Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Saint Johnson Izard Street, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: — Occupation: Drayman

"As far as slavery is concerned I know nothing about it except as the white people told me. My mother would ask me what they told me and I would tell her that Miss Annie said I didn't have to call her father 'Master' any more. And she would say, 'No, you don't.'

"My father's name was Wiley Johnson. He was ninety years old when he died. He was born in Cave Spring, Georgia, in Floyd County. My mother was born in the same place. Both of them were Johnsons. They were married during slavery times. I don't know what her name was before she married.

"Anyway, I've told you enough. I've told you too much. How come they want all this stuff from the colored people anyway? Do you take any stories from the white people? They know all about it. They know more about it than I do. They don't need me to tell it to them.

"I don't tell my age. I just say I was born after slavery. Then I can't be bothered about all this stuff about records. Colored people didn't keep any records. How they goin' to know when they were born or anything? I don't believe in all that stuff.

"You know these young people as well as I do. They ain't nothin'.

"I ain't got nothin' to say about politics. You know what the truth is. Why don't you say it? You don't need to hide behind my words. You're educated and I'm not; you don't need to get anything from me.

"Yes, I had some schoolin'. But you know more about these things than I do."

Interviewer's Comment

At first, I thought I wouldn't write this interview up; but afterwards I thought: Maybe this interview will be of interest to those who want the work done. It represents the attitude of a very small, but definite, minority. About five persons out of a hundred and fifty contacted and more than eighty written up have taken this attitude.

Johnson is reputed to have been born in slavery, but he says not. He had a high school education. He is a good man, wholesome in all his contacts, despite the apparent intolerance of his private remarks to the interviewer.



Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Willie Johnson (female) 1007 Izard, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: 71

"My father said he had a real good master. When he got up large enough to work, his master learned him a trade. He learned the mechanic's trade, such as blacksmithing and working in shops. He learned him all of that. And then he learned him to be a shoemaker. You see, he learned him iron work and woodworking too. And he never whipped him during slavery time. Positively didn't allow that.

"My father's name was Jordan Kirkpatrick. His master was named Kirkpatrick also. My father was born in Tennessee in Sumner County.

"My father married in slave time. You know, they married in slave time. I have heard people talking about it. I have heard some people say they married over 'gain when freedom came. My father had a marriage certificate, and I didn't hear him say anything about being married after freedom. I have seen the certificate lots of times. I don't know the date of it. The certificate was issued in Sumner County, Tennessee.

"My father and mother belonged to different masters. My mother's master was a Murray. She had a good many people. Her name before she married was Mary Murray. I don't know just how my mother and father met. The two places weren't far apart. They lived a good distance from each other though, and I remember hearing him tell how he had to go across the fields to get to her house after he was through with the day's work. The pateroles got after him once. They didn't catch him, so they didn't do anything to him. He skipped them some way or another.

"I have heard them say that before the slaves were set free the soldiers were going 'round doing away with everything that they could get their hands on. Just a while before they were set free, my father took my mother and the children one night and slipped off. He went to Nashville. That was during the War. It wasn't long after that till everybody was set free. They never did capture him and get him back.

"During the War they went around pressing men into service. Finally once, they caught him but they let him go. I don't know how he got away.

"I can remember he said once they got after him and there was a white man and his family living in the house. He rented a room from the white man. That was in Nashville. These pateroles or whatever they was got after him and claimed they were coming to get him, and the old man and the old woman he stayed with took him upstairs and said they would protect him if the pateroles came back. I don't know whether they came back or not, but they never got him.

"My father supported himself and his family in Nashville by following his trade. He seems to have gotten along all right. He never seemed to have any trouble that I heard him speak of.

"I was born in 1867 in Nashville, Tennessee, about half a block from the old Central Tennessee College[G]. I think it became Walden University later on, and I think that it's out now. That's an old school. My oldest sister was graduated from it. I could have been if I hadn't taken up the married notion.

"I got part of my schooling in Nashville and part here. When I left Nashville, I was only a child nine years old. I only went to school four sessions after we came out here. I didn't like out here. I wanted to stay back home. My father came out here because he had heard that he could make more money with his trade here than he could in Nashville, which he did. He was shoeing horses and building wagons and so on. Just in this blacksmithing and carpenter work.

"I wanted to learn that. I would stay 'round the shop and help him shoe horses. But they wouldn't let me take it up. I got so I could do carpenter work pretty good. First I learned how to make a box square—that is a hard job when a person doesn't know much.

"I never heard my father say anything about the food the slaves ate. I have heard him talk about the good times they had around hog killing. His master raised sweet potatoes and corn and wheat and things like that. I guess they ate just about what they raised.

"My father never was a sharecropper. He knew nothing of rural work except the mechanical side of it. He could make or do anything that was needed in fixing up something to do farm work with. I have seen him make and sharpen plows. The first cotton stalk cutter that was made within ten miles of here was made by my father. The people 'round here were knocking off cotton stalks with sticks until my father began making the cutter. Then everybody began using his cutter. That is, the different farmers and sharecroppers around here began using them. I was scared of the first one he made. He made six saws or knives and sharpened them and put them on a section of a log so that it could be hitched to a mule and pulled through the fields and cut the cotton stalks down.

"My mother's old master was her father. I think my father's father was a Negro and his mother was an Indian. My mother's mother was an American woman, that is, a slavery woman. My mother and father were lucky in having good people. My mother was treated just like one of her master's other children. My father's master had an overseer but he never was allowed to touch my father. Of course my mother never was under an overseer."

[Footnote G: [HW: Central Tennessee College estab. about 1866-7.]]



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Angeline Jones Near Biscoe and Brinkley, Arkansas Age: 79 [Date Stamp: May 31 1938]

"I was born in Memphis, Tennessee. Mother was cooking. Her name was Marilla Harris and she took my pa's name, Brown. He was Francis Brown. I was three years old when the surrender come on. Then grandma, my mama and pa and me and my brother come with a family to Biscoe. There wasn't no Biscoe but that's where we come to anyhow. Mama and grandma cooked for a woman. They bought a big farm and started clearing. Some of it was cleared. Mama's been dead forty years. I farmed all my whole life. I don't know nothing else.

"Grandma had a right smart to say during slavery times. She was cooking for her mistress and had a family. She'd hide good things to take to her children. The mistress kept a polly parrot about in the kitchen. Polly would tell on grandma. Caused grandma to get whoopings. She talked like a good many of 'em. She got sick. The woman what married grandma's brother was to take her place. She wasn't going to be getting no whoopings. She sewed the parrot up. He got to dwindling. They doctored him. She clipped his tongue at the same time so he never could do no good talking. He died. They never found out his trouble. Grandma said they worried about the parrot but she never did; she knowed what been done. Grandma come from Paris, Tennessee but I think the same folks fetched 'er. I don't think she said she was sold. She said slavery times was hard. Mama didn't see as hard times as grandma had. Grandma shielded her in the work part a whole heap to get to live where she did. They loved to be together. She's been dead and left me forty odd years. I works and support myself, and my kin folks help all they can."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Charlie Jones 1303 Ohio Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 76

"I was borned in '61 in the State of Mississippi August the 15th.

"I member just a little bout the War. Yes'm, I member seein' the soldiers. They was walkin'—just a long row of em. Had guns across their shoulders and had them canteens. I member we chilluns run out to the road and got upon the bars and watched em go by. I think it was after they had fought in Vicksburg and was comin' back towards Memphis.

"My mother belonged to the Harrises and we stayed with her and my father belonged to the Joneses.

"I member how they used to feed us chillun. They had a big cook kitchen at the big house and we chillun would be out in the yard playin'. Cook had a big wooden tray and she'd come out and say 'Whoopee!' and set the tray on the ground. Sometimes it was milk and sometimes it would be potlicker. We'd fall down and start eatin'. Get out [TR: our?] heads in and crowd just like a lot of pigs.

"After freedom we went to old Colonel Jones and worked on the shares. I wasn't big enough to work but I member when we left the Harris place. I know they wasn't so cruel to em. Didn't have no overseer. Some of the people had cruel overseers.

"I went to school after the War a right smart. I got as far as the third grade. Studied McGuffy's Reader and the old Blue Back Speller. Yes'm, sure did.

"I come here to Arkansas wid my parents in '78. Come right here to Jefferson County, down at Fairfield on the Lambert place.

"All my life I've farmed. I worked on the shares and rented too. Could make the most money rentin'. I got everywhere from 4c to 50c a pound for cotton. I had cows and hogs and chickens and raised some corn.

"I made a garden and made a little cotton and corn last year on government land on the old river bank.

"I heered of the Klu Klux but they never did bother me.

"I voted the Publican ticket and never had no trouble.

"I been right around this town fifteen years and I own this home. I worked about six months at the shops but the rest of the time I farmed.

"Heap of things I'd do when I was young the young folks won't do now."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Cyntha Jones 3006 W. Tenth Avenue, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 88

"Well, here's one of em. Born down in Drew County.

"Simpson Dabney was old master and his wife named Miss Adeline.

"I reckon I do remember bout the War. Yes ma'am, the Yankees come and they had me scared. I wouldn't know when they got in the yard till they was all around me. Had me holdin' the bridles.

"My young missis' husband was in the War and when they fought the last battle at Princeton, she had me drive the carriage. When I heard them guns I said we better go back, so I turned round and made them horses step so fast my dress tail stood out straight. I thought they was goin' to kill us all. And when we got home all the windows was broke. Miss Nancy say, 'Cyntha, somebody come and broke all my windows,' but it was them guns broke em.

"Old master was a doctor but my young missis' husband wasn't nothin' but a hunter till they carried him to war. He was so skeered they had to most drag him.

"I seen two wars and heered tell of another.

"I member when the Yankees come and took things I just fussed at em. I thought what was my white folks' things was mine too. But when they got my old master's horse my daddy went amongst em and got it back cause he had charge of the stock. I don't know whether he got em at night or not but I know he went in the daytime and come back in the daytime.

"Old master's children and my father's children worked in the field just alike. He wouldn't low a overseer on the place, or a patroller either.

"Dr. Dabney and his sister raised my mother. They brought her from some furrin' country to Arkansas. And when he married, my mother suckled every one of his children.

"I just worked in the house and nussed. Never worked in the field till I was grown and married. I was nineteen when I married the fust time. I stayed right there in that settlement till the second year of surrender.

"When I was twenty-one they had me fixed up for a midwife. Old Dr. Clark was the one started me. I never went to school a minute in my life but the doctors would read to me out of their doctor books till I could get a license. I got so I could read print till my eyes got so bad. Old Dr. Clark was the one learned me most and since he died I ain't never had a doctor mess with me.

"In fifteen years I had 299 babies on record right there in Rison. That's where I was fixed up at—under five doctors. And anybody don't believe it, they can go down there and look up the record.

"We had plenty to eat in slave times. Didn't have to go to the store and buy it by the dribble like they does now. Just go to the smokehouse and get it.

"I got such a big mind and will I wants to get about and raise something to eat now so we wouldn't have to buy everything, but I ain't able now. I've had twenty-one children but if I had em now they'd starve to death.

"I been married four times but they all dead—every one of em.

"When freedom come my old master give my mother $500 cause she saved his money for him when the Yankees come. She put it in the bed and slept on it. He had four farms and he told her she could have ary one of em and any of the stock, but my father had done spoke for a place in Cleveland County—he had done bought him a place.

"And old master on his dying bed, he asked my mother to take his two youngest children and raise em cause their mother was sickly, but she didn't do it.

"I don't know hardly what to think of this younger generation. Used to be they'd go to Sunday school barefooted but now'days, time they is born they got shoes and stockin's on em.

"I used to spin, knit and weave. I even spun thread to make these ropes they use to plow. I could spin a thread you could sew with, and weave cloth with stripes and flowers. Have to know how to dye the thread. That's all done in the warp. Call the other the filler.

"Now let me tell you, when that was goin' on and you raised your meat and corn and potatoes, that was livin'!"



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Edmond Jones 1824 W. Second, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 75

"I growed up in the war. I remember seein' the soldiers—hundreds and thousands of em. Oh, yes'm, I growed up in the war. I was born under Abraham Lincoln's administration and then Grant.

"I remember when that old drum beat everbody had to be in bed at nine o'clock. That was when they had martial law. Hays knocked that out you know. That was when they had the Civil Rights Bill. I growed up in that.

"Abraham Lincoln issued the Proclamation of Freedom in January and I was born in May so you might say I was born right into freedom.

"I always say I was born so close to slavery I could smell it, just like you cookin' somethin' for dinner and I smelled it.

"I tell these young people I can look back to my boy days quick as they can.

"Yes'm, I don't know anything bout slavery. My people say they come from North Carolina, but I been right here on this spot of ground for forty-four years. I come here when they was movin' the cemetery.

"My mother was a cook here for Mrs. Reynolds. After I growed up here I went out to my father where he was workin' on the shares and stayed there a year. I married quite young and bought a place out there. I said I was twenty-one when I got the license but I wasn't but twenty.

"In old times everbody thought of the future and had all kinds of things to eat. First prayer I was taught was the Lord's Prayer—'Give us this day our daily bread.' I said sure was a long time bein' answered cause now we're gettin' it—just our daily bread.

"I never had no luck farmin'—ever' time I farmed river overflowed. I raised everthing I needed or I didn't have it. Had as high as thirty head of cows at one time.

"I went to work as janitor at Merril School to take the regular janitor's place for just two months and how long you reckon I stayed there? Twenty years. Then I come here and sit down and haven't done anything since.

"The first school I went to was in the First Baptist Church on Pullen Street. They had it there till they could put up a building.

"I went to nine different teachers and all of em was white. They was sent here from the North. We studied McGuffy's reader and you stayed with it till you learned it. I got it till today—in my head you understand.

"Sure, Lord, I used to vote and hold ever' kind of office. Used to be justice of the peace six years. I said I been in everthing but a bull fight.

"I've traveled ever' place—Niagara Falls, Toronto, Canada. I been in two World's Fairs and in several inaugurations. Professor Cheney says I know more history than any the teachers at the college."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Eliza Jones 610 E. Eighteenth, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 89

"Yes ma'am, this is Eliza. I was born in slave times and I knowed how to work good.

"You know I was grown in time of the War 'cause I married the first year of freedom.

"Belonged to a widow named Edna Mitchell. That was in Tennessee near Jackson. Oh Lawd, my missis was good to all her niggers—if you should call 'em that.

"She had two men and three women. My mother was the cook. Let's see—Sarah was one, Jane was two, and Eliza was three. (I was Eliza.) Then there was Doc and Uncle Alf. I reckon he was our uncle. Anyway we all called him Uncle Alf. He managed the business—he was the head man and Doc was next. And Miss Edna raised us all to grown.

"Now I'm tellin' you right straight along. I try to tell the truth. I forgits and I can't remember ever'thing like it ought to be but I hit at it.

"Things is hard this year and I don't know how come. I guess it's 'cause folks is so wicked. They is livin' fast—black and white.

"How many chillun? Now, you'd be s'prised. I hardly ever tell folks how many. I had fifteen; I was a good breeder. But they is all dead but one, and they ain't doin' me no good. Never raised but two. Most of 'em just died when they was born.

"I'd a been better off if I had stayed single a while longer and went to school and learned how to read and write and figger. But I went to another kind of a school.

"But I sure has been blest. I been here a long time, got a chile to cook me a little bread—don't have to worry 'bout dat.

"I had to send clean back to where I j'ined the Metropolitan to get my age. That was in Cairo, Illinois 'cause I'd lived there fifteen years. But when my daughter and her husband come here and got settled, why I come to finish it out.

"Yes ma'am, I sure have worked hard. I've plowed, split wood, and done a little bit of ever'thing. But it was all done since freedom. In slavery times I was a house girl. I tell you I was a heap better off a slave than I was free.

"After freedom we had to go and get what we could get to do and work hard.

"They used to talk 'bout ha'nts and squinch owls. Say it was a sign of somebody dead. But I don't believe in that. 'Course what I don't believe in somebody else does."



Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Evelyn Jones 815 Arch Street, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: Between 68 and 78?

"I was born in Lonoke County right here in Arkansas. My father's name—I don't know it. I don't know nothin' 'bout my father. My mother's name was Mary Davis.

"My daddy died when I was five weeks old. I don't know nothin' 'bout 'im. Just did manage to git here before he left. I don't know the date of my birth. I don't know nothin' 'bout it and I ain't goin' to tell no lie.

"I have nineteen children. My youngest living child is twenty-eight years old. My oldest living is fifty-three. I have four dead. I don't know how old the oldest one is. That one's dead.

"I have a cousin named Harry Jordan. He lives 'round here somewheres. You'll find him. I don't know where he lives. He says he knows just how old I am, and he says that I'm sixty-eight. My daughter here says I'm seventy. And my son thinks I'm older. Don't nobody know. My daddy never told me. My mama was near dead when I was born; what could she tell me? So how am I to know?

"My mother was born in slavery. She was a slave. I don't know nothin' 'bout it. My mother came from Tennessee. That's what she told me. I was born in a log cabin right here in Arkansas. I was born in a log cabin right in front of the white folks' big house. It was not far from the white folks' graveyard. You know they had a graveyard of their own. Old Bill Pemberton, that was the name of the man owned the place I was born on. But he wasn't my mother's owner.

"I don't know where my father come from. My mother said she had a good time in slavery. She spoke of lots of things but I don't remember them.

"My grandma told me about when she went to church she used to carry her good clothes in a bundle. When she got near there, she would put them on, and hide her old clothes under a rock. When she come out from the meeting, she would have to put on her old clothes again to go home in. She didn't dare let the white folks see her in good clothes.

"I think my mother's white people were named Jordans. My mother and them all belonged to the young mistress. I think her name was Jordan. Yes, that's what it was—Jordan.

"Grandmammy had so many children. She had nineteen children—just like me. My grandmammy was a great big old red woman. She had red hair too. I never heard her say nothin' 'bout nobody whippin' her and my granddaddy. They whipped all them children though. My mama just had six children.

"Mama said her master tried to keep her in slavery after freedom. My mama worked at the spinning-wheel. When she heard the folks say they was through with the War, she was at the spinning-wheel. The white folks ought a tol' them they was free but they didn't. Old Jordan carried them down in De Valla Bluff. He carried them down there—called hisself gittin' away from the Yankees. But the Yankees told mama to quit workin'. They tol' her that she was free. My mama said she was in there at the wheel spinning and the house was full of white men settin' there lookin' at her. You don't see that sort of thing now.

"They had a man—I don't know what his name was. He stalled them steers, stalled 'em twice a day. They used to pick cotton. I dreamed about cotton the other night.

"My father farmed after slavery. I never heard them say they were cheated out of nothin'. I don't know whether they was or not. I'll tell you the truth. I didn't pay them no 'tention. Mighty little I can remember."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: John Jones, Brinkley, Arkansas Age: 71

"I was raised an orph'ant but I was born in Tennessee. I lived over there and farmed till 'bout fifty year ago. I come out here wid Mr. Woodson to pick cotton. He dead now and I still tryin' to work all I can.

"I haben voted in thirty-five year. Because I couldn't vote in the Primary, then I say I wouldn't vote 'tall. I don't care if the women want to vote. Don't do no good nohow.

"I farmed all my life 'ceptin' 'bout ten years I worked on the section. I got so I couldn't stand up to it every day and had to farm again.

"I never considered times hard till I got disabled to work. It mighty bad when you can't get no jobs to do. My hardest time is in the winter. I has a garden and chickens but I ain't able to buy a cow. Man give me a little pig the other day. He won't be big enough to eat till late next spring. Every winter times is hard for me. It's been thater wa's ever since I begin not to be able to get about. Helped by the PWA."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: John Jones 3109 W. 10th Avenue, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 82

"I come here in 1856—you can figure it out for yourself. I was born in Arkansas, fifty miles below here.

"I remember the soldiers. I know I was a little boy drivin' the gin. Had to put me upon the lever. You see, all us little fellows had to work.

"I remember seein' the Indians goin' by to fight at Arkansas Post. They fought on the southern side. When I heard the cannons, I asked my mama what it was and she said 'twas war.

"John Dye—that was my young master—went to the War but Ruben had a kind of afflicted hand and he didn't go.

"Our plantation was on the river and I used to see the Yankee boats go down the river.

"My papa belonged to the Douglases and mama belonged to the Dyes. I was born on the Douglas place and I ain't been down there in over fifty years. They said I was born in March but I don't know any more bout it than a rabbit.

"Papa said he was raised up in the house. Said he didn't do much work—just tended to the gin.

"I remember one night the Ku Klux come to our house. I was so scared I run under the house and stayed till ma called me out. I was so scared I didn't know what they had on.

"I remember when some of the folks come back from Texas and they said peace was declared.

"I think my brother run off and jined the Yankees and come here when they took Pine Bluff. War is a bad thing. I think they goin' keep on till they hatch up another one.

"I didn't go to school much. I was the oldest boy at home and I had to plow. I went seven days all told and since then I learned ketch as ketch can. I can read and write pretty well. It's a consolation to be able to read. If you can't get all of it, you can get some of it.

"Been here in Jefferson County ever since 1867. I come here from Lincoln County.

"After freedom my papa moved my mama down on the Douglas place where he was and stayed one year, then moved on the Simpson place in Lincoln County, and then come up here in Jefferson County. I remember all the moves.

"I remember down here where Kientz Bros, place is was the gallows where they hung folks in slavery times. You know—when they had committed some crime.

"Yes'm, I voted but I never held any office.

"I know I don't look my age but I can tell you a heap of things happened before emancipation.

"I think the people are better off free—they got liberty."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Lidia Jones 228 N. Oak Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 94 Occupation: None—blind

"I was born in Mississippi and emigrated to Arkansas. Born on the Peacock place. Old John Patterson was my old master.

"My first goin' out was to the cow pen, then to the kitchen, and then they moved me to Mrs. Patterson's dining-room.

"I helped weave cloth. Dyed it? I wish you'd hush! My missis went to the woods and got it. All I know is, she said it was indigo. She had a great big kittle and she put her thread in that. No Lord, she never bought her indigo—she raised it.

"Oh, Miss Fannie could do most anything. Made the prettiest counter-panes I ever saw. Yes ma'am, she could do it and did do it.

"She had a loom half as big as this house. Lord a mercy, a many a time I went dancin' from that old spinnin'-wheel.

"They made all the clothes for the colored folks. They'd be sewin' for weeks and months.

"Miss Fannie and Miss Frances—that was her daughter—they wove such pretty cloth for the colored. You know, they went and made themselves dresses and the white and colored had the same kind of dresses.

"Yes Lord, they had some folks.

"Miss Frances wore hoops but Miss Fannie didn't.

"During of the War them Yankees come down the river; but to tell the truth, we run and hid and never seen 'em no more.

"They took Mars John's fine saddle horse named Silver Heels. Yes ma'am, took saddle and bridle and the horse on top of 'em. And he had a mare named Buchanan and they took her too. He had done moved out of the big house down into the woods. Called hisself hidin' I reckon. And he had his horses tied down by the river and the Yankees slipped up on him and took the horses.

"Yankees burned his house and gin house too and set fire to the cotton. Oh Lord, I don't like to talk about it. Them Yankees was rough.

"Right after freedom our white folks left this country and went to Missouri and the last account I heard of 'em they was all dead.

"After freedom, folks scattered out just like sheep.

"I'm tryin' to study 'bout some songs but I can't think of nothin' but Dixie."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Lydia Jones 228 North Oak Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 93

"My name's Lydia—Lydia Jones. Oh my God I'se born in Mississippi. I wish you'd hush—I know all about slavery.

"I never had but one master. That was old John Patterson. No he want good to me. I wish you'd hush! I had two young masters—Marse John and Marse Edward. Marse John go off to war and say he gwine whip them Yankees with his pocket knife, but he didn't do it. They said the war was to keep the colored folks slaves. I tell you I've heard them bull whips a ringin' from sun to sun.

"After the war when they told us we is free, they said to hire ourselves out. They didn't give us a nickel when we left.

"I heered talk of the Ku Klux and they come close enough for us to be skeered but I never seen none of 'em. We never had no slave uprisin's on our plantation—old John Patterson would a shot 'em down. I tell you he was a rabid man.

"I used to pick cotton and chop cotton and help weave the cloth. My old mistress—Miss Fannie—used to go to the woods and get things to dye the cloth. She would dye some blue and some red.

"Only song I 'member is Dixie. I heered talk of some others but God knows I never fooled with 'em.

"Yes'm I believes in hants. Let me tell you something. My mama seen my daddy after he been dead a long time. He come right up through the crack by the fireplace and he said 'Don't you be afraid Emmaline' but she was agoin'. They had to sing and pray in the house 'fore my mama would go back but she never seen him again.

"I'se been blind now for three years and I lives with my granddaughter but lady, I'll tell you the truth—I been around. Yes, madam, I is."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Liza Jones (Cookie) 610 S. Eighteenth Street, Pine Bluff, Ark. Age: 88

"Come in, this is Cookie. Well, I do know a heap about slavery, cause I worked. I stayed in the house; I was house girl. They called me Cookie cause I used to cook so much.

"That was in Madison County, near Jackson, Tennessee. My mistress was good to me. Yes'm, I got along all right but a heap of others got along all wrong.

"Mistress took care of us in the cold and all kinds of weather. She sho did.

"She had four women and four men. We had plenty to eat. She had hogs and sheep and geese and always cooked enough for all of us. Whatever she had to eat we had.

"We clothed our darkies in slavery times. I was a weaver for four years and never done nothin' else. Yes ma'm, I was a house woman and I am now.

"Yes ma'm, I member seein' different kinds of soldiers. I member once some Rebels come to old mistress to get somethin' to eat but before it was ready the Yankees come and run em off. They didn't have time to eat it all so us colored folks got the rest of it.

"Old mistress had a son Mac and he was in the war. The Yankees captured him and carried him to Chicago and put him in a warehouse over the water.

"Old mistress was a good old Christian woman. All the darkies had to come to her room to prayermeetin' every night. She didn't skip no nights. And her help didn't mind workin'. They'd go the length for her, Miss.

"After I was grown I went most anywhere, but when I was little I sho set on old mistress' dress tail. I used to go to church with her. She'd say, "Open your mouf and sing" and I'd just holler and sing. I can member now how loud I used to holler.

"Aint no use in talkin', I had a good mistress. I never was sold. Old mistress wouldn't sell. There was a speculator come there and wanted to buy us. When we was free, old mistress say, "Now I could a sold you and had the money, and now you is goin' to leave." But they didn't, they stayed. Some stayed with old mistress till she died, but I didn't. I married the first year of freedom.

"My mistress and me spin a many a cut of cotton together. She couldn't beat me neither. If that old soul was livin' today, I'd be right with her. I was gettin' along. I didn't know nothin' but freedom.

"I had freedom then and I ain't been free since, didn't have no sponsibility. But when they turned you loose, you had your doctor bill and your grub bill—now wasn't you a slave then?

"My mammy was a cook and her name was Katy.

"After I was married we went to live at Black Ankle. I learned to cook and I sho did cook for the white folks twenty-one years. I used to go back and see old mistress. If I stay away too long, she send for me.

"How many childen I had? You want the truth? Well, fifteen, but never had but three to live any length of time.

"Well, I told you the best I know and the straightest I know. If I can't tell you the truth, I'm not goin' to tell you nothin'.

"Yes, honey, I saw the Ku Klux."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Lucy Jones, Marianna, Arkansas Age: Born 1866 [Date Stamp: MAY 11 1938]

"I was raised second year after the surrender. I don't know a father or mother. They was dead when I was five years old. I had no sisters nor brothers. Mrs. Cynthia Hall raised me. She raised my mother. Master Hall was her husband. They was old people and they was so good to me. They had no children and I lived in the house with them. I never went to school a day in my life. I can't read. I can count money.

"My mother was dark. I married when I was fifteen years old. I have four children living. They are all dark. They are about the same color but darker than I am.

"No ma'am, I don't believe one could be voodooed. I lived nearly all my life with white folks and they don't heed no foolishness like that, do they? I cooked, worked in the field, washed and ironed.

"I married three times. The first time at Raymond, Mississippi. I never had no big weddings.

"Seems like some folks have lost their grip and ain't willing to start over. I don't know much to say for the young people. They are not smart. They got more schooling. They try to shirk all the work they can. I never seen no Ku Klux in my life. People used to raise nearly all their living at home and now they depend on buying nearly everything. Well, I think it is bad."



Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Mary Jones 1017 Dennison, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: 72

"I was born on the twenty-second of March, 1866, in Van Buren, Arkansas. I had six children. All of them were bred and born at the same place.

"I was born in a frame house. My father used to live in the country, but I was born in the town. He bought it just as soon as he come out of the army and married right away and bought this home. I don't know where he got his money from. I guess he saved it. He served in the Union army; he wasn't a servant. He was a soldier, and drawed his pay. He never run through his money like most people do. I don't know whether he made any money in slavery or not but he was a carpenter during slave times and they say he always had plenty of money. I guess he had saved some of that too.

"My mother was married twice. Her name was Louisa Buchanan. My father was named Abraham Riley. My stepfather was named Moses Buchanan. My father was a soldier in the old original war (the Civil War)—the war they ended in 1865.

"I disremember who my mother's master was but I think it was a man named Johnson. I didn't know my father's people. She married him from White County up here. Her and him, they corresponded mostly in letters because he traveled lots. He looked like an Indian. He had straight hair and was tall and rawboned and wore a Texas hat. I had his picture but the pictures fade away. My father was a sergeant. He died sometime after the war. I don't remember when because I wasn't old enough. I can just remember looking at the corpse. I was too small to do any grieving.

"My mother was a nurse in slavery times. She nursed the white folks and their children. She did the housework and such like. She was a good cook too. After freedom, when the old folks died out, she cooked for Zeb Ward—you know him, head of the penitentiary. She used to cook for the Jews and gentiles. That her kind of work. That was her occupation—good cook. She could make all kinds of provisions. She could make preserves and they had a big orchard everywhere she worked.

"I have heard my mother talk about pateroles, jayhawkers, and Ku Klux, but I never knew of them myself. I have heard say they were awful bad—the Ku Klux or somethin'.

"My mother's white folks sold her. I don't know who they sold her to or from. They sold her from her mother. I don't know how she got free. I think she got free after the war ceased. But she had a good time all her life. She had a good time because she was a good cook, and a good nurse, and she had good white folks. My grandma, she had good folks too. They was free before they were free, my ma and grandma. They was just as free before freedom as they were afterwards. My mother had seven children and two sets of twins among them. But I am the only one living.

Occupation

"They say that I'm too old to work now; so I can't make nothin' to keep my home goin'. I have five children living. Two are away from here—one in Michigan, and another in Illinois. I have three others but they don't make enough to help me much. I used to work 'round the laundries. Then I used to work 'round with these colored restaurants. I worked with a colored woman down by the station for twelve or fifteen years. I first helped her wash and iron. She ironed and hired other girls to wait table and wash dishes and so on. Them times wasn't like they are now. They'd hire you and keep you. Then I worked at a white boarding house on Second and Cross. I quit working at the laundries because of the steady work in the restaurants. After the restaurants I went to work in private families and worked with them till I got so I couldn't work no more. Maybe I could do plenty of things, but they won't give me a chance.

"I have been married twice. My second husband was John Jones. He always went by the name of his white folks. They were named Ivory. He came from up in Searcy. I got acquainted with him and we started going together. He'd been married before and had children up in Searcy. He got his leg cut off in a accident. He was working over to the shop lifting ties with another helper and this man helping him gave way on his side and let his end fall. It fell across my husband's foot and blood poison set in and caused him to lose his foot and leg. He had his foot cut off at the county hospital and made himself a peg-leg. He cut it out hisself while he was at the hospital. He lived a long while after that. He died on Tenth and Victory. My first husband was Henry White. He was a shop worker too—the Iron Mountain.

"We went to school together. I lost my health before I married, and I had to stop going to school. The doctor was a German and lived on Cross between Fifth and Sixth. He said that he ought to have written the history of my life to show what I was cured of because I was paralyzed two years. My head was drawed 'way back between my shoulders. I lived with my first husband about six years. He died with T.B. in Memphis, Tennessee. He had married again when he died. We got so we couldn't agree, so I thought it was best for him to live with his mother and me to live with mine. We quit under good conditions. I had a boy after he was separated from me.

"I don't know what to say about the people now. I don't get 'round much. They aren't like they used to be. The young people don't like to have you 'round them. I never did object to any of my children gettin' married because my mother didn't object to me.

"I know Mr. Gillespie. (He passed at the time—ed.) He comes to see me now and then. All my people are dead now 'cept my children."

Interviewer's Comment

Brother Gillespie has a story turned in previously. Evidently he is making eyes at the old lady; but the romance is not likely to bud. She has lost the sight of one eye apparently through a cataract which has spread over the larger part of the iris. Nevertheless, she is more active than he is, and apparently more competent, and she isn't figuring on making her lot any harder than it is.



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Mary Jones 509 E. 23rd Avenue, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 78 [Date Stamp: MAY 31 1938]

"I was born three weeks 'fore Christmas in South Carolina.

"I 'member one time the Yankees come along and I run to the door. I know ma made me go back but I peeped out the window. You know how children is. They wore great big old hats and blue coats.

"'Nother time we saw them a comin' and said, 'Yonder come the Yankees' and we run. Ma said, 'Don't run, them's the Yankees what freed you.'

"Old mis' was named Joanna Long and old master was Joe Long. I can't remember much, I just went by what ma said.

"I went to school now and then on account we had to work.

"We had done sold out in South Carolina and was down at the station when some of the old folks said if we was goin' to the Mississippi bottoms where the panthers and wolves was we would never come back. We thought we was comin' to Arkansas but when we found out we was in the Mississippi bottoms. We stayed there and made two crops, then we come to Arkansas.

"The way the younger generation is livin' now, the Lord can't bless 'em. They know how to do right but they won't do it. Yes ma'am."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Nannie Jones 1601 Saracen Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 81

"Good morning. Come in. I sure is proud to see you. Yes ma'am, I sure is.

"I was born in Chicot County. I heerd Dr. Gaines say I was four years old in slavery times. I know I ain't no baby. I feels my age, too—in my limbs.

"I heerd 'em talk about a war but I wasn't big enough to know about it. My father went to war on one side but he didn't stay very long. I don't know which side he was on. Them folks all dead now—I just can remember 'em.

"Dr. Gaines had a pretty big crew on the place. I'm gwine tell you what I know. I can't tell you nothin' else.

"Now I want to tell it like mama said. She said she was sold from Kentucky. She died when I was small.

"I remember when they said the people was free. I know they jumped up and down and carried on.

"Dr. Gaines was so nice to his people. I stayed in the house most of the time. I was the little pet around the house. They said I was so cute.

"Dr. Gaines give me my age but I lost it movin'. But I know I ain't no baby. I never had but two children and they both livin'—two girls.

"Honey, I worked in the field and anywhere. I worked like a man. I think that's what got me bowed down now. I keeps with a misery right across my back. Sometimes I can hardly get along.

"Honey, I just don't know 'bout this younger generation. I just don't have no thoughts for 'em, they so wild. I never was a rattlin' kind of a girl. I always was civilized. Old people in them days didn't 'low their children to do things. I know when mama called us, we'd better go. They is a heap wusser now. So many of 'em gettin' into trouble."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Reuben Jones Ezell Quarters, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 85

"Well, I'm one of em. I can tell you bout it from now till sundown.

"I was born at Senatobia, Mississippi, this side of Jackson. Born in '52 on April the 16th. That's when I was born.

"Old man Stephen Williams was my master in time of the war and before the war, too. He was pretty good to me. Give me plenty of something to eat, but he whipped me. Oh, I specked I needed it. Put me in the field when I was five years old. Put a tar cap on my head. I was so young the sun made my hair come out so they put that tar cap on my head.

"I member when they put the folks on blocks as high as that house and sell em to the highest bidder. No ma'm, I wasn't sold cause my mother had three or four chillun and boss man wouldn't sell dem what had chillun cause dem chillun was hands for him.

"They made me hide ever'thing they had from the Yankees. Yes'm, I seen em come out after the fodder and the corn. We hid the meat and the mules and the money. Drove the mules in the cave. Kept em der till the Yankees left. We dug the hole for the meat but old marse dug the hole for the money.

"I used to help put timbers on the bridge to keep the Yankees out but dey come right on through just the same. Took the ox wagon but dey sent it back.

"Couldn't go nowhere without a pass. Had a whippin' block right at the horse trough. Yes ma'm, they'd eat you up. I mean they'd whip you, but they give you plenty of somethin' to eat.

"My mother was the weaver and they had a tanyard on the place.

"In slavery days couldn't go see none of your neighbors without a pass. People had meetin' right at the house. Dey'd have prayer and singin'. I went to em. I could sing—Lord yes. I used to know a lot of old songs—'Am I A Soldier of the Cross?'.

"Lord yes, ma'm, don't talk! When the soldiers come out where we was I could hear the guns. Had a battle right in town. Rebels just as scared of the Yankees as if twas a bear. I seed one or two of em come to town and scare the whole business.

"I never knowed but one man run off and jined the Yankees. Carried his master's finest ridin' hoss and a mule. He always had a fine hoss and Yankees come and took it. When the Yankees come out the last time, my owners cleaned out the smoke house and buried the meat.

"I helped gin cotton when I wasn't big enough to stand up to the breast. Stood upon a bench and had a lantern hung up so I could see fore daylight. Yes ma'm, great big gin house. Yes ma'm, I sho has worked—all kinds and plowin'.

"Now my old boss called me Tony—that's what he called me.

"When peace come, we had done gathered our crop and we left there a week later. You know people usually hunts their kinfolks and we went to Hernando. Come to Arkansas in '77. Got offin de boat right der at de cotehouse. Pine Bluff wasn't nothin' when I come here.

"I used to vote. I aimed to vote the Republican ticket—I don't know.

"Oh yes ma'm, I seed the Ku Klux, yes ma'm. They're bad, too. Lord I seed a many of them. They come to my house. I went to the door and that's as far as I went. That was in Hernando. I went back to my old home in Hernando bout three months ago. Went where I was bred and born but I didn't know the place it was tore up so.

"This younger generation whole lot different from when I was comin' up. Yes'm, it's a whole lot different. They ain't doin' so well. I have always tended to my own business. Cose I been arrested for drivin' mules with sore shoulders. Didn't put me in jail, but the officers come up. That was when I was workin' on the Lambert place. I told em they wasn't my mules so they let me go.

"I can't tell you bout the times now. I hope it'll get better—can't get no wusser."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Vergil Jones, Brinkley, Arkansas Age: 70

"My parents was Jane Jones and Vergil Jones. Their owner was Colonel Jones in Alabama. Papa went to the war and served four years. He got a $30 a month Union pension long as he lived. He was in a number of places. He fought as a field man. He had a long musket he brought home from the war. He told us a heap of things long time ago. Seem lack folks set down and talked wid their children more'n they do nowdays.

"Papa come to this State after the surrender. He married here. I am the oldest of seven children. Mama was in this State before the war. She was bought when she was a girl and brought here. I don't know if Colonel Jones owned her or if papa had seen her somewhere else. He come to her and they married. My mama was a house girl some and she washed and ironed for Miss Fannie Lambert. They had a big family and a big farm. Their farm was seven miles this side of Indian Bay, eight miles to Clarendon. They had thirteen in family and mama had seven children made nine in her family. She had a bed piled full of starched clothes white as snow. Lamberts had three sets of twins. Our family lived with the Lamberts 23 or 24 years. We started working for Mr. B. J. Lambert and Miss Fannie (his wife). Mama nursed me and R. T. from the same breast. We was raised up grown together and I worked for R. T. till he died. We played with J. L. Black too till he was grown. He was county judge and sheriff of this county (Monroe).

"Folks that helped me out is about all dead. I pick cotton but I can't pick very much. Now I don't have no work till chopping cotton times comes on. It is hard now. I would do jobs but I don't hear of no jobs to be done. I asked around but didn't find a thing to do.

"I heard about the Ku Kluxes. My papa used to dodge the Ku Kluxes. He lay out in the bushes from them. It was bad times. Some folks would advise the black folks to do one way and then the Ku Kluxes come and make it hot for them. One thing the Ku Kluxes didn't want much big gatherings among the black folks. They break up big gatherings. Some white folks tell them to do one thing and then some others tell them to do some other way. That is the way it was. The Ku Kluxes was hot headed. Papa wasn't a bad man but he was afraid they did do so much. He was on the lookout and dodged them all the time.

"I haven't voted for a long time. I couldn't keep my taxes up.

"I don't own a home. I pay $4 rent for it. It is a cold house—not so good. I have farmed all my life. I still farm. Times got so that nobody would run you (credit you) and I come here to get jobs between farming. I still farm. They hire mostly by the day—day labor. Them two things and my dis'bility is making it mighty hard for me to live. I work at any jobs I can get.

"I signed up for the Old Age Pension. They said I couldn't work, I was too old. I wanted to work on the government work. I never got nothing. I don't get no kind of help. I thought I didn't know how to get into the Old Age Pension reason I didn't get it. It would help keep in wood this wet weather when work is scarce."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Walter Jones, Brinkley, Arkansas Age: 72

"My father run away scared of the Yankees. He got excited and left. My mother didn't want him to leave her. She was crying when he left. My father belong to the Wilsons. Mother was sold on the block in Richmond, Virginia when she was twelve years old and never seen her mother again. Mother belong to Charles Hunt. Her name was Lucy Hunt. She married three times. Charles Hunt went to market to buy slaves. We lived in Hardeman County, Tennessee when I was born but he sent us to Mississippi. She worked in the field then but before then she was a house girl. No, she was black. We are all African.

"I got eight children. When my wife died they finished scattering out. I come here from Grand Junction, Mississippi. I eat breakfast on Christmas day 1883 at Forrest City and spent the day at Hazen. I come with friends. We paid our own ways. We come on the train and boat and walked some.

"No, I don't take stock in voting. I never did. I have voted so long ago I forgot it all.

"The biggest thing I can tell you ever happened to us more than I told you was in 1878 I had yellow fever. Dr. Milton Pruitt come to see me. The next day his brother come to see me. Dr. Milton died the next day. I got well. At Grand Junction both black and white died. Some of both color got well. A lot of people died.

"How am I making a living? I don't make one. Mr. Ashly lets me live in a house and gives me scrap meat. I bottom chairs or do what I can. I past heavy work. The Welfare don't help me. I farmed, railroaded nearly all my life. Public work this last few years."



Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Oscar Felix Junell 1720 Brown Street, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: 60

"My father's name was Peter Junell, Peter W. Junell. I don't know what the W. was for. He was born in Ouachita County near Bearden, Arkansas. Bearden is an old town. It is fourteen miles from Camden. My dad was seventy-five years old when he died. He died in 1924. He was very young in the time of slavery. He never did do very much work.

"His master was named John Junell. That was his old master. He had a young master too, Warren Junell. His old master given him to his young master, Warren. My father's mother and father both belonged to the Junells. His mother's name was Dinah, and his father's name was Anthony. All the slaves took their last names after their owners. They never was sold, not in any time that my father could remember.

"As soon as my father was large enough to go to walkin' about, his old master given him to his son, Master Warren Junell. Warren would carry him about and make him rassle (wrestle). He was a good rassler. As far as work was concerned, he didn't do nothing much of that. He just followed his young master all around rasslin.

"His masters was good to him. They whipped slaves sometimes, but they were considered good. My father always said they was good folks. He never told me how he learnt that he was free.

"Pretty well all the slaves lived in log cabins. Even in my time, there was hardly a board house in that county. The food the slaves ate was mostly bread and milk—corn bread. Old man Junell was rich and had lots of slaves. When he went to feed his slaves, he would feed them jus like hogs. He had a great long trough and he would have bread crumbled up in it and gallons of milk poured over the bread, and the slaves would get round it and eat. Sometimes they would get to fighting over it. You know, jus like hogs! They would be eatin and sometimes one person would find somethin and get holt of it and another one would want to take it, and they would get to fightin over it. Sometimes blood would get in the trough, but they would eat right on and pay no 'tention to it.

"I don't know whether they fed the old ones that way or not. I jus heered my father tell how he et out of the trough hisself.

"I have heered my father talk about the pateroles too. He talked about how they used to chase him. But he didn't have much experience with them, because they never did catch him. That was after the war when the slaves had been freed, but the pateroles still got after them. My father remember how they would catch other slaves. One night they went to an old man's house. It was dark and the old man told them to come on in. He didn't have no gun, but he took his ax and stood behind the door on the hinge side. It was after slavery. When he said for them to come in, they rushed right on in and the old man killed three or four of them with his ax. He was a old African, and they never had been able to do nothin' with him, not even in slavery time. I never heard that they did nothin' to the old man about it. The pateroles was outlaws anyway.

"I heard my father say that in slavery time, they took the finest and portlies' looking Negroes—the males—for breeding purposes. They wouldn't let them strain themselves up nor nothin like that. They wouldn't make them do much hard work."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Sam Keaton, Brinkley, Ark. Age: 78

"I was born close to Golden Hill down in Arkansas County. My parents names was Louana and Dennis Keaton. They had ten children. Their master was Mr. Jack Keaton and Miss Martha. They had four boys. They all come from Virginia in wagons the second year of the war—the Civil War. I heard 'em tell about walking. Some of em walked, some rode horse back and some in wagons. I don't know if they knowed bout slave uprisings or not. I know they wasn't in em because they come here wid Mr. Jack Keaton. It was worse in Virginia than it was down here wid them. Mr. Keaton didn't give em nothing at freedom. They stayed on long as they wanted to stay and then they went to work for Mr. Jack Keaton's brother, Mr. Ben Keaton. They worked on shares and picked cotton by the hundred. My parents staid on down there till they died. I been working for Mr. Floria for thirty years.

"My father did vote. He voted a Republican ticket. I haven't voted for fifty years. They that do vote in the General election know very little bout what they doing. If they could vote in the Primary they would know but a mighty little about it. The women ain't got no business voting. Their place is at home. They cain't keep their houses tidied up and like they oughter be and go out and work regularly. That's the reason I think they oughter stay at home and train the children better than it being done.

"I think that the young generation is going to be lost. They killing and fighting. They do everything. No, they don't work much as I do. They don't save nothing! They don't save nothing! Times is harder than they used to be some. Nearly everybody wants to live in town. My age is making times heap harder for me. I live with my daughter. I am a widower. I owns 40 acres land, a house, a cow. I made three bales cotton, but I owe it bout all. I tried to get a little help so I could get out of debt but I never could get no 'sistance from the Welfare."



Interviewer: Watt McKinney Person interviewed: Tines Kendricks, Trenton, Arkansas Age: 104

"My name is Tines Kendricks. I was borned in Crawford County, Georgia. You see, Boss, I is a little nigger and I really is more smaller now dan I used to be when I was young 'cause I so old and stooped over. I mighty nigh wore out from all these hard years of work and servin' de Lord. My actual name what was give to me by my white folks, de Kendricks, was 'Tiny'. Dey called me dat 'cause I never was no size much. Atter us all sot free I just changed my name to 'Tines' an' dats what I been goin' by for nigh on to ninety years.

"'Cordin' to what I 'member 'bout it, Boss, I is now past a hundred and four year old dis past July de fourth two hours before day. What I means is what I 'member 'bout what de old mars told me dat time I comed back to de home place atter de War quit an' he say dat I past thirty then. My mammy, she said I born two hours before day on de fourth of July. Dat what dey tole me, Boss. I is been in good health all my days. I ain't never been sick any in my life 'scusin' dese last years when I git so old and feeble and stiff in de joints, and my teef 'gin to cave, and my old bones, dey 'gin to ache. But I just keep on livin' and trustin' in de Lord 'cause de Good Book say, 'Wherefore de evil days come an' de darkness of de night draw nigh, your strength, it shall not perish. I will lift you up 'mongst dem what 'bides wid me.' Dat is de Gospel, Boss.

"My old mars, he was named Arch Kendricks and us lived on de plantation what de Kendricks had not far from Macon in Crawford County, Georgia. You can see, Boss, dat I is a little bright an' got some white blood in me. Dat is 'counted for on my mammy's side of de family. Her pappy, he was a white man. He wasn't no Kendrick though. He was a overseer. Dat what my mammy she say an' then I know dat wasn't no Kendrick mixed up in nothin' like dat. Dey didn't believe in dat kind of bizness. My old mars, Arch Kendricks, I will say dis, he certainly was a good fair man. Old mis' an' de young mars, Sam, dey was strickly tough an', Boss, I is tellin' you de truth dey was cruel. De young mars, Sam, he never taken at all atter he pa. He got all he meanness from old mis' an' he sure got plenty of it too. Old mis', she cuss an' rare worse 'an a man. Way 'fore day she be up hollerin' loud enough for to be heered two miles, 'rousin' de niggers out for to git in de fields even 'fore light. Mars Sam, he stand by de pots handin' out de grub an' givin' out de bread an' he cuss loud an' say: 'Take a sop of dat grease on your hoecake an' move erlong fast 'fore I lashes you.' Mars Sam, he was a big man too, dat he was. He was nigh on to six an' a half feet tall. Boss, he certainly was a chile of de debbil. All de cookin' in dem days was done in pots hangin' on de pot racks. Dey never had no stoves endurin' de times what I is tellin' you 'bout. At times dey would give us enough to eat. At times dey wouldn't—just 'cordin' to how dey feelin' when dey dishin' out de grub. De biggest what dey would give de field hands to eat would be de truck what us had on de place like greens, turnips, peas, side meat, an' dey sure would cut de side meat awful thin too, Boss. Us allus had a heap of corn-meal dumplin's an' hoecakes. Old mis', her an' Mars Sam, dey real stingy. You better not leave no grub on your plate for to throw away. You sure better eat it all iffen you like it or no. Old mis' and Mars Sam, dey de real bosses an' dey was wicked. I'se tellin' you de truth, dey was. Old mars, he didn't have much to say 'bout de runnin' of de place or de handlin' of de niggers. You know all de property and all the niggers belonged to old mis'. She got all dat from her peoples. Dat what dey left to her on their death. She de real owner of everything.

"Just to show you, Boss, how 'twas with Mars Sam, on' how contrary an' fractious an' wicked dat young white man was, I wants to tell you 'bout de time dat Aunt Hannah's little boy Mose died. Mose, he sick 'bout er week. Aunt Hannah, she try to doctor on him an' git him well an' she tell old mis' dat she think Mose bad off an' orter have de doctor. Old mis', she wouldn't git de doctor. She say Mose ain't sick much, an' bless my Soul, Aunt Hannah she right. In a few days from then Mose is dead. Mars Sam, he come cussin' an' tole Gabe to get some planks an' make de coffin an' sont some of dem to dig de grave over dere on de far side of de place where dey had er buryin'-groun' for de niggers. Us toted de coffin over to where de grave was dug an' gwine bury little Mose dar an' Uncle Billy Jordan, he was dar and begun to sing an' pray an' have a kind of funeral at de buryin'. Every one was moanin' an' singin' an' prayin' and Mars Sam heard 'em an' come sailin' over dar on he hoss an' lit right in to cussin' an' rarein' an' say dat if dey don't hurry an' bury dat nigger an' shut up dat singin' an' carryin' on, he gwine lash every one of dem, an' then he went to cussin' worser an' 'busin' Uncle Billy Jordan. He say iffen he ever hear of him doin' any more preachin' or prayin' 'round 'mongst de niggers at de grave-yard or anywheres else, he gwine lash him to death. No suh, Boss, Mars Sam wouldn't even 'low no preachin' or singin' or nothin' like dat. He was wicked. I tell you he was.

"Old mis', she ginrally looked after de niggers when dey sick an' give dem de medicine. An' too, she would get de doctor iffen she think dey real bad off 'cause like I said, old mis', she mighty stingy an' she never want to lose no nigger by dem dyin'. How-some-ever it was hard some time to get her to believe you sick when you tell her dat you was, an' she would think you just playin' off from work. I have seen niggers what would be mighty near dead before old mis' would believe them sick at all.

"Before de War broke out, I can 'member there was some few of de white folks what said dat niggers ought to be sot free, but there was just one now an' then that took that stand. One of dem dat I 'member was de Rev. Dickey what was de parson for a big crowd of de white peoples in dat part of de county. Rev. Dickey, he preached freedom for de niggers and say dat dey all should be sot free an' gived a home and a mule. Dat preachin' de Rev. Dickey done sure did rile up de folks—dat is de most of them like de Kendricks and Mr. Eldredge and Dr. Murcheson and Nat Walker and such as dem what was de biggest of the slaveowners. Right away atter Rev. Dickey done such preachin' dey fired him from de church, an' 'bused him, an' some of dem say dey gwine hang him to a limb, or either gwine ride him on a rail out of de country. Sure enough dey made it so hot on dat man he have to leave clean out of de state so I heered. No suh, Boss, they say they ain't gwine divide up no land with de niggers or give them no home or mule or their freedom or nothin'. They say dey will wade knee deep in blood an' die first.

"When de War start to break out, Mars Sam listed in de troops and was sent to Virginny. There he stay for de longest. I hear old mis' tellin' 'bout de letters she got from him, an' how he wishin' they hurry and start de battle so's he can get through killin' de Yankees an' get de War over an' come home. Bless my soul, it wasn't long before dey had de battle what Mars Sam was shot in. He writ de letter from de hospital where they had took him. He say dey had a hard fight, dat a ball busted his gun, and another ball shoot his cooterments (accouterments) off him; the third shot tear a big hole right through the side of his neck. The doctor done sew de wound up; he not hurt so bad. He soon be back with his company.

"But it wasn't long 'fore dey writ some more letters to old mis' an' say dat Mars Sam's wound not gettin' no better; it wasn't healin' to do no good; every time dat they sew de gash up in his neck it broke loose again. De Yankees had been puttin' poison grease on the bullets. Dat was de reason de wound wouldn't get well. Dey feared Mars Sam goin' to die an' a short time atter dat letter come I sure knowed it was so. One night just erbout dusk dark, de screech owls, dey come in er swarm an' lit in de big trees in de front of de house. A mist of dust come up an' de owls, dey holler an' carry on so dat old mars get he gun an' shot it off to scare dem erway. Dat was a sign, Boss, dat somebody gwine to die. I just knowed it was Mars Sam.

"Sure enough de next day dey got de message dat Mars Sam dead. Dey brung him home all de way from Virginny an' buried him in de grave-yard on de other side of de garden wid his gray clothes on him an' de flag on de coffin. That's what I'se telling you, Boss, 'cause dey called all de niggers in an' 'lowed dem to look at Mars Sam. I seen him an' he sure looked like he peaceful in he coffin with his soldier clothes on. I heered atterwards dat Mars Sam bucked an' rared just 'fore he died an' tried to get outen de bed, an' dat he cussed to de last.

"It was this way, Boss, how come me to be in de War. You see, they 'quired all of de slaveowners to send so many niggers to de army to work diggin' de trenches an' throwin' up de breastworks an' repairin' de railroads what de Yankees done 'stroyed. Every mars was 'quired to send one nigger for every ten dat he had. Iffen you had er hundred niggers, you had to send ten of dem to de army. I was one of dem dat my mars 'quired to send. Dat was de worst times dat dis here nigger ever seen an' de way dem white men drive us niggers, it was something awful. De strap, it was goin' from 'fore day till 'way after night. De niggers, heaps of 'em just fall in dey tracks give out an' them white men layin' de strap on dey backs without ceastin'. Dat was zackly way it was wid dem niggers like me what was in de army work. I had to stand it, Boss, till de War was over.

"Dat sure was a bad war dat went on in Georgia. Dat it was. Did you ever hear 'bout de Andersonville prison in Georgia? I tell you, Boss, dat was 'bout de worstest place dat ever I seen. Dat was where dey keep all de Yankees dat dey capture an' dey had so many there they couldn't nigh take care of them. Dey had them fenced up with a tall wire fence an' never had enough house room for all dem Yankees. They would just throw de grub to 'em. De mostest dat dey had for 'em to eat was peas an' the filth, it was terrible. De sickness, it broke out 'mongst 'em all de while, an' dey just die like rats what been pizened. De first thing dat de Yankees do when dey take de state 'way from de Confedrits was to free all dem what in de prison at Andersonville.

"Slavery time was tough, Boss. You Just don't know how tough it was. I can't 'splain to you just how bad all de niggers want to get dey freedom. With de 'free niggers' it was just de same as it was wid dem dat was in bondage. You know there was some few 'free niggers' in dat time even 'fore de slaves taken outen bondage. It was really worse on dem dan it was with dem what wasn't free. De slaveowners, dey just despised dem 'free niggers' an' make it just as hard on dem as dey can. Dey couldn't get no work from nobody. Wouldn't airy man hire 'em or give 'em any work at all. So because dey was up against it an' never had any money or nothin', de white folks make dese 'free niggers' sess (assess) de taxes. An' 'cause dey never had no money for to pay de tax wid, dey was put up on de block by de court man or de sheriff an' sold out to somebody for enough to pay de tax what dey say dey owe. So dey keep these 'free niggers' hired out all de time most workin' for to pay de taxes. I 'member one of dem 'free niggers' mighty well. He was called 'free Sol'. He had him a little home an' a old woman an' some boys. Dey was kept bounded out nigh 'bout all de time workin' for to pay dey tax. Yas suh, Boss, it was heap more better to be a slave nigger dan er free un. An' it was really er heavenly day when de freedom come for de race.

"In de time of slavery annudder thing what make it tough on de niggers was dem times when er man an' he wife an' their chillun had to be taken 'way from one anudder. Dis sep'ration might be brung 'bout most any time for one thing or anudder sich as one or tudder de man or de wife be sold off or taken 'way to some other state like Louisiana or Mississippi. Den when a mars die what had a heap of slaves, these slave niggers be divided up 'mongst de mars' chillun or sold off for to pay de mars' debts. Then at times when er man married to er woman dat don't belong to de same mars what he do, then dey is li'ble to git divided up an' sep'rated most any day. Dey was heaps of nigger families dat I know what was sep'rated in de time of bondage dat tried to find dey folkses what was gone. But de mostest of 'em never git togedder ag'in even after dey sot free 'cause dey don't know where one or de other is.

"Atter de War over an' de slaves taken out of dey bondage, some of de very few white folks give dem niggers what dey liked de best a small piece of land for to work. But de mostest of dem never give 'em nothin' and dey sure despise dem niggers what left 'em. Us old mars say he want to 'range wid all his niggers to stay on wid him, dat he gwine give 'em er mule an' er piece er ground. But us know dat old mis' ain't gwine agree to dat. And sure enough she wouldn't. I'se tellin' you de truth, every nigger on dat place left. Dey sure done dat; an' old mars an' old mis', dey never had a hand left there on that great big place, an' all that ground layin' out.

"De gov'ment seen to it dat all of de white folks had to make contracts wid de niggers dat stuck wid 'em, an' dey was sure strict 'bout dat too. De white folks at first didn't want to make the contracts an' say dey wasn't gwine to. So de gov'ment filled de jail with 'em, an' after that every one make the contract.

"When my race first got dey freedom an' begin to leave dey mars', a heap of de mars got ragin' mad an' just tore up truck. Dey say dey gwine kill every nigger dey find. Some of them did do dat very thing, Boss, sure enough. I'se tellin' you de truth. Dey shot niggers down by de hundreds. Dey jus' wasn't gwine let 'em enjoy dey freedom. Dat is de truth, Boss.

"Atter I come back to de old home place from workin' for de army, it wasn't long 'fore I left dar an' git me er job with er sawmill an' worked for de sawmill peoples for about five years. One day I heered some niggers tellin' about er white man what done come in dar gittin' up er big lot of niggers to take to Arkansas. Dey was tellin' 'bout what a fine place it was in Arkansas, an' how rich de land is, an' dat de crops grow without working, an' dat de taters grow big as er watermelon an' you never have to plant 'em but de one time, an' all sich as dat. Well, I 'cided to come. I j'ined up with de man an' come to Phillips County in 1875. Er heap er niggers come from Georgia at de same time dat me an' Callie come. You know Callie, dats my old woman whats in de shack dar right now. Us first lived on Mr. Jim Bush's place over close to Barton. Us ain't been far off from dere ever since us first landed in dis county. Fact is, Boss, us ain't been outen de county since us first come here, an' us gwine be here now I know till de Lord call for us to come on home."



FOLKLORE SUBJECTS Name of interviewer: Watt McKinney Subject: Superstitious beliefs Story—Information (If not enough space on this page, add page)

This information given by: Tines Kendricks (C) Place of residence: Trenton, Arkansas Occupation: None Age: 104 [TR: Personal information moved from bottom of form.]

There is an ancient and traditional belief among the Southern Negroes, especially the older ones, that the repeated and intermitted cries of a whippoorwill near a home in the early evenings of summer and occurring on successive days at or about the same time and location; or the appearance of a highly excited redbird, disturbed for no apparent reason, is indicative of some imminent disaster, usually thought to be the approaching death of some member of the family.

Tines Kendricks, who says that he was born the slave of Arch Kendricks in Crawford County, Georgia, two hours before day on a certain Fourth of July, one hundred and four years ago, recalls several instances in his long and eventful life in which he contends the accuracy of these forecasts was borne out by subsequent occurrences. The most striking of these he says was the time his young master succumbed from the effect of a wound received at the first battle of Manassas after hovering between life and death for several days. The young master, Sam Kendricks, who was the only son of his parents, volunteered at the beginning of the War and was attached to the army in Virginia. He was a very impetuous, high-spirited young man and chafed much under the delay occasioned between the time of his enlistment and first battle, wanting to have the trouble over with and the difficulties settled which he honestly thought could be accomplished in the first engagement with that enemy for whom he held such profound contempt. Sam Kendricks, coming as he did from a long line of slave-owning forebears, was one of those Southerners who felt that it was theirs to command and the duty of others to obey. They would brook no interference with the established order and keenly resented the attitude and utterances of Northern press and spokesmen on the slavery question. Tines Kendricks recalls the time his young master took leave of his home and parents for the war and his remarks on departing that his neck was made to fit no halter and that he possessed no mite of fear for Yankee soldier or Yankee steel. Soon after the battle of Manassas, Arch Kendricks was advised that Sam had suffered a severe wound in the engagement. It was stated, however, that the wound was not expected to prove fatal. This sad news of what had befallen the young master was soon communicated throughout the entire length and breadth of the great plantation and in the early evening of that day Tines sitting in the door of his cabin in the slave quarters a short distance from the master's great house heard the cry of a whippoorwill and observed that the voice of this night bird seemed to arise from the dense hedge enclosing the spacious lawn in front of the home. Disturbed and filled with a sense of foreboding at this sound of the bird, he earnestly hoped and prayed that the cry would not be repeated the following evening, but to his great disappointment it was heard again and nearer the house than before. On each succeeding evening according to Tines Kendricks the call of the bird came clearly through the evening's stillness and each time he noticed that the cry came from a spot nearer the home until at last the bird seemed perched beneath the wide veranda and early on the morning following, a very highly excited redbird darted from tree to tree on the front lawn. The redbird continued these peculiar actions for several minutes after which it flew and came to rest on the roof of the old colonial mansion directly above the room formerly occupied by the young master. Tines was convinced now that the end had come for Sam Kendricks and that his approaching death had been foretold by the whippoorwill and that each evening as the bird approached nearer the house and uttered his night cry just so was the life of young Sam Kendricks slowly nearing its close and the actions of the redbird the following day was revealing evidence to Tines that the end had come to his young master which indeed it had as proven by a message the family received late in the morning of this same day.



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Frank Kennedy, Holly Grove, Arkansas Age: 65 or 70?

"My parents' name was Hannah and Charles Kennedy. They b'long to Master John Kennedy. I was raised round Aberdeen, Mississippi but they come in there after freedom. I heard em talk but I couldn't tell you much as where they come from. They said a young girl bout got her growth would auction off for more than any man. They used em for cooks and house women. I judge way they talked she be fifteen or sixteen years old. They brought $1,600 and $2,000. If they was scared up, where they been beat, they didn't sell off good. I knowed Master John Kennedy.

"The Ku Klux come round but they didn't bother much. They would bother if you stole something. Another thing they made em stay close bout their own places and work. I don't know bout freedom.

"I been farmin' and sawmillin' at Clarendon. I gets jobs I can do on the farms now. I got rheumatism so I can't get round. I had this trouble five years or longer now.

"The times is worse, so many folks stealin' and killin'. The young folks don't work steady as they used to. Used to get figured out all you raised till now they refuse to work less en the money in sight. They don't work hard as I allers been workin'.

"I got one girl married. I don't have no land nor home. I works for all I have yet.

"I have voted—not lately. I think my color outer vote like the white folks do long as they do right. The women takin' the mens' places too much it pears like. But they may be honester. I don't know how it will be."



Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Mrs. A. (Adrianna) W. Kerns 800 Victory Street, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: 85

"When they first put me in the field, they put me and Viney to pick up brush and pile it, to pick up stumps, and when we got through with that, she worked on her mother's row and I worked on my aunt's row until we got large enough to have a row to ourselves. Me and Viney were the smallest children in the field and we had one row each. Some of the older people had two rows and picked on each row.

"My birthday is on the fourth of November, and I am eighty-five years old. You can count back and see what year I was born in.

Relatives

"My mother's first child was her master's child. I was the second child but my father was Reuben Dortch. He belonged to Colonel Dortch. Colonel Dortch died in Princeton, Arkansas, Dallas County, about eighty-six miles from here. He died before the War. I never saw him. But he was my father's first master. He used to go and get goods, and he caught this fever they had then—I think it was cholera—and died. After Colonel Dortch died, his son-in-law, Archie Hays, became my father's second master. Were all with Hays when we were freed.

"My father's father was a white man. He was named Wilson Rainey. I never did see him. My mother has said to me many a time that he was the meanest man in Dallas County. My father's mother was named Viney. That was her first name. I forget the last name. My mother's name was Martha Hays, and my grandmother's name on my mother's side was Sallie Hays. My maiden name was Adrianna Dortch.

A Devoted Slave Husband

"I have heard my mother tell many a time that there was a slave man who used to take his own dinner and carry it three or four miles to his wife. His wife belonged to a mean white man who wouldn't give them what they needed to eat. He done without his dinner in order that she might have enough. Where would you find a man to do that now? Nowadays they are taking the bread away from their wives and children and carrying it to some other woman.

Patrollers

"A Negro couldn't leave his master's place unless he had a pass from his master. If he didn't have a pass, they would whip him. My father was out once and was stopped by them. They struck him. When my father got back home, he told Colonel Dortch and Colonel Dortch went after them pateroles and laid the law down to them—told them that he was ready to kill 'em.