"I taught school out here at Blackton and Moro and in Prairie County about. I got tired of it. I married and settled down.

"We owns my home here. My husband was a railroad man. We lives by the hardest.

"I don't know what becoming of the young generation. They shuns the field work. Times is faster than I ever seen them. I liked the way times was before that last war (World War). Reckon when will they get back like that?"



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Henry C. Pettus, Marianna, Arkansas Age: 80

"I was born in Wilkes County, near Washington, Georgia. My mother's owners was Dr. Palmer and Sarah Palmer. They had three boys; Steve, George, and Johnie. They lived in Washington and the farm I lived on was five miles southeast of town. It was fifty miles from Augusta, Georgia. He had another farm on the Augusta Road. He had a white man overseer. His name was Tom Newsom and his nephew, Jimmie Newsom, helped. He was pretty smooth most of the time. He got rough sometimes. Tom's wife was named Susie Newsom.

"Dick Gilbert had a place over back of ours. They sent things to the still at Dick Gilbert's. Sent peaches and apples and surplus corn. The still was across the hill from Dr. Palmer's farm. He didn't seem to drink much but the boys did. All three did. Dr. Palmer died in 1861. People kept brandy and whiskey in a closet and some had fancy bottles they kept, one brandy, one whiskey, on their mantel. Some owners passed drinks around like on Sunday morning. Dr. Palmer didn't do that but it was done on some places before the Civil War. It wasn't against the law to make spirits for their own use. That is the way it was made. Meal and flour was made the same way then.

"Mother lived in Dr. Palmer's office in Warren County. It was a very nice log house and had a fence to make the front on the road and the back enclosed like. Inside the fence was a tanyard and house at some distance and a very nice log house where Mr. Hudson lived. Dr. Palmer and Mr. Hudson had that place together. The shoemaker lived in Washington in Dr. Palmer's back yard. He had his office and home all in the same. Mr. Anthony made all the shoes for Dr. Palmer's slaves and for white folks in town. He made fine nice shoes. He was considered a high class shoemaker.

"Mother was a field hand. She wasn't real black. My father never did do much. He was a sort of a foreman. He rode around. He was lighter than I am. He was old man Pettus' son. Old man Pettus had a great big farm—land! land! land! Wiley and Milton Roberts had farms between Dr. Palmer and old man Pettus' farm. Mother originally belong to old man Pettus. He give Miss Sarah Palmer her place on the Augusta Road and his son the place on which his own home was. They was his white children. He had two. Mother was hired by her young mistress, Dr. Palmer's wife, Miss Sarah. Father rode around, upheld by the old man Pettus. He never worked hard. I don't know if old man Pettus raised grandma or not; he never grandpa. He was a Terral. He died when I was small. Grandpa was a field hand. He was the only colored man on the place allowed to have a dog. He was Dr. Palmer's stock man. They raised their own stock; sheep, goats, cows, hogs, mules, and horses.

"None of us was ever sold that I know of. Mother had three boys and three girls. One sister died in infancy. One sister was married and remained in Georgia. Two of my brothers and one sister come to Arkansas. Mother brought us boys to a new country. Father got shot and died from the womb. He was a captain in the war. He was shot accidentally. Some of them was drinking and pranking with the guns. We lived on at Dr. Palmer's place till 1866. That was our first year in Arkansas. That was nearly two years. We never was abused. My early life was very favorable.

"The quarters was houses built on each side of the road. Some set off in the field. They must have had stock law. We had pastures. The houses was joining the pasture. Mr. Pope had a sawmill on his place. The saw run perpendicularly up and down. He had a grist mill there too. I like to go to mill. It was dangerous for young boys. Mr. Pope's farm joined us on one side. Oxen was used as team for heavy loads. Such a contrast in less than a century as trucks are in use now. I learned about oxen. They didn't go fast 'ceptin' when they ran away. They would run at the sight of water in hot weather. They was dangerous if they saw the river and had to go down a steep bank, load or no load the way they went. If it was shallow they would wade but if it was deep they would swim unless the load was heavy enough to pull them down. Oxen was interesting to me always.

"Children didn't stay in town like they do now. They was left to think more for themselves. They hardly ever got to go to town.

"We raised a pet pig. Nearly every year we raised a pet pig. When mother would be out that pig would get my supper in spite of all I could do. The pig was nearly as large as I was. I couldn't do anything. We had a watermelon patch and sometimes sold Dr. Palmer melons. He let us have a melon patch and a cotton patch our own to work. Mother worked in moonlight and at odd times. They give that to her extra. We helped her work it. They give old people potato patches and let the children have goober rows. Land was plentiful. Dr. Palmer wasn't stingy with his slaves—very liberal. He was a man willing to live and let live so far as I can know of him.

"During the Civil War things was quiet like where I was. The soldiers didn't come through till after the war was over. Then the Union soldiers took Washington. They come there after the surrender.

Freedom

"The Union soldiers came in a gang out from Washington all over the surrounding country, scouting about, and notified all the black folks of freedom. My folks made arrangements to stay on. Two colored men went through the country getting folks to move to southwest Georgia but before mother decided to move anywhere along come two men and they had a helper, Mr. Allen. It was Mr. William H. Wood and Mr. Peters over here on Cat Island. They worked from Washington, Georgia. We consented to leave and come to Arkansas. We started and went to Barnetts station to Augusta, to Atlanta. There was so many tracks out of order, bridges been burnt. We crossed the river at Chattanooga, then to Nashville, then to Johnsonville. We took a boat to Cairo, then to Memphis, then on to some landing out here. Well, I never heard. We went to the Woods' place and made a crop here in Arkansas in 1866. I worked with John I. Foreman till 1870 and went back to the Woods' farm till 1880. Then I went to the Bush place (now McCullough farm). I farmed all along through life till the last twelve years. I started preaching in 1875. I preach yet occasionally. I preached here thirty-six years in the Marianna Baptist church. I quit last year. My health broke down.

"Chills was my worst worry in these swamps. We made fine crops. In 1875 yellow fever come on. Black folks didn't have yellow fever at first but they later come to have it. Some died of it. White folks had died in piles. It was hard times for some reason then. It was hard to get something to eat. We couldn't get nothing from Memphis. Arrangements was made to get supplies from St. Louis to Little Rock and we could go get them and send boats out here.

"In 1875 was the tightest, hardest time in all my life, A chew of tobacco cost ten cents. In 1894-'95 hard times struck me again. Cotton was four and five cents a pound, flour three dollars a barrel, and meat four and five cents a pound. We raised so much of our meat that didn't make much difference. Money was so scarce.

"Ku Klux—I never was in the midst of them. They was pretty bad in Georgia and in northeast part of this county. They was bad so I heard. They sent for troops at Helena to settle things up at about Marion, Arkansas now. I heard more of the Ku Klux in Georgia than I heard after we come here. And as time went on and law was organized the Ku Klux disbanded everywhere.

"Traveling conditions was bad when we came to Arkansas. We rode in box cars, shabby passenger coaches. The boats was the best riding. As I told you we went way around on account of burnt out and torn up bridges. The South looked shabby.

"I haven't voted since 1927 except I voted in favor of the Cotton Control Saturday before last.

"Times has come up to a most deplorable condition. Craving exists. Ungratefulness. People want more than they can make. Some don't work hard and some won't work at all. I don't know how to improve conditions except by work except economical living. Some would work if they could. Some can work but won't. Some do work hard. I believe in bread by the sweat of the brow, and all work.

"The slaves didn't expect anything. They didn't expect war. It was going on a while before my parents heard of it. I was a little boy. They didn't know what it was for except their freedom. They didn't know what freedom was. They couldn't read. They never seen a newspaper like I take the Commercial Appeal now. I went to school a little in Arkansas. My father being old man Pettus' son as he was may have been given something by Miss Sarah or Dr. Palmer or by his white son, but the old man was dead and I doubt that. Father was killed and mother left. Mother knew she had a home on Dr. Palmer's land as long as she needed one but she left to do better. In some ways we have done better but it was hard to live in these bottoms. It is a fine country now.

"I own eighty acres of land and this house. (Good house and furnished well.) We made six bales of cotton last year. My son lives here and his wife—a Chicago reared mulatto, a cook. He runs my farm. I live very well."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Dolly Phillips, Clarendon, Arkansas Age: 67

"I ain't no ex-slave. I am 67 years old. I was born out here on the Mullins place. My mother's master was Mr. Ricks and Miss Emma Ricks.

"My mother named Diana and my father Henry Mullins. I never saw my grand fathers and I seen one grandma I remembers. My mother had ten children. My father said he never owned nuthin' in his life but six horses. When they was freed they got off to their selves and started farming. See they belong to different folks. My father's master was a captain of a mixed regiment. They was in the war four years. I heard 'em say they went to Galveston, Texas. The Yankees was after 'em. But I don't know how it was.

"I heard 'em say they put their heads under big black pot to pray. They say sing easy, pray easy. I forgot whut all she say.

"I lives wid my daughter. I gets commodities from the Welfare some. The young folks drinks a heap now. It look lack a waste of money to me."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person Interviewed: Tony Piggy Brinkley, Ark. Age: 75

"I was born near Selma, Alabama, but I was raised in Mississippi. My grandpa was sold from South Carolina to Moster Alexander Piggy. He didn't talk plain but my papa didn't nother. Moster Piggy bought a gang of black folks in South Carolina and brought em into the state of Alabama. My papa was mighty near full-blood African, I'll tell you. Now ma was mixed.

"I'm most too young to recollect the war. Right after the war we had small pox. My uncle died and there was seven children had em at one time. The bushwhackers come in and kicked us around—kicked my uncle around. We lived at Union Town, Alabama then.

"Aunt Connie used to whip us. Mama had no time; she was a chambermaid (housewoman). The only thing I recollect bout slavery time to tell is Old Mistress pour out a bushell of penders (peanuts) on the grass to see us pick em up and set out eating em. When they went to town they would bring back things like cheese good to eat. We got some of what they had most generally. She wasn't so good; she whoop me with a cow whip. She'd make pull candy for us too. I got a right smart of raisin' in a way but I growed up to be a wild young man. I been converted since then.

"Well, one day pa come to our house and told mama, 'We free, don't have to go to the house no more, git ready, we all goin' to Mississippi. Moster Piggy goiner go. He goner rent us twenty acres and we goner take two cows and a mule.' We was all happy to be free and goin' off somewhere. Moster Piggy bought land in Mississippi and put families renters on it. Moster Piggy was rough on the grown folks but good to the children. The work didn't let up. We railly had more clearin' and fences to make. His place in Alabama was pore and that was new ground.

"There was all toll nine children in my family. Ma was named Matty Piggy. Papa was named Ezra Piggy. Moster Alexander Piggy's wife named Harriett. I knowed Ed, Charley, Bowls, Ells, and Liza. That's all I ever knowd.

"I have done so many things. I run on a steamboat from Cairo to New Orleans—Kate Adams and May F. Carter. They called me a Rouster—that means a working man. I run on a boat from Newport to Memphis. Then I farmed, done track work on the railroad, and farmed some more.

"The young generation ain't got respect for old people and they tryin' to live without work. I ain't got no fault to find with the times if I was bout forty years younger than I is now I could work right ahead."



Interviewer: Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Ella Pittman 2409 West Eleventh Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 84

"Yes ma'm, I was born in slavery days. I tell you I never had no name. My old master named me—Just called me 'Puss? and said I could name myself when I got big enough.

"My old master was named Mac Williams. But where I got free at was at Stricklands. Mac Williams' daughter married a Strickland and she drawed me. She was tollable good to me but her husband wa'nt.

"In slavery times I cleaned up the house and worked in the house. I worked in the field a little but she kept me busy in the house. I was busy night and day.

"No ma'm, I never did go to school—never did go to school.

"After I got grown I worked in the farm. When I wasn't farmin' I was doin' other kinds of work. I used to cut and sew and knit and crochet. I stayed around the white folks so much they learned me to do all kinds of work. I never did buy my children any stockins—I knit 'em myself.

"After old Master died old Miss hired us out to Ben Deans, but he was so cruel mama run away and went back to old Miss. I know we stayed at Ben Deans till they was layin the crop by and I think he whipped mama that morning so she run away.

"Yes ma'm, I sho do member bout the Klu Klux—sho do. They looked dreadful—nearly scare you to death. The Klu Klux was bad, and the paddyrollers too.

"I can't think of nothin' much to tell you now but I know all about slavery. They used to build 'little hell', made something like a barbecue pit and when the niggers didn't do like they wanted they'd lay him over that 'little hell'.

"I've done ever kind of work—maulin rails, clearin up new ground. They was just one kind of work I didn't do and that was workin' with a grubbin' hoe. I tell you I just worked myself to death till now I ain't able to do nothin'."

Interviewer's Comment

Ella Pittman's son, Almira Pittman was present when I interviewed his mother. He was born in 1884. He added this information to what Ella told me:

"She is the mother of nine children—three living. I use to hear mama tell about how they did in slavery times. If she could hear good now she could map it out to you."

I asked him why he didn't teach his mother to read and write and he said, "Well, I tell you, mama is high strung. She didn't have no real name till she went to Louisiana."

These people live in a well-furnished home. The living room had a rug, overstuffed furniture and an organ. Ella was clean.



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Ella Pittman 2417 W. Eleventh Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 84 [TR: Appears to be same as last informant despite different address.]

"Here's one that lived then. I can remember fore the Civil War started. That was in the State of North Carolina where I was bred and born in March 1853. Mac Williams, he was my first owner and John Strickland was my last owner. That was durin' of the war. My white folks told me I was thirteen when peace was declared. They told me in April if I make no mistake. That was in North Carolina. I grewed up there and found my childun there. That is—seven of them. And then I found two since I been down in here. I been in Arkansas about forty years.

"When the war come I heard em say they was after freein' the people.

"My mother worked in the field and old mistress kep' me in the house. She married a widow-man and he had four childun and then she had one so there was plenty for me to do. Yes ma'm!

"I ain't never been to school a day in my life. They didn't try to send me after freedom. I had a very, very bad, cruel stepfather and he sent all his childun to school but wouldn't send me. I stayed there till I was grown. I sho did. Then I married. Been married just once. Never had but that one man in my life. He was a very good man, too. Cose he was a poor man but he was good to me.

"Yes ma'm, I sho did see the Ku Klux and the paddyrollers, too. They done em bad I tell you.

"I know they was a white man they called Old Man Ford. He dug a pit just like a barbecue pit, and he would burn coals just like you was goin' to barbecue. Then he put sticks across the top and when any of his niggers didn't do right, he laid em across that pit. I member they called it Old Ford's Hell.

"I had a bad time fore freedom and a bad time after freedom till after I married. I'm doin' tollably well now. I lives with my son and his wife and she treats me very well. I can't live alone cause I'se subject to inagestin' and I takes sick right sudden.

"I'm just as thankful as I can be that I'm gettin' along as well as I is.

"I stayed in the North in Detroit one year. I liked it very well. I liked the white people very well. They was so sociable. My son lives there and works for Henry Ford. My oldest son stays in Indiana.

"It was so cold I come back down here. I'se gettin' old and I needs to be warm. Good-bye."



Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Sarah Pittman 1320 W. Twentieth Street, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: About 82

"I never saw nothing between white folks and colored folks. My white folks were good to us. My daddy's white folks were named Jordan—Jim Jordan—and my mama's folks were Jim Underwood. And they were good. My mama's and father's folks both were good to the colored folks. As the song goes, 'I can tell it everywhere I go.' And thank the Lord, I'm here to tell it too. I raised children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren you see there. That is my great-grandson playing there. He is having the time of his life. I raised him right too. You see how good he minds me. He better not do nothin' different. He's about two years old.

"I was born in Union Parish, Louisiana way up yonder in them hills, me and my folks, and they come down here.

"Jim Jordan married one of the Taylor girls—Jim Taylor's daughter. The old folks gave mama to them to do their housework. My father and mama didn't belong to the same masters. He died the first year of the surrender. He was a wonderful man. He was a Jackson. On Saturday night he would stay with us till Sunday. On Sunday night he would go home. He would play with us. Now he and mama both are dead. They are gone home and I am waiting to go. They're waiting for me in the kingdom there. As the song says, 'I am waiting on the promises of God.'

"My mama did housework in slave time. I don't know what my father did. In them days you done some working from plantation to plantation. Them folks is all gone in now near about. Guess mine will be the next time.

Early Childhood

"First thing I remember is staying at the house. We et at the white folks' house. We would go there in the evening before sundown and git our supper. One time Jim Underwood made me mad. Mama said something he didn't like. And he tied her thumbs together and tied them to a limb. Her feet could touch the ground—they weren't off the ground. He said she could stay there till she thought better of it.

"Before the surrender I didn't do nothing in the line of work 'cept 'tend to my mother's children. I didn't do no work at all 'cept that. My white folks were good to me. All my folks 'cept me are gone. My grandmas and uncles and things all settin' up yonder. All my children what is dead, they're up yonder. I ain't got but three living, and they're on their way. Minnie and Mamie and Annie, that is all I got. Mamie's the youngest and she's got grandchildren.

How Freedom Came

"The way we learned that freedom had come, my uncle come to the fence and told my mama we were free and I went with her. Sure he'd been to the War. He come back with his budget. Don't you know what a budget is? You ain't never been to war, have you? Well, you oughter know what a budget is. That's a knapsack. It had a pocket on each side and a water can on each shoulder. He come home with his budget on his back, and he come to the fence and told mama we was free and I heered him.

Right After Freedom

"Right after freedom my mama and them stayed with the same people they had been with. The rest of the people scattered wherever they wanted to But my uncle come there and got mama. They moved back to the Taylors then where my grandma was. Wouldn't care if I had some of that good old spring water now where my grandma lived!

"None of my people were ever bothered by the pateroles or the Ku Klux.

"We come to Arkansas because we had kinfolks down here. Just picked up and come on. I been here a long time. I don't know how long, I don't keep up with nothing like that. When my husband was living I just followed him. He said that this was a good place and we could make a good living. So I just come on. When he died, those gravediggers dug his grave deep enough to put another man on top of him. But that don't hurt him none. He's settin' in the kingdom. He was a deacon in the church and his word went. The whole plantation would listen to him and do what he said. Everybody respected him because he was right. I was just married once and no man can take his place. He was the first one and the best one and the last one. He was heaven bound and he went on there. I don't know just how long I was married. It is in the Bible. It is in there in big letters. I can't get that right now. It's so big and heavy. But it's in there. I think we left it in Detroit when I was there, and it ain't come back here yet. But I know we lived together a long time.

"I remember the old slave-time songs but I can't think of them just now. 'Come to Jesus' is one of them. 'Where shall I be when the first trumpet sounds?', that's another one. Another one is: 'If I could, I surely would; Set on the rock where Moses stood—first verse or stanza. All of my sins been taken away, taken away—chorus. Mary wept and Martha moaned, Mary's gone to a world unknown—second verse or stanza. All of my sins are taken away, taken away—chorus."

"I don't think nothing 'bout these young folks. When they was turned loose a lot of them went wild and the young folks followed their leaders. But mine followed me and my daddy.

"My grandmother had a big old bay horse and she was midwife for the white and the colored folks. She would put her side saddle on the old horse and get up and go, bless her heart; and me and my cousin had to stay there and take care of things. She's gone now. The Lord left me here for some reason. And I'm enjoyin' it too. I have got my first cussin' to do. I don't like to hear nobody cuss. I belong to the church. I belong to the Baptist church and I go to the Arch Street Church."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Mary Poe, Forrest City, Arkansas Age: 60

"My papa used to tell about two men he knowd stealing a hog. He was Wyatt Alexander. He was feeding one evening and the master was out there too that evening. They overheard two colored men inside the crib lot house. They was looking at the hogs. They planned to come back after dark and get a hog. The way it turned out master dressed up ragged and got inside that night. The first man come. They got a shoat and killed it, knocked it in the head. The master took it on his back to the log cabin. When he knocked, his wife opened the door. She seen who it was. She nearly fell out and when he seen who it was he run off. The master throwed the hog down. They all got the hot water and went to work. He left a third there and took part to the other man. He done gone to bed and he took a third on home. He said he wanted to see if they needed meat or wanted to keep in stealing practice. He didn't want them to waste his big hog meat neither. Said that man never come home for two weeks, 'fraid he'd get a whooping. No, they said he never got a whooping but the meat was near by gone.

"Seem lack hog stealing was common in North Carolina in them days from the way he talked.

"Papa said he went down in the pasture one night to get a shoat. He said they had a fine big drove. He got one knocked over an' was carrying it out across the fence to the field. He seen another man. He couldn't see. It was dark. He throwed the hog over on him. The man took the shoat on to his house and papa was afraid to say much about it. He said way 'long towards day this man come bringing about half of that hog cleaned and ready to salt away. They got up and packed it away out of sight.

"My mother was named Lucy Alexander, too."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: W.L. Pollacks Brinkley, Arkansas Age: 68

"I was born in Shelby County Tennessee. My folks all come from Richmond, Virginia. They come to Kentucky and then on to Tennessee. I am 68 years old. My father's master was Joe Rollacks and Mrs. Chicky they called his wife. My mother's master was Joe Ricks and they all called his wife Miss Fee. I guess it was Pheobe or Josephine but they never called her by them names. Seemed like they was all kin folks. I heard my mother say she dress up in some of the white folks dresses and hitch up the buggy, take dinner and carry two girls nearly grown out to church and to big picnics. She liked that. The servants would set the table and help the white folks plates at the table. Said they had a heap good eating. She had a plenty work to do but she got to take the girls places where the parents didn't want to go. She said they didn't know what to do wid freedom. She said it was like weening a child what never learned to eat yet. I forgot what they did do. She said work was hard to find and money scarce. They find some white folks feed em to do a little work. She said a nickle looked big as a dollar now. They couldn't buy a little bit. They like never get nough money to buy a barrel of flour. It was so high. Seem like she say I was walking when they got a barrel of flour. So many colored folks died right after freedom. They caught consumption. My mother said they was exposed mo than they been used to and mixing up in living quarters too much what caused it. My father voted a Republican ticket. I ain't voted much since I come to Arkansas. I been here 32 years. My farm failed over in Tennessee. I was out lookin' round for farmin' land, lookin' round for good work. I farmed then I worked seven or eight years on the section, then I helped do brick work till now I can't do but a mighty little. I had three children but they all dead. I got sugar dibeates.

"The present times are tough on sick people. It is hard for me to get a living. I find the young folks all for their own selves. If I was well I could get by easy. If a man is strong he can get a little work along.

"The times and young generation both bout to run away wid themselves, and the rest of the folks can't stop em 'pears to me like."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: "Doc" John Pope, Biscoe, Arkansas Age: 87

I am 87 years old for a fact. I was born in De Soto County, Mississippi, eight miles south of Memphis, Tennessee. No I didn't serve in de War but my father Gus Pope did. He served in de War three years and never came home. He served in 63rd Regiment Infantry of de Yankee army. He died right at the surrender. I stayed on de farm till the surrender. We scattered around den. My father was promised $300.00 bounty and 160 acres of land. Dey was promised dat by the Constitution of the United States. Every soldier was promised dat. No he never got nary penny nor nary acre of land. We ain't got nuthin. De masters down in Mississippi did help 'em where they stayed on. I never stayed on. I left soon as de fightin was gone. I was roamin round in Memphis and man asked me if I wanted to go to college. He sent a train load to Fitz (Fisk) University. I stayed there till I graduated. I studied medicine generally. Sandy Odom, the preacher at Brinkley, was there same time as I was. He show is old. He's up in ninety now. He had a brother here till he died. He was a fine doctor. He got more practice around here than any white doctor in this portion of de county. Fitz University was a fine college. It was run by rich folks up north. I don't know how long I stayed there. It was a good while. I went to Isaac Pope, my uncle. He was farming. Briscoe owned the Pope niggers at my first recollection. He brought my uncle and a lot more over here where he owned a heap of dis land. It was all woods. Dats how I come here.

After de Civil War? Dey had to "Root hog or die". From 1860-1870 the times was mighty hard. People rode through the county and killed both white and black. De carpet bagger was bout as bad as de Ku Kluck.

I came here I said wid John Briscoe. They all called him Jack Briscoe, in 1881. I been here ever since cept W.T. Edmonds and P.H. Conn sent me back home to get hands. I wrote 'em how many I had. They wired tickets to Memphis. I fetched 52 families back. I been farmin and practicin all my life put near.

I show do vote. I voted the last time for President Hoover. The first time I voted was at the General Grant election. I am a Republican, because it is handed down to me. That's the party of my race. I ain't going to change. That's my party till I dies. We has our leader what instructs us how to vote.

Dey say dey goiner pay 60 cents a hundred but I ain't able to pick no cotton. No I don't get no help from de relief. I think the pore class of folks in a mighty bad fix. Is what I think. The nigger is hard hit and the pore trash dey call 'em is too. I don't know what de cause is. It's been jess this way ever since I can recollect. No times show ain't one bit better. I owns dis house and dats all. I got one daughter.

I went to Fitz (Fisk) University in 1872. The folks I told you about was there then too. Their names was Dr. E.B. Odom of Biscoe and his brother Sandy Odom. He preaches at Brinkley now. Doc Odom is dead. He served on the Biscoe School Board a long time wid two white men.

I don't know much about the young generation. They done got too smart for me to advise. The young ones is gettin fine educations but it ain't doin 'em no good. Some go north and cook. It don't do the balance of 'em no good. If they got education they don't lack de farm. De sun too hot. No times ain't no better an de nigger ain't no better off en he used to be. A little salary dun run 'em wild.



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: William Porter 1818 Louisiana Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 81 Occupation: Janitor of church

"Yes'm I lived in slavery times. I was born in 1856. I was borned in Tennessee but the most of my life has been in Arkansas.

"I remember when Hood's raid was. That was the last fight of the war. I recollect seein' the soldiers marchin' night and day for two days. I saw the cavalry men and the infant men walking. I heard em say the North was fightin' the South. They called the North Yankees and the South Rebels.

"Some of the Tennessee niggers was called free niggers. There was a colored man in Pulaski, Tennessee who owned slaves.

"My father was workin' to buy his freedom and had just one more year to work when peace come. His master gave him a chance to buy his freedom. He worked for old master in the daytime and at night he worked for himself. He split rails and raised watermelons.

"My father's master was named Tom Gray at that time. Considering the times he was a very fair man.

"When the war broke up I was workin' around a barber shop in Nashville, Tennessee.

"The Queen of England offered to buy the slaves and raise them till they were grown, then give them a horse, a plow and so many acres of ground but the South wouldn't accept this offer.

"It was the rule of the South to keep the people as ignorant as possible, but my mother had a little advantage over some. The white children learned her to read and write, and when freedom came she could write her name and even scribble out a letter. She gave me my first lesson, and I started to school in '67. The North sent teachers down here after the war. They were government schools.

"I was pretty apt in figgers—studied Bay's Arithmetic through the third book. I was getting along in school, but I slipped away from my people and was goin' to get a pocket full of money and then go back. First man I worked for was a colored man and I kept his books for him and was to get one-fourth of the crop. The first year he settled with me I had $165 clear after I paid all my debts. I done very well. I farmed one more year, then I come to Pine Bluff and did government work along the Arkansas River.

"I've done carpenter work and concrete work. I learned it by doing it. I followed concrete work for a long time. I've hoped to build several houses here in Pine Bluff and a lot of these streets.

"I have a brother and sister who graduated from Fisk University.

"I think one thing about the younger generation is they need to be more educated in the way of manners and to have race pride and to be subject to the laws."



Interviewer: Thomas Elmore Lacy Person interviewed: Bob Potter, Russellville, Arkansas Age: 65

"Sure, you oughter remember me—Bob Potter. Used to know you when you was a boy passin' de house every day go in' down to de old Democrat printin' office. Knowed yo' brother and all yo' folks. Knowed yo' pappy mighty well. Is yo' ma and pa livin' now? No suh, I reckin not.

"I was born de seventeenth of September, 1873 right here in Russellville. Daddy's name was Dick, and mudder's was Ann Potter. Daddy died before I was born, and I never seed him. Mudder's been dead about eighteen years. Dey master was named Hale, and he lived up around Dover somewheres on his farm, but I dunno how dey come by de name Potter. Well, now, lemme see—oh, yes, dey was freed at Dover after dey come dere from North Ca'liny. I think my ma was born in West Virginia, and den dey went to North Ca'liny and den to South Ca'liny, and den come to Arkansas.

"I raised seven boys and lost five chillen. Dere was three girls and nine boys. All dat's livin' is here except one in Fresno, California. My old woman here, she tells fortunes for de white folks and belongs to de Holiness church but I don't belong to none; I let her look after de religion for de fambly." (Interjection from Mrs. Potter: "Yes suh, you bet I belongs to de Holiness chu'ch. You got to walk in de light to be saved, and if you do walk in de light you can't sin. I been saved for a good many yeahs and am goin' on in de faith. Praise de Lawd!")

"My mudder was sold once for a hundud dollahs and once ag'in for thirty-eight hundud dollahs. Perhaps dis was jist before dey left West Virginia and was shipped to North Ca'liny. De master put her upon a box, she said, made her jump up and pop her heels together three times and den turn around and pop her heels again to show how strong she was. She sure was strong and a hard worker. She could cut wood, tote logs, plow, hoe cotton, and do ever'thing on de place, and lived to be about ninety-five yeahs old. Yas suh, she was as old or older dan Aunt Joan is when she died.

"No suh, I used to vote but I quit votin', for votin' never did git me nothin'; I quit two yeahs ago. You see, my politics didn't suit em. Maybe I shouldn't be tellin' you but I was a Socialist, and I was runnin' a mine and wo'kin' fifteen men, and dey was all Socialists, and de Republicans and Democrats sure put me out of business—dey put me to de bad.

"Dat was about twelve yeahs ago when I run de mine. I been tryin' to git me a pension but maybe dat's one reason I can't git it. Oh yes, I owns my home—dat is, I did own it, but——

"Oh Lawd, yes, I knows a lot of dem old songs like 'Let Our Light Shine,' and 'De Good Old Gospel Way,' and 'Hark From de Tomb.' Listen, you oughter hear Elder Beam sing dat one. He's de pastor of de Baptis' Chu'ch at Fort Smith. He can sure make it ring!

"De young folks of today compa'ed to dem when we was boys? Huh! You jist can't compaih em—can't be done. Why, a fo'-yeah-old young'un knows mo' today dan our grandmammies knowed. And in dem days de boys and gals could go out and play and swing togedder and behave deyselves. We went in our shu'ttails and hit was all right; we had two shu'ts to weah—one for every day and one for Sunday—and went in our shu'ttails both every day and Sunday and was respected. And if you didn't behave you sure got whupped. Dey didn't put dey arms around you and hug you and den put you off to sleep. Dey whupped you, and it was real whuppin'.

"Used to hear my mudder talk about de Ku Klux Klan puttin' cotton between her toes and whuppin' her, and dat's de way dey done us young'uns when we didn't behave. And we used to have manners den, both whites and blacks. I wish times was like dem days, but dey's gone.

"Yes, we used to have our tasks to do befo' goin' to bed. We'd have a little basket of cotton and had to pick de seeds all out of dat cotton befo' we went to bed. And we could all ca'd and spin—yes suh—make dat old spinnin' wheel go Z-z-z-z as you walked back and fo'f a-drawin' out de spool of ya'n. And you could weave cloth and make all yo' own britches, too. (Here his wife interpolated a homely illustration of the movement of "de shettle" in the loom weaving—ed.)

"Yes, I mind my mudder tellin' many a time about dem Klan-men, and how dey whupped white women to make em give up de money dey had hid, and how dey used to burn dey feet. Yes suh, ain't no times like dem old days, and I wish we had times like em now. Yes suh, I'll sure come to see you in town one of dese days. Good mornin'."

NOTE: Bob Potter is a most interesting Negro character—one of the most genial personalities of the Old South that the interviewer has met anywhere. His humor is infectious, his voice boisterous, but delightful, and his uproarious laugh just such as one delights to listen to. And his narrations seem to ring with veracity.



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Louise Prayer 3401 Short West Third, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 80

"I can member seein' the Yankees. My mother died when I was a baby and my grandmother raised me. I'se goin' on eighty.

"When the Yankees come we piled boxes and trunks in front of the doors and windows. She'd say, 'You chillun get in the house; the Yankees are comin'.' I didn't know what 'twas about—I sure didn't.

"I'm honest in mind. You know the Yankees used to come in and whip the folks. I know they come in and whipped my grandma and when they come in we chillun went under the bed. Didn't know no better. Why did they whip her? Oh my God, I don't know bout dat. You know when we chillun saw em ridin' in a hurry we went in the house and under the bed. I specks they'd a killed me if they come up to me cause they'd a scared me to death.

"We lived on the Williams' place. All belonged to the same people. They give us plenty to eat such as 'twas. But in them days they fed the chillun mostly on bread and syrup. Sometimes we had greens and dumplin's. Jus' scald some meal and roll up in a ball and drop in with the greens. Just a very few chickens we had. I don't love chicken though. If I can jus' get the liver I'm through with the chicken.

"When I got big enough my grandmother had me in the field. I went to school a little bit but I didn't learn nothin'. Didn't go long enough. That I didn't cause the old man had us in the field.

"If we chillun in them days had had the sense these got now, I could remember more bout things.

"I was a young missy when I married.

"I told you the best I could—that's all I know. I been treated pretty good."

THE END