now and is very old.