"My daddy, he was a prayin man. Lord knows, he was a prayin man. Seems like de old people could beat de young folks a prayin up a stump any day. I remember, my daddy come here to de white people church to Tabernacle one night en time dem people see him, dey say, 'Uncle Peter, de Lord sho send you cause ain' nobody but you can pray dese sinners out of hell here tonight.' God knows dat man could sing en pray. Lord, he could pray. Oh, darlin child, dat man prayed bout all de time. Prayed every mornin en every night en when us would come out de field at 12 o'clock, us had to hear him pray fore he ever did allow us to eat near a morsel. Sis, I remember one day, when dey first started we chillun a workin in de field, I come to de house 12 o'clock en I was so hungry, I was just a poppin. God knows, people don' serve de Lord like dey used to."

"Sis, you wants dat one patch, too. Lord Jesus, dere ain' no limit to dis one. Sis, I must be come here on Saturday cause everywhe' I goes, I has to work. Hear talk, if you born on a Saturday, you gwine have to work hard for what you get all your days. I been doin somethin ever since I been big enough to know I somebody. Remember de first thing I ever do for a white woman. Ma come home en say, 'Heddie, get up in de mornin en wash your face en hands en go up to Miss Rogers en do everything just like she say do.' I been know I had to do dat, too, cause if I never do it, I know I would been whip from cane to cane. When I got dere, I open de gate en look up en dere been de new house en dere been de old one settin over dere what dey been usin for de kitchen den. I won' thinkin bout nothin 'cept what Miss Rogers was gwine say en when I been walk in dat gate, dere a big bulldog flew up in my head. I stop en look at him en dat dog jump en knock me windin en grabbed my foot in his mouth. Yes'um, de sign dere yet whe' he gnawed me. White folks tell me I been do wrong. Say, don' never pay no attention to a dog en dey won' bother up wid you. But, honey, dat dog had a blue eye en a pink eye. Ain' never see a dog in such a fix since I been born. I tell you, if you is crooked, white folks will sho straighten you out. Dat dog taught me all I is ever wanted to know. Lord, Miss Mary, I been love dat woman. De first time I ever see her, she say, 'You ain' got no dress to wear to Sunday School, I gwine give you one.' Yes, mam, Miss Mary dress me up en de Lord knows, I ain' never quit givin her de praise yet.

"Yes'um, de Yankees, I hear my daddy talk bout when dey come through old Massa's plantation en everything what dey do. Say, dere was a old woman dat was de cook to de big house en when dem Yankees come dere dat mornin, white folks had her down side de cider press just a whippin her. Say, de Yankees took de old woman en dressed her up en hitched up a buggy en made her set up in dere. Wouldn' let de white folks touch her no more neither. Oh, de place was just took wid dem, he say. What dey never destroy, dey carried off wid dem. Oh, Lord a mercy, hear talk dere was a swarm of dem en while some of dem was in de house a tearin up, dere was a lot of dem in de stables takin de horses out. Yes'um, some was doin one thing en some another. En Pa tell bout dey had de most sense he ever did see. Hitched up a cart en kept de path right straight down in de woods en carted de corn up what de white folks been hide down dere in de canebrake. Den some went in de garden en dug up a whole lot of dresses en clothes. En dere was a lady in de house sick while all dis was gwine on. Oh, dey was de worst people dere ever was, Pa say. Took all de hams en shoulders out de smokehouse en like I tell you, what dey never carried off, dey made a scaffold en burned it up. Lord, have mercy, I hopes I ain' gwine never have to meet no Yankees."

Source: Heddie Davis, colored, age 72, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Jan., 1938.



Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C.

HENRY DAVIS EX-SLAVE 80 YEARS OLD.

Henry Davis is an old Negro, a bright mulatto, who lives in a two-room frame house on the farm of Mr. Amos E. Davis, about two miles southwest of Winnsboro, S. C.

In the house with him, are his wife, Rosa, and his grown children, Roosevelt, Utopia, and Rose. They are day laborers on the farm. At this period, Henry picks about seventy-five pounds of cotton a day. His children average one hundred and fifty pounds each. The four together are thus enabled to gather about five hundred and twenty-five pounds per day, at the rate of sixty-five cents per hundred. This brings to the family, a daily support of $3.41. This is seasonal employment, however; and, as they are not a provident household, hard times come to Henry and his folks in the winter and early summer.

"I was born on de old Richard Winn plantation dat my master, Dr. W. K. Turner, owned and lived on. I was born de year befo' him marry Miss Lizzie Lemmon, my mistress in slavery time.

"My mother was name Mary and took de name of Davis, 'cause befo' freedom come, her was bought by my master, from Dr. Davis, near Monticello.

"I had a good many marsters and mistresses. Miss Minnie marry Dr. Scruggs. Miss Anna marry Mr. Dove. Miss Emma marry Mr. Jason Pope. Marse Willie K. marry a Miss Carroll up in York, S. C., and Marse Johnnie marry Miss Essie Zealy. My brothers and sisters was Minton, Ike, Martha, and Isabella.

"Who I marry and all 'bout it? How come you want to know dat? I 'clare! You think dat gwine to loosen me up? Well, I marry de 'Rose of Sharon' or I calls her dat when I was sparkin' her, though she was a Lemmon. Her was name Rose Lemmon. Lots of times she throw dat in my face, 'Rose of Sharon' when things go wrong. Then her git uppish and sniff, 'Rose of Sharon, my eye! You treats me lak I was a dogwood rose on de hillside or worse than dat, lak I was a Jimson weed or a rag weed.'

"My mammy and us chillun live in de yard not far from de kitchen. My mammy do de washin' and ironin'. Us chillun did no work. I ride 'round most of de time wid de doctor in his buggy and hold de hoss while he visit de patients. Just set up in de buggy and wait 'til him git ready to go to another place or go home.

"I 'member de Yankees comin' and searchin' de house, takin' off de cows, mules, hosses, and burnin' de gin-house and cotton. They say dat was General Sherman's orders. They was 'lowed to leave de dwellin' house standin', in case of a doctor or preacher.

"Miss Lizzie had a whole lot of chickens. Her always keep de finest pullets. She make pies and chicken salad out of de oldest hens. Dat February de Yankees got here, she done save up 'bout fifty pullets dat was ready to lay in March. A squad of Yankees make us chillun ketch every one and you know how they went 'way wid them pullets? They tie two on behind, in de rings of de saddle. Then they tie two pullets together and hang them on de saddle pommel, one on each side of de hosses neck. Dat throw them flankin' de hosses withers. I 'members now them gallopin' off, wid them chickens flutterin' and hollerin' whare, whare, whare, whare, whare!

"After slavery time, us live on de Turner place nigh onto thirty years and then was de time I go to see Rosa and court and marry her. Her folks b'long to de Lemmons and they had stayed on at de Lemmon's place. De white folks of both plantations 'courage us to have a big weddin'. Her white folks give her a trousseau and mine give me a bedstead, cotton mattress, and two feather pillows. Dat was a mighty happy day and a mighty happy night for de 'Rose of Sharon'. Her tells young niggers 'bout it to dis day, and I just sets and smokes my pipe and thinks of all de days dat am passed and gone and wonder if de nex' world gwine to bring us back to youth and strength to 'joy it, as us did when Rose and me was young.

"Does I 'members anything 'bout patrollers? 'Deed, I do! Marster didn't 'ject to his slaves gwine to see women off de place. I hear him say so, and I hear him tell more than once dat if he ever hear de patrollers a comin' wid blood hounds, to run to de lot and stick his foots in de mud and de dogs wouldn't follow him. Lots of run'ways tried it, I heard, and it proved a success and I don't blame them dogs neither."



Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C.

JESSE DAVIS EX-SLAVE 85 YEARS OLD.

Jesse Davis, one of the fast disappearing landmarks of slavery times, lives with his wife and son, in one of the ordinary two-room frame houses that dot, with painful monotony, the country farms of white landowners. The three attempt to carry on a one-horse farm of forty acres, about thirty acres in cotton and the remainder in corn. The standard of living is low. Jesse is cheerful, his wife optimistic with the expression that the Lord will provide, and their son dutiful and hopeful of the harvest. Their home is about ten miles southwest of Winnsboro, in the Horeb section of Fairfield County.

"Dere is some difficulty 'bout my age. Nigh as I can place it, I was born befo' de Civil War. I 'members 'tendin' to and milkin' de cows, and keepin' de calf off, drawin' water out de well, and bringin' in wood to make fires. I 'spects I's eighty-five, mountin' up in years.

"I lives on Mr. Eber Mason's place wid one of my chillun, a son name Mingo. Us all work on de place; run a farm on shares. I can't do much work and can't support myself. It's mighty hard to be 'pendent on others for your daily rations, even if them others is your own bone and flesh. I'd 'preciate sumpin' to help my son and wife carry on. Dats why I wants a pension. Do you 'spect God in His mercy will hear de prayer of dis feeble old believer? I don't beg people but de Bible give me a right to beg God for my daily bread. De Good Book say: 'Take no consarnment 'bout your raiment'. You can see from what I's got on, dat me nor nobody else, is much consarned 'bout dis raiment.

"My mammy b'long to de Smiths. My master was Dr. Ira Smith. My mistress was him wife, Miss Sarah. Deir chillun was: Marse Gad, Marse Jim, and Marse Billie. Marse Jim was de baker of dis town all his life, after de way of old-time oven-cookin', 'til Boy bread and Claussen bread wagons run him out of business. Him is now on de 'lief roll and livin' in de old McCreight house, de oldest house in Winnsboro.

"Dere was my young misses, Miss Lizzie and Miss Lennie. My mammy name Sarah, just lak old mistress name Sarah. Her b'long to marster and mistress but my pappy no b'long to them. Him b'long to de big bugs, de Davis family. Him was name Mingo, and after slavery him and all us take de name, de secon' name, Davis, and I's here today, Jesse Davis. See how dat work out to de name? Good Book again say: 'Good name better than riches; sweeter to de ear than honey-comb to de tongue.'

"You is well 'quainted wid Marse Amos Davis, ain't you? Well, his people was pappy's people. I had a brudder name Gabriel, tho' they called him Gabe. Another one name Chap; he got kilt while clearin' up a new ground. Sister Fannie marry a Ashford nigger. Marse Ira, de doctor, have a plantation near Jenkinsville, S. C.

"When de Yankees come thru, they come befo' de main army. They gallop right up, jump down and say: 'Hold dese hosses! Open dat smoke-house door!' They took what they could carry 'way. 'Bout dat time marster rode up from a sick call him been 'tendin' to. Course you know him was a doctor. They surround him, take his watch, money, and hoss, and ride 'way.

"De main army come nex' day, Saturday mornin' 'bout 8 o'clock. They spread deir tents and stay and camp 'til Monday mornin'. When they leave they carry off all de cows, hogs, mules, and hosses. Then they have us ketch de chickens, got them all, 'cept one old hen dat run under de house, and they didn't wait to git her. Marster have to go 'way up to Union County, where him have kin folks, to git sumpin' to eat.

"My marster was not big rich lak de Davises, de Means, and de Harpers, but him have all them people come to see him. Him know a heap of things dat they 'preciate. De way to dye cloth was one of dese secrets. Marster have a madder bed. Him take de roots of dat madder put them in de sun just lak you put out pieces of apples and peaches to make dried fruit. When them roots git right dry, him have them ground up fine as water-ground meal. He put de fine dust in a pot and boil it. When he want red cloth, he just drop de cloth in dat pot and it come out all red to suit you. Want it blue, him have a indigo patch for dat.

"I never hear anything 'bout alum dese days. Well, de slaves could take peach tree leaves and alum and make yellow cloth and old cedar tops and copperas and make tan cloth. Walnut stain and copperas and make any cloth brown. Sweet-gum bark and copperas and make any cloth a purple color. I 'member goin' wid one into de woods to git barks. One day old marster come 'cross a slippery elm tree. Him turn and command me to say right fast: 'Long, slim, slick saplin' and when I say long, slim, sick slaplin', him 'most kill hisself laughin'. You try dat now! You find it more harder to say than you think it is. Him give me a piece of dat bark to chew and I run at de mouth lak you see a hoss dat been on de range of wild clover all night and slobberin' at da bits.

"Yes sah, I b'longs to de church! My wife and son, Mingo, just us three in de house and de whole household jined de Morris Creek Baptist Church. What's my favorite song? None better than de one dat I'll h'ist right now. Go ahead? I thanks you. Listen:

'Am I born to die To lay dis body down A charge to keep I have A God to glorify.'

"You lak dat? Yes? You is praisin' me too highly I 'spect, but since you lak dat one just listen at dis one; maybe you change your mind, 'cause I's gwine to h'ist it a wee bit higher and put more of de spiritual in it. Ready? Yes? I stand up dis time.

'All de medicine you may buy All de doctors you may try Ain't gonna save you from de tomb Some day you got to lay down and die. De blood of de Son can only Save you from de doom! Some day you got to lay down and die.'

"You lak dat one? You just ought to hear my wife, Mingo, and Me, singin' dat 'round de fire befo' us go to bed.

"Well, I'll toddle 'long now. Good-bye."



Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, February 4, 1938

LIZZIE'S 'SPONSIBILITY

I.

The first scene of "Lizzie's 'Sponsibility" is that of the small, one room dwelling place of Lizzie Davis, aged colored woman of Marion, S. C. A disorderly, ill-lighted, crudely furnished room, saturated with the odor of food. Behind the front door stands a gayly colored iron bed, over which is thrown a piece of oilcloth to keep the rain from leaking on it. In the center of the room are several little quaint home-made stools and two broken rockers, while in one corner sits a roughly finished kitchen table, the dumping place of all small articles. Still in another corner, almost hidden from sight in the darkness, is the dim outline of an old trunk gaping open with worn out clothing, possibly the gift of some white person. A big fireplace in one side of the wall not only furnishes heat for the little room, but also serves as a cooking place for Lizzie to prepare her meals. On its hearth sits a large iron kettle, spider, and griddle, relics of an earlier day. The room is dimly lighted by the fire and from two small doors, together with a few tiny streaks that peep through at various cracks in the walls and top of house.

It is about 9 o'clock on a cold, drizzly morning in January, 1938. The little two room house, in which Lizzie rents one room for herself, displays an appearance of extreme coldness and dilapidation, as a visitor approaches the doorway on this particular morning. It is with somewhat of an effort that the visitor finally reaches the barred door of Lizzie's room, after making a skip here and there to keep from falling through the broken places in the little porch and at the same time trying to dodge the continual dripping of the rain through numerous crevices in the porch roof. Within is the sound of little feet scuffling about on the floor, the chatter of tiny children mixed with mumblings from Lizzie, and the noise of chairs and stools being roughly shoved about on the floor.

A rap on the door brings Lizzie, crippled up since she was twelve years of age, hobbling to the door. Taking her walking stick, she lifts the latch gently and the door opens slightly. A gray head appears through the crack of the door and Lizzie, peeping out from above her tiny rim spectacles, immediately recognizes her visitor. She offers her usual cheerful greeting and begins hastily to push the large wooden tubs from the door to make room for her visitor to enter, though it is with unusual hesitancy that she invites her guest to come in on this occasion.

Lizzie—Come in, Miss Davis. I feelin right smart dis mornin. How you been keepin yourself? Miss Davis, I regrets you have to find things so nasty up in here dis mornin, but all dis rainy weather got me obliged to keep dese old tubs settin all bout de floor here to try en catch up de water what drips through dem holes up dere. See, you twist your head up dat way en you can tell daylight through all dem cracks. Dat how I know when it bright enough to start to stir myself on a mornin.

Yes'um, I tell Miss Heddie here de other day dat I had promise you I was gwine study up some of dem old time songs to give you de next time you come back. Miss Heddie, she lookin to a right sharp age, I say. Yes'um, she been here a time, honey. I tell her to be gettin her dogs together cause I was sho gwine point her out to you de next time I see you.

I tell you, Miss Davis, I got a 'sponsibility put on me here to look after all dese chillun. Yes'um, it sho a 'sponsibility cause I think dere five of dem dere, en it de truth in de Lord sight, dey has me settin up so straight to keep a eye on dem dat I can' never settle my mind on nothin. Dey won' let me keep nothin clean. Ain' no use to scrub none, I say. You see, cripple up like I is, I ain' able to get no work off nowhe' en I keeps dem while dey parents work out. Dey mammas have a job to cook out en dey brings dem here bout 6 o'clock in de mornin for me to see after till dey get home in de afternoon. Cose dey helps me along, but it takes what little dey give me to keep dem chillun warm cause I has to try en keep a fire gwine, dey be so little. Dere Bertha Lee en Joseph, dey start gwine to school dis year en I has to see dey gets fix decent en march dem off to school every mornin. Dem other three dere, dey name: Possum en June en Alfred. Ain' but just one girl en dat—

(Lizzie's attention turns to June, who comes in crying from the back yard, where all the children went to play during Lizzie's conversation with her visitor).

Lizzie—What de matter wid you, June?

June—Aun' Izzie, Possum knock me wid de ax.

Lizzie—Great King! What a peculiar thing to hit you wid. How-come he to do dat?

June—He was bustin up dem stick out dere side de wood pile.

Lizzie—Oh, well, you just go en butt up on de ax. Dat ain' no fault of he own den. Clean up dat face en gwine on way from here.

(June, crying to himself, remains seated on the little stool).

Lizzie—Let me see now, Miss Davis, I tryin to get some of dem old time songs together to turn for you what you been axin me bout de other time you come here. Yes'um, I tryin to blow my dogs—

(Possum enters the room).

Possum—Aun' Izzie, I was bustin up dem splinters dat my daddy brung for you to cook wid en June come en set right under de ax.

Lizzie—Um-huh, ain' I tell you so? Whe' de ax, Possum? Fetch it here en put it in de corner. Ain' none of you had no business wid dat ax nohow. Ain' I tell you to mind your way round dat ax?

(Possum runs back out in the yard).

Lizzie—Like I tellin you, Miss Davis, if de people had a song in de old days, dey would put it down on a long strip called a ballad, but honey, I been through de hackles en I can' think of nothin like I used to could. Is anybody sing dis one for you, Miss Davis? It a old one, too, cause I used to hear—

(Alfred comes in to tell his tale).

Alfred—Aun' Izzie, June set on Possum's pile of splinters dat he was makin en Possum let de ax fall right on June's head.

Lizzie—Dey is cases, Miss Davis. I tellin you, dese chillun just gets everything off my mind. Most makes me forget to eat sometimes. Dere Miss Julia Woodberry, poor creature, she been down mighty sick en I ain' been able to go en see bout her no time. Don' know what ailin her cause I don' gets bout nowhe' much. No, mam, dese chillun don' have no manners to go visitin en I can' left dem here widout nobody to mind bout dat dey don' run—

Joseph—Aun' Izzie, I ain' gwine wear no coat to school dis mornin.

Lizzie—Boy, is you crazy? What de matter wid you, ain' you know de ground been white wid Jack Frost dis mornin? En you clean up dat nose fore you get dere to school, too. You ain' say your ma send you here widout no pocket rag to wipe your nose wid? You ma, she know better den to 'spect me to hunt rags for you. Come here en let me fasten up dat coat round de neck. You look like a turkey buzzard wid it gapin open dat way. Whe' Bertha Lee? It time both you been in dat road gwine to school dere.

(Bertha Lee and Joseph go out the door to leave for school).

Lizzie—Lord a mercy, Miss Davis, my mind just a windin. How dat song turn what I had for you?

One for Paul, En one for Sidas—

Lizzie—Joseph, how-come you ain' tell dese chillun good-bye?

Joseph—Good-bye Possum, good-bye June, good-bye Alfred.

Possum, June, Alfred—Good-bye Joseph.

Lizzie—Is you got dat one now, Miss Davis? What de next? Great Jeruselum! Dem chillun done carry dat tune way wid dem. I can' turn dat one to save my neck. Just can' come to de turn table as de old man would say. (12 o'clock mill whistle blows, time teller for many colored people of the community). Lord a mercy, what dat whistle say? It done come 12 o'clock en dat pot ain' thought bout to kick up none yet. I tell you, honey, it sho a 'sponsibility I got put on me here to cook for all dese chillun en see dey ration is cook mighty done, too, so as dey won' be gwine round gruntin wid dey belly hurtin all de evenin.

(Lizzie begins to stir up the fire to make the pot boil and her visitor decides to return later to hear the songs).

Date, February 7, 1938

II

It is a damp, chilly mornin about three weeks later, when Lizzie's visitor returns to hear her sing old time songs. June, Bertha Lee, and Alfred are playing in the street before the little house.

Visitor—Is Aun' Lizzie at home?

June, Alfred, Bertha Lee—Yes'um, she in dere. She in de house.

Visitor—You children better mind how you run about in all this damp weather, it might make you sick.

June—Possum's got de chicken pox.

Alfred—Possum's got de chicken pox.

June—Me sick, too.

Bertha Lee—I got a cold.

Alfred—I sick, too.

Visitor—Poor little Possum. Is he sick much?

Alfred—Yes'um, he stay right in dat room dere. (Room next to Lizzie's room with a separate front door).

Bertha Lee—He mamma had de chicken pox first en den Possum, he took down wid it.

June—Dere he now! Dere Possum! (Possum appears from around the corner of the house with both hands full of cold fish).

(Alfred goes to Lizzie's door to tell her that she has a visitor)

Alfred—Aun' Izzie, somebody out dere wanna see you.

Lizzie—Holy Moses! Who dat out dere? Boy, you ain' tellin me no story, is you? Mind you now, you tell me a story en I'll whip de grease out you.

Bertha Lee—Aun' Izzie, ain' nobody but Miss Davis out dere.

(Lizzie hobbles to the door on her stick).

Lizzie—How you is, Miss Davis? I ain' much to speak bout dis mornin. I tell you de truth, Miss Davis, dese chillun keeps me so worried up dat I don' know whe' half my knowin gone, I say. Great Lord a mercy, dere Possum out dere in de air now en he been puny, too.

Visitor—The children tell me Possum has the chicken pox.

Lizzie—No'um, he ain' got no chicken pox, Miss Davis. Dey thought he had it cause he mamma been ailin dat way, but I don' see nothin de matter wid him 'cept what wrong wid he mouth. Possum, stand back dere way from Miss Davis, I say. Yes'um, he been sorta puny like dis here last week. He mamma must been feed him too much en broke he mouth out dat—

June—Miss Davis, I know how to spell my name.

Bertha Lee—I know how to spell my name, too. Me likes to go to school.

Visitor—Oh, I think it is nice to like to go to school. What do you do at school?

June—Pull off your hat.

Bertha Lee—Us writes.

Visitor—Lizzie, how about those old time songs you promised to study up for me? You ought to have a mind running over with them by this time.

Lizzie—Lord, Lord, honey, I had study up a heap of dem old tunes here de other day, but I tellin you de truth, Miss Davis, dese chillun got me so crazy till nothin won stick—

(Willie, age 10, comes over to play with the children and begins to whistle.).

Lizzie—Willie, ain' you know it ill manners to whistle in anybody house? Dere now, it impolite to walk by anybody house whistlin, too. You is too big a boy for dat. Ain' gwine stand for you learnin dese chillun no such manners for me to beat it out dem. No, boy, mind yourself way from here now, I got to hunt up dat tune for Miss Davis. Yes'um, I got one of dem old tune poppin now. Let me see—Great Happy! Dat pot done gwine out all my sparks. (Lizzie rushes in the house to look after a pot that she hears boilin over on the fire).

June—Bertha Lee, de lady don' know whe' us sleeps, do she?

Bertha Lee—Dere us house over dere.

(Bertha Lee gets up to point the house out and June immediately slides into her seat on the bench next to the visitor).

Bertha Lee—Move way, June.

June—No, dis place whe' I been.

Bertha Lee—June, go further, I say.

June—No, Bertha Lee, dis whe' I been.

Bertha Lee—No, go further. (June holds his place) I go tell Aun' Izzie den.

Visitor—Tell Lizzie I'm waitin to hear that tune she promised to sing.

Bertha Lee—Aun' Izzie, June settin in my place.

Lizzie—Fetch yourself on back out dere now, Bertha Lee, en settle your own scrap. Ain' you shame of yourself en you bigger den June, too? Go way from here, I say. I ain' got no time to monkey up wid you. I got to get dese collards boilin hard, else dey ain' gwine get done time you chillun start puffin for your dinner. Go way, I tell you. Miss Davis, I comin toreckly.

(Bertha Lee returns to the porch quietly and takes her place on the opposite side of the visitor, while June clings to his place).

June—Miss Davis, does you know Mr. Rembert?

Visitor—Is he your father?

Bertha Lee and June—No, he ain' us daddy.

June—Mr. Rembert, he bought me everything I got. He shoe horses. Don' you know him now?

Bertha Lee—He bought June's sweater, but dem my overalls he got on.

June—Dem dere pretty buttons you got on you, Miss Davis.

Bertha Lee—Sho is, en dem little chain dere.

June—Me got a sweater just like her coat.

Bertha Lee—Ain' just like it.

June—It most like it.

Bertha Lee—No, it ain' cause dis here wool.

(Lizzie returns to the porch and sits on a little stool near her door).

Lizzie—Lord, Miss Davis, dat tune done left me. Now, de next time dat I get a tune in my mind. I gwine sho get somebody to place it for me. It de Lord truth, my mind gwine just so wid so much of chillun worryations till—

June—Me can sing.

Possum—Aun' Izzie, I ain' got nothin to eat.

(Lizzie returns to her room again to stir up the fire and get Possum some bread).

Bertha Lee—Sing den, June.

June—Un-uh, I can'. Aun' Izzie might hear me.

Bertha Lee—I gwine sing den.

June—

"I sees de lighthouse—amen, I sees de lighthouse—amen, I sees de lighthouse—amen."

(Lizzie and Possum return to porch. Possum has three muffins).

Lizzie—Clean up your nose dere, Alfred. Miss Davis, I ready. Sho got a mind to turn dat tune dis——

Alfred—Possum wouldn' fetch me no bread, Aun' Izzie.

Lizzie—Dere dey go again, Miss Davis. No, you can' have none of Possum's bread. Gwine on in dere en catch you a piece out your own pan. You eat up Possum's bread en den he'll be de one howlin bout he ain' got none.

(Alfred goes in the room and comes back with a biscuit).

Lizzie—I pretty certain I ready now, Miss Davis. Let dem all get dey belly full en den dey head won' be turnin so sharp. Dat how-come I tries—

Possum—Aun' Izzie, Alfred eatin June's bread.

Lizzie—Alfred, look here, boy, you know dat ain' none of your bread. You sho gwine get a lickin for dat. (Lizzie slaps him). Your ma, she ain' never left nothin but corn hoecake in your pan since you been born en you know dat, too. Dem chillun carries me in de clock sometimes, Miss Davis. Dis one en dat one callin me en de Lord help me, I forgets what I doin—Clean up dat nose dere, boy.

June—My nose clean.

Lizzie—Possum know I talkin to him. Get on in dere en tell Miss Mammie to give you a pocket rag, Possum. (Miss Mammie is Possum's aunt who came to spend the day with them).

Bertha Lee—

"Peter Rabbit, Ha! Ha! Ha! Make Your Ears Go, Flop! Flop! Flop!"

Lizzie—I has to ax you to bear wid me, Miss Davis. I sorry you come here on a dead shot en ain' gettin no birds. Lord knows, I tryin to get my mind—

June—Oo, Aun' Izzie, Joseph been cuttin out Willie's book.

(Lizzie's attention is attracted to Willie, who looks worried about his torn book.)

Lizzie—Great mercy, boy, you ought to have a pain in de chest. Look, you settin dere wid your bosom wide open. Fasten up your neck dere, I say.—Possum, come here, is you do like I tell you? Is you ax Miss Mammie for somethin to clean up dat nose wid?

Possum—Yes'um.

Lizzie—Look out now, I'll whip you for tellin a story. Whe' de rag? No, you ain' ax her neither. Gwine on en clean up dat nose fore I wear you out.

(Possum goes around corner of house).

Lizzie—Help me Lord not to forget it dis time. I sho got dat tune——

June—Aun' Izzie, Aun' Izzie, Possum fall in de tub of water what settin under de pump.

(Possum appears from around the corner of the house just at that moment drenched and almost frozen).

Lizzie—Great Lord a mercy! Possum, you looks like a drowned possum sho enough. Why ain' you do like I tell you to do? You know I don' never allow you chillun ramblin round dat pump tub no time. Ain' nobody want to drink out no tub you wash your snotty nose in. Fetch yourself in dere to de fire en dry yourself fore you is catch a death of cold. Gwine on, boy. Don' stand dere en watch me like a frizzle chicken. Dere Mr. John Fortune comin now. I gwine tell him to catch Possum en cook him up.

Possum—I gwine run.

Lizzie—You say you gwine run?

Possum—No'um, I ain' say I gwine run.

Lizzie—Mind you now, Possum, you know what I tell you bout a story-teller.

Mammie—Miss Lizzie, I just don' believe he know right from wrong.

Lizzie—Well, I gwine learn him den. Ain' nothin I despises worser den a story-teller. (Lizzie slaps Possum on the shoulder several times and sends him in the house to dry, shivering from both cold and fear.).

Lizzie—Miss Davis, Mr. John Fortune helps me out wonderfully wid dese chillun. Say, when dey bad, he gwine cook dem up en eat dem. Yes, mam, I tellin de truth, honey, dese chillun keeps me settin here listenin wid all my ears en lookin wid all my eyes, but dey is right sorta entertainin like. Yes'um, dey got so much of sense till dey done took what little I is had.

(Alfred comes running in and leans up on Lizzie).

Lizzie—Clean up dat snotty nose, Alfred. You ought to been name Snotty wid your mouth all de time lookin like you ain' hear tell of no pocket rag. Move way from dere, June. Don' blow your nose settin side Miss Davis.

Date, February 10, 1938

III

It is three days later. Lizzie is sitting on her little porch enjoying the warm sunshine of a bright February day. The children have gone just across the street to play on the sidewalk and while Lizzie keeps a watchful eye on them, she is trying once more to call back to her mind some of the old time songs that she used to sing in her early days. Her visitor sits on a bench nearby ready to make notes of these old songs as she sings them. Lizzie's attention is not only distracted by the children at intervals but also by different ones of her friends constantly passing along the street in front of the small home.

Lizzie—Lord, Miss Davis, look like everything a hustlin dis mornin. Yes'um, dis here Monday mornin en everybody is a bustlin gwine to see bout dey business. Seems like everything just gwine on, just gwine on. I tell you de truth, Miss Davis, I studied so hard bout dem songs de other night, I beg de Massa to show me de light en he hop me to recollect dis one for you. See, when you gets to de age I is, you is foolish—

(Joseph runs across the street to tell Lizzie something).

Joseph—Aun' Izzie, Possum teachin June to hit Jerry.

Lizzie—Uh-huh, I gwine sho beat him, too. (Lizzie turns to her visitor) Possum, he teachin June to knock dat little one wid de speckle coat on.

Visitor—Is he another child that you are taking care of?

Lizzie—No'um, he grandma raise him en de poor little creature, he don' have nobody to play wid. Look like nobody don' care when he come or whe' he go. I say, I tries to collect mine up en take care of dem cause it dis way, if you don' take time en learn chillun, dey old en dey ain' old; dey fool en dey ain' fool. Yes'um, I tryin to drill dem, Miss Davis, but it does take time en a little whip, too. Has to punish dem right smart sometimes. I tellin you, dem chillun sho a 'sponsibility. Dem what put all dem gray hair up dere on my topknot. I tell dis one en dat one to set to a certain place till I say to get up en den I'll get my studyin on somethin else en de child, he'll be out yonder—

(Heddie Davis, age 72, a neighbor of Lizzies, comes over to join in the conversation).

Lizzie—Here come de hoss (horse). Come in, Miss Heddie. Miss Davis wants us to sing one of dem old back tunes dis mornin.

Heddie—Well, I is studied up one tune what I been hear de old people sing when I wasn' nothin much more den a puppy—Lord a mercy, Miss Lizzie, dere dem people comin from de trial. Look, dere dey fetchin dat girl to Dr. Graham now. En my Lord, got de poor child's head all wrapped up dat way. Dat man, he ought to have he head plucked. He know better den to cut dat child so close de senses. Don' know what de matter wid de people nohow.

Lizzie—Ain' nothin but de devil, Miss—

(Boy, about 8 years old, comes across the street and hands Lizzie a bundle).

Pickle—Miss Lizzie, ma say dere your sewin.

Lizzie—Thank you, son, thank you a thousand times again. Tell your mamma de old hen a scratchin bout out dere in de yard now huntin de nest en ain' gwine be no long time fore I can be catchin her a chicken to put in de pot. Yes, Lord, I got to start savin dem egg dis very day for de settin. (Lizzie turns to her visitor on the porch and continues her conversation). Miss Rosa, she does do all my sewin for me en I generally gives her eggs for her kindness. I sorry dere so much of huntin egg de same day.

(Little boy, Pickle, looks disappointed and continues to hang around).

Bertha Lee—Aun' Izzie, sing somethin.

Lizzie—You want me to sing so bad, sugar, en I ain' know nothin neither. Heddie, turn me one.

Heddie—Gwine on en spill dat one yourself what you been tell me bout de other mornin en quit your pickin on me.

Lizzie—Well, I tryin to get myself together, but dere so much of travelin en so much of chillun, I can' collect—

Alfred—Aun' Izzie, can I go to whe' Jerry gone?

Lizzie—No, boy, you know I ain' got no mind to let you go runnin off dat way. (Lizzie calls to Mammie in the room). Mammie, look dere to de clock. I gettin in a fidget to get some of dese chillun way from here.

(Pickle still hangs around).

Lizzie—Joseph, come here.

Joseph—Un-uh.

Lizzie—Boy, don' you grunt at me dat way. Come here, I say. Go dere in de chicken house en hunt dat one egg en give it to Pickle to carry to he mamma.—Got to scatter dese chillun way from here—

Joseph—Here de egg, Aun' Izzie.

Lizzie—Fetch it dere to Pickle den. Boy, tell your mamma I sorry I ain' had no egg to send her 'cept just dat one nest egg. Tell her, when she buss dat egg, she better look right sharp en see is de hen ain' got it noways addle like cause—

Bertha Lee—Aun' Izzie, how my nose is?

Lizzie—Look bad. Gwine on in dere en clean your face up. I know you ain' gwine to school wid all dem crumbs stuck bout on your mouth. Joseph, gwine on in de house dere en put you on some more clothes. Gwine on in dere, I say. Don' stand dere on de street en strip.

Heddie—No, boy, don' pull off in no public.

Bertha Lee—Aun' Izzie, I gwine carry my bread to school wid me.

Lizzie—Hunt you a paper den. You can' go dere to school wid no handful of bread makin all dem chillun start mouthin round you. Joseph, get me a paper to put dis here child's bread in.

Joseph—Here, Bertha Lee. Here de paper.

Lizzie—Lord, Miss Davis, it a time. I tell you de truth, honey, dis here 'sponsibility got me tied both hand en foot. Ain' no rest nowhe'. I hates it you come here en ain' gettin nothin what you been aimin to catch. I gwine be ready toreckly though. Let me get dese chillun in de road en dem songs gwine start travelin out my head faster den lightnin—

Bertha Lee—Aun' Izzie, make Joseph come on.

Lizzie—Joseph, get in dat road dere side Bertha Lee. Now, you chillun make your tracks dere to school straight as you can go en if you stop dere to dat lady house en get a pecan, I gwine whip you hard as I can.

Joseph and Bertha Lee—Good-bye Possum, good-bye June, good-bye Alfred.

Possum, June, Alfred—Good-bye Joseph, good-bye Bertha Lee.

Lizzie—Here dat tune come buzzin now, Miss Davis. Is you got dis one?

Sunday Mornin Band!

"Oh, my sister, How you walk on de cross? Sunday mornin band! Oh, your feet might slip En your soul get lost. Sunday mornin band! Oh, what band, Oh, what band, Do you belong? What band! What band! Sunday mornin band!"

Heddie—Sis, you is done took de one I been how. I been expectin you was comin out wid one of dem old time reels you used to be a singin en a jiggin bout all de time.

Lizzie—Oh, I been know a heap of dem reels. Hoped sing dem behind de old folks back many a day cause us chillun wasn' never allowed to sing reels in dem days. See, old back people was more religious den dey is now. Yes, mam, dey been know what spell somethin in dat day en time. When dey would speak den, dey meant somethin, I tell you. People does just go through de motion dese days en don' have no mind to mean what dey talk. No, child, us didn' dar'sen to let us parents hear us sing no reels den. What dem old people didn' quarrel out us, dey whip out us. My father never wouldn' let we chillun go to no frolics, but us would listen from de house en catch what us could. I used to could turn a heap of dem reels, too, but he was so tight on us till everything bout left me. Lord, Heddie, give me a thought. You is de jiggin hoss. Hope me out, Heddie, hope me out.

(Heddie begins song and Lizzie joins in and finishes it).

"The blackest nigger I ever did see, He come a runnin down from Tennessee, His eye was red en his gum was blue, En God a mighty struck him, En his shirt tail flew. Meet me at de crossroads, For I'm gwine join de band. Um-huh! Um-huh! Um-huh!"

Lizzie—Great Lord a mercy, Miss Davis, dem kind of tune, dem sinful en wicked songs, dey what I used to turn fore I been big enough to know what been in dem. No, honey, I thank de good Lord to point me way from all dat foolishness en wickedness en I ain' gwine back to it neither.

"Lord, I know dat my time ain' long, Oh, de bells keep a ringin, Somebody is a dying, Lord, I know dat my time ain' long. (Repeat three times) Lord, I know dat my time ain' long, Oh, de hammer keep a knockin, Keep a knockin on somebody coffin, Lord, I know dat my time ain' long." (Repeat three times).

Lizzie—Lord, I sho know my time ain' long. De Lord say de way of de righteous prevaileth to eternal life en I know I right, people. Lord, I know I right. 'Sponsibility or no 'sponsibility, Lord, I seekin de Kingdom.

Source: Lizzie Davis, colored, 70-80 years, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Marion, S. C.



Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, December 13, 1937 No. Words —— Reduced from —— words Rewritten by ——

LIZZIE DAVIS Ex-Slave, Age 70 to 80

"No, mam, I couldn' exactly tell you how old I is cause my father, he been dead over 20 years en when us had a burnin out dere to Georgetown, Pa's Bible was destroyed den. Cose I don' remember myself, say, slavery time, but I can tell dat what I is hear de olden people talk bout been gwine on in dat day en time. No, mam, I want to suggest to you de best I can cause I might have to go back up yonder en tell it to be justified some of dese days."

"Oh, I been know your father en your grandfather en all of dem. Bless mercy, child, I don' want to tell you nothin, but what to please you. Lord, I glad to see your face. It look so lovin en pleasin, just so as I is always know you. Look like dere not a wave of trouble is ever roll 'cross your peaceful bosom."

"Now, like I speak to you, I don' know rightly bout my age, but I can tell you when dat shake come here, I been a missie girl. Oh, my Lord, I been just as proud en crazy in dem days. Wasn' thinkin nothin bout dat dese dark days was headin here. Yes, mam, I is always been afflicted ever since I been twelve years old, so dey tell me. You see, dat muscle right back dere in my foot, it grow crooked just like a hook. De doctor, he say dat if dey had kept me movin bout, it wouldn' been grow dat way. But my poor old mammy, she die while us was livin down dere to old man Foster Brown's plantation en dere won' no other hand gwine trouble dey way no time to lift me up. Oh, my mammy, she been name Katie Brown cause my parents, dey belonged to de old man Foster Brown in dey slavery day. Dat how-come I been raise up a country child dere on Mr. Brown's plantation. Another thing, like as you might be a noticin, I ain' never been married neither. No, mam, I ain' never been married cause I is always been use a stick in walkin in my early days en never didn' nobody want me. Yes, mam, I know I every bit of 70 or gwine on 80 years old to my mind en I think it a blessin de Lord preserve me dis long to de world. Cose I often wonders why de good Massa keep me here en take dem what able to work for demselves."

"Yes, honey, wid God harness on me, I come here to dis town a grown woman to live en I been livin right here by myself in dis same house near bout 20 years. Cose dere a little 12-year-old country girl dat stays here wid me while de school be gwine on so as to get some learnin. Yes'um, I pays $2.00 every month for dis here room en it ain' worth nothin to speak bout. Pap Scott's daughter stay in dat other room over dere. No, mam, dere ain' but just dese two rooms to de house. You, see, my buildin does leak en I has a big time some of dese days. See here, child, I has dis piece of oilcloth cross my bed en when it rains on a night, I sleeps in dat chair over dere en lets it drop on de oilcloth. Den when it comes a storm, my Lord, dere such a racket! I be settin here lookin for dat top up dere to be tumblin down on me de next crack en seems like it does give me such a misery in my head. Yes, mam, dat misery does strike me every time I hear tell bout dere a darkness in de cloud."

"Well, drawed up as I is, I ain' able to get no work worth much to speak bout dese days. It dis way, child, don' nobody like to see no old ugly crooked up creature like me round bout whe' dey be no time. Cose I sets here en does a washin now en den whe' de people gets push up, but don' get no regular work. Now, dem people over dere, I does dey washin mostly, but dey don' never be noways particular en stylish like en I don' have nothin much to worry wid. See, de lady, she don' go bout nowhe' much."

"Oh, Lord, dere my stove right dere, I say. Yes, mam, I cooks right here in de fireplace all de time. I got dat pot on dere wid some turnips a boilin now en it gettin on bout time I be mixin up dat bread, too, fore dat child be comin home from school hungry as a louse. I say, I got dis here old black iron spider en dis here iron griddle, too, what I does my bakin on cause you see, I come from way back yonder. Dem what de olden people used to cook on fore stoves ever been come here. Yes, mam, de spider got three legs dat it sets on en de griddle, dat what I makes dese little thin kind of hoecake on. See, when I wants to bake in de spider, I heaps my coals up in a pile dat way so as to set de spider on dem en pours de batter in de spider en puts de lid on. Den I rakes me up another batch of coals en covers de lid over wid dem. Do dat to make it get done on de top. Yes, mam, dat de kind of a spider dat de people used to cook dey cake in. Now, when I has a mind to cook some turnips or some collards, I makes dis here boil bread. Honey, dat somethin to talk bout eatin wid dem turnips. Ain' no trouble to mind it neither. First, I just washes my hands right clean like en takes en mixes up my meal en water together wid my hand till I gets a right stiff dough. Den I pinches off a piece de dough bout big as a goose egg en flattens it out wid my hand en drops it in de pot wid de greens. Calls dat boil dumplings. I think bout I got a mind dat I gwine cook some of dem in dat turnip pot directly, too. No, mam, I don' never eat dinner till it come bout time for de little girl to be expectin to be from school. Oh, my blessed, dem olden people sho know how to cook in dem days. Never didn' hear speak bout de cookin upsettin de people in dat day en time like it sets de people in a misery dese days. Dat how-come, I say, I ain' noways ailin in de inside cause it be dat I lives de olden way. Yes, child, de slavery people sho had de hand to cook. Dere ain' never been nothin cook nowhe' dat could satisfy a cravin like dat ash cake dat de people used to cook way back dere, I say. Oh, dey would mix up a batter just like dey was gwine make a hoecake en wrap it all up in oak leaves or a piece of dis here heavy brown paper en lay it in de hot ashes. Den dey would rake some more hot ashes all over de top of it. Yes'um, de dampness out de hoecake would keep de wrappin wet en when it would get done, de paper would peel right off it. I tell you, honey, I mighty glad I been come along in dat day en time. Mighty thankful I been a child of de olden ways."

"Yes, child, de people what been raise de slavery way, dey been have a heap of curious notions en some of dem was good, I say. Yes, mam, dere one sign dat I remembers bout en I follows dat up right sharp dese days. I sho watches dat closely. Say, somebody have a mouthful of rations en sneeze, it a sign of death. I finds dat to be very true to speak bout. Yes'um, I notices dat a good one, Miss Davis."

"Den I got another one comin. Always say, when you see bout a dozen buzzards moesin (flying) round a house en den dey break off en make a straight shoot for a graveyard, dere somebody out dat house gwine be bury dere soon. Cose dat what I hear talk bout, but I ain' watched dat so much."

"No, mam, dat ain' half de signs what de olden people used to have cause dat all what dey know to tell dem what to do en what was gwine happen. Dem what was wise, dey followed dem signs closely, too. Yes, you come back another time, child, en I'll see can I scratch up a heap of dem other sign to tell you. When I gets to talkin to you bout old times, my mind, it just gets to wanderin over dem old fields whe' I run bout as a little small child en I can' half remember nothin to speak to you bout."

Source: Lizzie Davis, colored, Marion, S. C.—Age 70 to 80. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Dec., 1937.



Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, December 21, 1937 No. Words —— Reduced from —— words Rewritten by ——

LIZZIE DAVIS Ex-Slave, Age ——

"My parents, dey was sho raise in de South. Been come up on de old man Foster Brown's plantation. Ain' you know whe' Mr. Foster Brown used to live? Yes, mam, down dere in dat grove of pecans dat you see settin side de road, when you be gwine down next to Centenary. I remember, I hear my father tell bout dat his mammy was sold right here to dis courthouse, on dat big public square up dere, en say dat de man set her up in de wagon en took her to Georgetown wid him. Sold her right dere on de block. Oh, I hear dem talkin bout de sellin block plenty times. Pa say, when he see dem carry his mammy off from dere, it make he heart swell in his breast.

"Yes'um, I hear my father talk bout how dey would shoot de great big bomb guns in slavery time. Seems like, he say dat de shootin fuss been come from Fort Sumter. Oh, my Lord, I hear talk dat de people could hear dem guns roarin all bout dis here country. I know dat word been true cause I hear my parents en de olden people speak bout dat right dere fore we chillun. Say, when dey would feel dat rumblin noise, de people would be so scared. Didn' know what was gwine happen. Cose I speak bout what I catch cause de olden people never didn' allow dey chillun to set en hear dem talk no time. No, mam, de olden people was mighty careful of de words dey let slip dey lips.

"Oh, we chillun would have de most fun dere ever was romancin (roaming) dem woods in dat day en time. I used to think it was de nicest thing dat I been know bout to go down in de woods side one of dem shady branch en get a cup of right cool water to drink out de stream. I tell you, I thought dat was de sweetest water I is ever swallowed. Den we chillun used to go out in de woods wid de crowd en get dese big oak leaves en hickory leaves en make hats. Would use dese here long pine needles en thorns for de pins dat we would pick up somewhe' dere in de woods. En we would dress de hats wid all kind of wild flowers en moss dat we been find scatter bout in de woods, too. Oh, yes'um, we thought dey was de prettiest kind of bonnets. Den we would get some of dese green saplin out de woods often times to make us a ridin horse wid en would cut down a good size pine another time en make a flyin mare to ride on. Yes, mam, dat what we would call it. Well, when we would have a mind to make one of dem flyin mare, we chillun would slip a ax to de woods wid us en chop down a nice little pine tree, so as dere would be a good big stump left in de ground. Den we would chisel de top of de stump down all round de edges till we had us a right sharp peg settin up in de middle of de stump. After dat was fixed, we would cut us another pole a little bit smaller den dat one en bore a hole in de middle of it to make it set down on dat peg. Oh, my Lord, one of us chillun would get on dis end en dere another one would get on de other end en us chillun would give dem a shove dat would send dem flyin round fast as I could say mighty-me-a-life. My blessed a mercy, child, it would most bout knock de sense out dem what been on dere. Yes, mam, everybody would be crazy to ride on de flyin mare. All de neighbor's chillun would gather up en go in de woods en jump en shout bout which one turn come to ride next. I tellin you, dem was big pleasures us had in dat day en time en dey never cost nobody nothin neither."

"Well, Mr. Brown, he was mighty good to his colored people, so I hear my parents say. Would allow all his niggers to go to de white people church to preachin every Sunday, Cose my father, he was de carriage driver en he would have task to drive de white folks to church on a Sunday. Yes'um, dem what been belong to Mr. Brown, dey had dey own benches to set on right up dere in de gallery to de white people church, but I hear talk dat some of dem other white people round bout dere never wouldn' let dey colored people see inside dey church no time. Lord, I talk bout how de people bless wid privilege to go to church like dey want to in dis day en time en don' have de mind to serve de Lord like dey ought to no time. Cose dere a man comes here every Sunday mornin in a car en takes me out to church. Ain' no kin to me neither. He late sometimes en de preacher be bout out wid de sermon, but I goes anyhow en gets all I can. Look like de Lord bless me somehow, cripple up as I is, I say."

"De shake! Oh, I remember it well cause I been a grown girl den. Everybody thought it was de Jedgment en all de people was runnin out en a hollerin. I thought it was de last myself en I livin here to tell de people, I was sho scared. I been out to de well bout 12 o'clock de next day en I could see de water in de well just a quiverin. Lord, Lord, dat water tremble bout four weeks after dat. Such a hollerin en a prayin as de people had bout dat shake. No'um I was livin down dere to Tabernacle den en dere wasn' none of de houses round us destroyed. No, child, won' no harm done nowhe' dat I knows of only as a heap of de people been so scared, dey never didn' grow no more."

"Yes'um, I think bout here de other night dat I had make you a promise to fetch you up some of dem signs de olden people used to put faith in. Dere one sign bout if you hear a dog howl or a cow low round your house on a night, it a pretty good sign you gwine lose somebody out dat house. I finds dat to be a mighty true sign cause I notices it very closely."

"Den dey used to say, too, if you get up in de mornin feelin in a good humor, de devil sho gwine get you fore night fall dat same day. Cose I don' pay so much attention to dat. If I get up feelin like singin, I has to sing cause it my time to sing, I say."

"Let me see, dere another one of dem omen dat I had shake up in my mind to tell you. Say, if you see a ground mole rootin round your house, it won' be long fore you gwine move from dat place. But I don' never see no ground moles hardly dese days. Don' think dey worries nobody much."

"I recollects, too, way back yonder de people used to say, if you see de smoke comin out de chimney en turn down en flatten out on de ground, it a sign of rain in a few days."

"Yes, mam, I think bout dis one more. If you dream bout you be travelin en come to a old rotten down buildin, it a sign of a old person death. Don' say whe' it a man or a woman, but it a sho sign dat a old person gwine die."

"Den people what lives in de country believes, if a fox comes round a house barkin en a scratchin, it a sign dey gwine lose somebody out dey family. Yes'um, de fox just comes right out de woods up to de yard en barks. You see, a dog won' never run a fox dat comes bout dem barkin. No, mam, when de dog hear dat, he just stands right under de house en growls at de fox. I know dat be a true sign cause us tried dat one."

"Now, I got another one of dem thought comin. Yes, my Lord, I hear talk dat if you get de broom en sweep your house out fore sunrise, you would sweep your friends out right wid de trash. Dat used to be a big sign wid de people, too. En it bad luck to take up ashes after de sun go down, dey say. Yes, I know bout plenty people won' do dat today."

"Well, honey, seems like when I calls back, de people in a worser fix den when I used to get 25 cents a day. Used to could take dat en go to a country store en get a decent dress to wear to church. Sell peck of us corn en get it in trade. Didn' never pay more den 50 cents for a load of wood in dem days en I remembers just as good eggs been sell for 10 cents a dozen en 15 cents bout Christmas time. Cose I ain' exactly decided what to speak bout de times cause it dis way to my mind. De people, dey have a better privilege dis day en time, but dey don' appreciate nothin like dey did back in my dark days. Yes, mam, de people was more thankful to man en God den dey is dese days. Dat my belief bout de way de world turnin, I say."

Source: Lizzie Davis, colored, age between 70 and 80, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Dec., 1937.



Project #1855 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C.

LOUISA DAVIS EX-SLAVE 106 YEARS OLD.

"Well, well, well! You knows my white folks on Jackson Creek, up in Fairfield! I's mighty glad of dat, and glad to see you. My white folks come to see me pretty often, though they lives way up dere. You wants to write me up? Well, I'll tell you all I recollect, and what I don't tell you, my daughter and de white folks can put in de other 'gredients. Take dis armchair and git dat smokin' ash tray; lay it on de window sill by you and make yourself comfortable and go ahead."

"I was born in de Catawba River section. My grandpappy was a full blood Indian; my pappy a half Indian; my mother, coal black woman. Just who I b'long to when a baby? I'll leave dat for de white folks to tell, but old Marster Jim Lemon buy us all; pappy, mammy, and three chillun: Jake, Sophie, and me. De white folks I fust b'long to refuse to sell 'less Marse Jim buy de whole family; dat was clever, wasn't it? Dis old Louisa must of come from good stock, all de way 'long from de beginnin', and I is sho' proud of dat."

"When he buy us, Marse Jim take us to his place on Little River nigh clean cross de county. In de course of time us fell to Marse Jim's son, John, and his wife, Miss Mary. I was a grown woman then and nursed their fust baby, Marse Robert. I see dat baby grow to be a man and 'lected to legislature, and stand up in dat Capitol over yonder cross de river and tell them de Law and how they should act, I did. They say I was a pretty gal, then, face shiny lak a ginger cake, and hair straight and black as a crow, and I ain't so bad to look at now, Marse Willie says."

"My pappy rise to be foreman on de place and was much trusted, but he plowed and worked just de same, mammy say maybe harder."

"Then one springtime de flowers git be blooming, de hens to cackling, and de guineas to patarocking. Sam come along when I was out in de yard wid de baby. He fust talk to de baby, and I asked him if de baby wasn't pretty. He say, 'Yes, but not as pretty as you is, Louisa.' I looks at Sam, and dat kind of foolishness wind up in a weddin'. De white folks allowed us to be married on de back piazza, and Reverend Boggs performed de ceremony."

"My husband was a slave of de Sloans and didn't get to see me often as he wanted to; and of course, as de housemaid then, dere was times I couldn't meet him, clandestine like he want me. Us had some grief over dat, but he got a pass twice a week from his marster, Marse Tommie Sloan, to come to see me. Bold as Sam git to be, in after years ridin' wid a red shirt long side of General Bratton in '76, dat nigger was timid as a rabbit wid me when us fust git married. Shucks, let's talk 'bout somthing else. Sam was a field hand and drive de wagon way to Charleston once a year wid cotton, and always bring back something pretty for me."

"When de war come on, Sam went wid young Marster Tom Sloan as bodyguard, and attended to him, and learned to steal chickens, geese, and turkeys for his young marster, just to tell 'bout it. He dead now; and what I blames de white folks for, they never would give him a pension, though he spend so much of his time and labor in their service. I ain't bearin' down on my kind of white folks, for I'd jump wid joy if I could just git back into slavery and have de same white folks to serve and be wid them, day in and day out."

"Once a week I see de farm hands git rations at de smoke house, but dat didn't concern me. I was a housemaid and my mammy run de kitchen, and us got de same meals as my marster's folks did."

"Yas sir; I got 'possum. Know how to cook him now. Put him in a pot and parboil him, then put him in a oven wid lots of lard or fat-back, and then bake him wid yaller yam potatoes, flanked round and round, and then wash him down wid locust and persimmon beer followed by a piece of pumpkin pie. Dat make de bestest meal I 'members in slavery days."

"Us got fish out of Little River nigh every Saturday, and they went good Sunday morning. Us had Saturday evenin's, dat is, de farm hands did, and then I got to go to see Sam some Sundays. His folks, de Sloans, give us a weddin' dinner on Sunday after us was married, and they sho' did tease Sam dat day."

"Like all rich buckra, de Lemons had hogs a plenty, big flock of sheep, cotton gin, slaves to card, slaves to spin, and slaves to weave. Us was well clothed and fed and 'tended to when sick. They was concerned 'bout our soul's salvation. Us went to church, learn de catechism; they was Presbyterians, and read de Bible to us. But I went wid Sam after freedom. He took de name of Davis, and I jined de Methodist Church and was baptized Louisa Davis."

"Patroller, you ask me? 'Spect I do 'member them. Wasn't I a goodlookin' woman? Didn't Sam want to see me more than twice a week? Wouldn't he risk it widout de pass some time? Sure he did. De patrollers got after and run Sam many a time."

"After de war my pappy went to Florida. He look just like a Indian, hair and all, bushy head, straight and young lookin' wid no beard. We never heard from him since."

"De slaves wash de family clothes on Saturday and then rested after doin' dat. Us had a good time Christmas; every slave ketch white folks wid a holler, 'Christmas gift, Marster' and they holler it to each other. Us all hung our stockin's all 'bout de Big House, and then dere would be sumpin' in dere next mornin'. Lord, wasn't them good times!"

"Now how is it dese days? Young triflin' nigger boys and gals lyin' 'round puffin' cigarets, carryin' whiskey 'round wid them, and gittin' in jail on Christmas, grievin' de Lord and their pappies, and all sich things. OH! De risin' generation and de future! What is it comin' to? I just don't know, but dere is comin' a time to all them."

"I sho' like to dance when I was younger. De fiddlers was Henry Copley and Buck Manigault; and if anybody 'round here could make a fiddle ring like Buck could, wouldn't surprise me none if my heart wouldn't cry out to my legs, 'Fust lady to de right and cheat or swing as you like, and on to de right'."

"Stop dat laughin'. De Indian blood in me have held me up over a hundred years, and de music might make me young again."

"Oh yes, us had ghost stories, make your hair stand on end, and us put iron in de fire when us hear screech owl, and put dream book under bed to keep off bad dreams."

"When de yankees come they took off all they couldn't eat or burn, but don't let's talk 'bout dat. Maybe if our folks had beat them and git up into dere country our folks would of done just like they did. Who knows?"

"You see dis new house, de flower pots, de dog out yonder, de cat in de sun lyin' in de chair on de porch, de seven tubs under de shed, de two big wash pots, you see de pictures hangin' round de wall, de nice beds, all dese things is de blessin's of de Lord through President Roosevelt. My grandson, Pinckney, is a World War man, and he got in de CCC Camp, still in it in North Carolina. When he got his bonus, he come down, and say, 'Grandma, you too old to walk, supposin' I git you a automobile?" I allow, 'Son, de Indian blood rather make me want a house.' Then us laugh. 'Well,' he say, 'Dis money I has and am continuin' to make, I wants you and mama to enjoy it.' Then he laugh fit to kill heself. Then I say, 'I been dreamin' of a tepee all our own, all my lifetime; buy us a lot over in Sugartown in New Brookland, and make a home of happiness for your ma, me and you'."

"And dis is de tepee you settin' in today. I feel like he's a young warrior, loyal and brave, off in de forests workin' for his chief, Mr. Roosevelt, and dat his dreams are 'bout me maybe some night wid de winds blowin' over dat three C camp where he is."



Project 1885 -1- District #4 Spartanburg, S. C. May 29, 1937

FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES

"I was a slave of Bill Davis who lived at "Rich Hill", near Indian Creek, in Newberry County, S. C. I was born about 1856, I reckon. My daddy was Ivasum Davis and my mammy was Rhody Davis. Marse Bill was a good master, lived in a big house, give us a good place to live and plenty to eat. He hardly ever whipped us, and was never cruel to us. He didn't let his overseer whip us, and never hit a man.

"Aw, we had good eats den. Wish I has some of dem old ash-cakes now which was cooked in de brick oven or in de ashes in de fireplace. My mistress had a big garden, and give us something to eat out of it. We used to go hunting, and killed possums, rabbit, squirrels, and birds.

"We had home-made clothes 'till I was big boy. Dey was made from card and spin wheels.

"Our work was light; we got up at sun-up at blowing of de horn and worked till sundown. Sometimes we worked on Saturday afternoons when we had to. On Saturday nights we had frolics—men and women. Some women would wash their clothes on Saturday afternoons. Den at night we have prayer meetings.

"We had no church on our plantation, not till after freedom, but we learned to read and write and spell.

"De padderrolers didn't bother us; our master always give us a pass when we go anywhere.

"On Christmas Day master always give big dinners for slaves, and on New Year we had a holiday.

"I married Lila Davis at de Baptist Church in Newberry.

"When our slaves got sick we sent for de doctor. Some of de old folks in the neighborhood believed in giving root-herb tea or tea made from cherry barks or peach leaves.

"When freedom come de master told us we was free and could go but if we wanted to stay on with him, we could stay. We stayed with him for two years and worked by day wages.

"The Ku Klux was dere. I heard old folks talk about dem. Dey had white sheets over their heads and white caps on their heads.

"The Yankees went through our place and stole cattle.

"I thought slavery was all right, 'cause I had a good time. I had a good master.

"I joined the church when I was 21 years old because I thought I'd live better. I think all ought to join the church."

Source: Wallace Davis (88), Newberry, S. C.; interviewer: G. Leland Summer, Newberry, S. C.



Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Oct. 15, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage

STORIES OF EX-SLAVES

"I live in a little two-room house beyond Helena where I work a little patch of land which I rent. I don't own anything. I make a living working de land.

"I was born on Indian Creek in Newberry County, S. C. about 1856. My mammy was Rhody Davis and my pa was Ivasum Davis. We belonged in slavery to Bill Davis. He lived at de place called "Rich Hill". De old house is done tore down, but young Riser now lives in de new house on de place.

"Our master was good to us, but whipped us a little sometimes. He would not allow his overseer to whip any of us. He give us enough to eat and a fair place to live in. We didn't want fer anything. Dey had plenty to eat on de farm, and sure had good eatings. Dere was a brick oven which could cook good bread and cakes. We had a big garden which de mistress looked after, and she had plenty from it which she shared wid de slaves.

"De old spinning wheel was used lots of times and dey made all de clothes everybody on de place wore.

"We didn't have no church to go to, but dey sometimes made some slaves go to white folks churches where dey set on de back seats. We didn't have schools and couldn't learn to read and write till after freedom come; den some niggers learned at de brush arbors.

"Befo' freedom de patrollers marched up and down de road but didn't bother us. Our master always give us a pass when we went somewhere. On Christmas he give us big dinners.

"I married Lilla Davis at de white folks' Baptist church in Newberry.

"When slaves got sick some of dem took tree barks and made teas to drink, and some made tea from root herbs. We had doctors, too, but dey made lots of deir medicine from de barks and herbs.

"I can't remember much what de Ku Klux did, but heard about dem. Just after de war de Yankees marched through our place and stole some cattle and run away wid dem. In some places dey burned down de barns and gin houses.

"I had a good master and always had plenty to eat, so I thought slavery was all right. We didn't have nothing of any kind to worry about.

"I don't know nothing much about Abe Lincoln or Jefferson Davis."

Source: Wallace Davis (N. 88), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. (9/15/37).



Project 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, August 20, 1937

WILLIAM HENRY DAVIS Ex-Slave, 72 Years

"I born de first day of March in 1865 cause de white folks raise me mostly en dat how-come I know how old I ought to say I is. My father belong to de old man Jackie Davis, dat live not so far from Tabernacle, en den he fall to he son, Mr. William J. Davis. Dat whe' I was raise. My grandfather, old man Caesar, live dere too."

"I never been treated exactly as de other plantation peoples was as it just like I tellin you, I be round de white folks mostly. My mamma, she do all de cooking to de big house en dere be a division in de Missus kitchen for de cook en she chillun to stay in. Sometimes my Massa make my mamma feed all de small plantation chillun dere to de kitchen from de table. Dey want de chillun to hurry en grow en dat de reason dey give em good attention at de house. Dey give us milk en clabber en corn bread to eat mostly en give us fritters some of de time. Dat was fried wheat bread what some people call pancakes. Used to give me job to mind de cows en de calves when dey was put to grazing."

"All de other colored peoples live in de nigger quarter up on de hill. Just like de white people house here, de colored people house all be in row pretty much off from de big house. Oh, de people was meant to work in dat day en time. De white folks teach em en show em what dey look for em to do. Den if dey didn' do it like dey tell em do it, dey chastise em."

"It just like I tellin you, de people fare wid abundance of everything in dem days. Destroy much meat in one month den as de people gets hold of in whole year dese days. It was just dis way, everybody know to have fence round bout dey plantation den en de hogs could run anywhe'. All de field land was fence en de woods was for de run of de stock. Dey mark em en some of de time, dey hear tell of stock 10 mile away. Know em by de brand."

"Peoples didn' have heap of all kind of things dat dey have dese days, but somehow it look like dey have a knack of gettin along better wid what dey have den. Didn' have no stoves to cook on in dem days. Cook in clay oven en on de fireplace. Make up fire en when it die down, dey put tatoes (potatoes) in de oven en let em stay dere all night. My God, won' nothin no better den dem oven tatoes was. Some of de time, dey have wire in de chimney wid de pots hanging on dat. Folks used to make up a cake of corn bread en pat it on de hearth en when de fire burn right low, dey cover de cake all up in pile of ashes. When it get done, it be brown through de ashes en dey take it out en wash en rub all de ashes off it. Den it was ready to eat. Dat what dey call ash cake. Just seem like what de peoples used to cook be sweeter eatin den what dey cooks dis day en time."

"Oh, I beat rice many a day. Yes'um, beat rice many a day for my grandmother en my mamma too. Had a mortar en a pestle dat beat rice wid. Dey take big tree en saw log off en set it up just like a tub. Den dey hollow it out in de middle en take pestle dat have block on both it end en beat rice in dat mortar. Beat it long time en take it out en fan it en den put it back. De last time it put back, tear off some shucks en put in dere to get de red part of de rice out en make it white. Ain' nobody never been born can tell you more bout dem pestles en mortars den William Henry Davis know."

"Yes'um, used to go to corn shuckings en rye thrashings en pea thrashings plenty times. Oh, dey sing en have music en have big pot cookin out in de yard wid plenty rice en fresh meat for everybody. Dere be so many people some of de time, dey had to have two or three pots. Den dey have dem log rollings to clean up de land en when dey would get to rollin dem heavy logs, dey give de men a little drink of whiskey to revive em, but dey gage how much dey give em. O Lord, we had tough time den. After dey get through wid all de work, dey would eat supper den. Give us rice en corn bread en fresh meat en coffee en sweet tatoe pone. My Lord, dat sweet tatoe pone was de thing in dem days. Missie, you ain' never eat no pone bread? Dey take piece of tin en drive nails through it en grate de raw tatoes on dat. Den dey take a little flour en hot water en molasses en mix up in dem raw tatoes en bake it in de oven on de fireplace. Have lid to oven en put fire under de bottom of it en on de top to get it right done. Some of de time, dey put a little ginger in it fore it was baked. Cut it in big slices when it get done, but wouldn' never eat it till dey know it was cold. Missie, de older I gets de more I does sorrow to go back to dem old constructions dat dey used to have."

"Some of de colored peoples have bresh (brush) shelter whe' dey go to church in dem days, but all us go to de white folks church. Oh, de colored peoples go in ox carts, but us white folks have teams en carriage to ride in. I recollects Mr. Davis carriage look sorta like a house wid two big horses to pull it. De family would be in de inside en have seats whe' dey set facing one another. De driver have seat on de outside in de front en on de back of de carriage was de place to set de trunks."

"My daddy was de blacksmith for Mr. Jackie Davis en he could make plows en hoes en all dem kind of things. He have a circuit dat he go round en mend things on other white folks plantations. Some of de time, he bring back more den $100.00 to he boss dat he would make. Go all bout in dat part of Marion county dat be part of Florence county dose times."

"I hear some peoples say dey knows dere such as ghosts, but I ain' never have no mind in dat line. All I know bout is what my mamma used to tell us big chillun when she want us to stay home wid de little chillun en mind em. Say dere was Raw Head en Bloody Bones in de woods en if us go off, de child might set de house on fire. Such as dat was to make us stay home when dey was gone."

"It just dis way, I think freedom a good thing for some people while it a bad thing for de ones dat don' have a knack to shuffle for dey own self. When freedom come, some of de colored people didn' know what freedom was en dey just hang around dey white folks en look to dey Massa for what dey get right on. Wouldn' get off en make nothin for dey own self. Dat how-come I think it better for some not to be free cause so much of worryations ain' good for peoples. Colored peoples never had to worry bout nothin in slavery time."

Source: William Henry Davis, age 72, ex-slave, Wahee section of Marion Co., S. C.

Personal interview, August 1937.



Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Aug. 24, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage

STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES

"Sunday, Aug. 1, was my 82nd HW: 84th?] birthday; so I was born in 1853. De very day I come into de world I do not know, but soon my marster, Starke Sims, begun to train me. Dr. Bill Sims, Marse Stark's son, was a doctor when I was born. A younger son was called Hal. When Hal was a boy he said he was gwine off, and when he got to be a man, dat is what he done; yes sirree, he got scattered off.

"Dr. Bill had done started to doctoring folks befo' I got into dis world. And first thing dat I recollects is how my marster teached me to address him. He addressed me as 'Elias, Johnny Elias'. I had to answer, 'Sirs', and dat 'S' always had to be dar to please de marster. All of his slaves had to address him de same way. Sometimes we would answer, 'Sirs Marster'.

"All de things my marster teached me are still a great help to me. Dis younger generation does not have de quality dat we old niggers has, because dey refuse to take de teachings of dere parents and de good white folks. De main thing dat Marse teached his slaves was mannerableness. Dat I holds to dis day; 'specially to de white people. I allus tries to be mannerable to dem. Often I looks back on dat, but both white and colored is trying to do away wid dem things. Old training is de best, and I cannot fergit my manners. Never does raal folks fergit dere raising. Dats what shows up de quality in people. I likes quality in everything, and as soon as I sees strangers and hears dem talk and looks at dere action, I can tell how much quality dey got. Dat I sho can. I never is gwine to drap my raising, don't care what de style comes to. Dat's jest one thing dat my race and de white race, too, wants to do away wid. Dey don't hold up no manners and no ra'al raising.

"De school teachers tells de chilluns to say yes and no to me. Dey tells dem to say de same thing to white folks. Den dey teaches de chilluns to Mr. and Miss de own race and to call white folks by dere names widout any handle to it. Dat ain't gwine to work, and any niggers dat has self-respect jest ain't gwine to call no white folks by dere name. If you doesn't respect other folks, why den other folks ain't gwine to show no respect fer you. Why some of my grand chilluns sets up and says 'yes' and 'no' to me 'stead of 'yes sir' and 'no sir'. But I is right here to tell you dat my own chilluns don't say 'no' and 'yes' to me. I is strived wid dem and dey knows how to answer proper to dere elders and to white folks. I ain't got no time fer dese school teachers dat tells de pupils to answer in no sech insulting ways as dat. I likes manners and widout manners folks ain't quality; don't make no diffuns 'bout what color dey is or how far dey is gone in de reading books. Young'uns saying 'yes' and 'no' is jest plain ugly. It suits me to meet nice folks, and when I finds dat dey ain't got mannerableness about dem, den I concludes dat dey jest ain't nice.

"I gwine to dress up tonight and go to preaching at Mt. Zion. Dey done already started running meeting dar. I used to preach amongst dem at de big meetings, but I is retracting now.

"My old marse low to us, 'You is free now, yes sir, you is sho free niggers now. You is gwine out into de world on your own. Let me tell you dis: If you be's mannerable you will allus come out more dan conqueror.' I was young den, and I did not know what 'more dan conqueror' meant den. I is larn't now what it means. Thank God, I does, fer his telling me dat. I lays to de fact dat de reason I is never been in jail is dat I allus had manners. Young'uns acts biggety and den dey lands right straight in de first jail dar is.

"I sho never went to no war, but I worked at de house in de corn field a-raising corn fer de war hosses. I been in only two states, North and South Carolina. I travels jest according to common sense: lets other folks be my guide. I met up wid Indians; dey wanted to claim kin wid me, but I wouldn't claim kin wid dem. He tell me bout my high cheeks or something; den he low something 'bout my nose being long. Dey close thinking people, dem Indians is. Dey don't fergit nothing. He say he see I is mixed-up, but I never is knowed jest what he was driving at. I told him I was teached from de old generation, but dat dar wasn't narry drop of Indian blood in me. Cherokee Creek whar dat old Indian place is. Dey has all kinds of things to sell dat dey makes. I ain't no Indian and I does not feel dat way, no sir, not narry bit does I feel like I is a Indian.

"My mother died when I was a wee baby. Never is had no brothers or sisters. She left me wid her marster dat owned her mother, Kissy Sims. Marse Starke helped my granny to raise me. Kissy come from Virginia. Her Pa let a man buy her and three other chilluns. Marse Starke raised dem all up and dats how dey got his name.

"Dis here man standing here by me is Zack Herndon. We is de oldest niggers in Cherokee County dat I knows of. De other old ones is all dead now. Oh, you knows him, does you Zack?

"Never did so awful much work when I was coming up. Dey was priming me and training me. When dey call my name, I allus come. Often I hid myself to see de bad niggers whipped. Never had no 'buse in my life. Marse didn't 'low nobody to look at his niggers when dey was being whipped, kaise he hated to have to let any of dem be 'bused. Marse Starke sho never whipped no one dat was good. He never let his overseers 'buse nobody neither. I does not 'member much 'bout his overseers. One named a Briggs, one a Bishop, one a Coleman and Alley Cook was de last one; I 'members his name best.

"Marse Starke was a rich man. He had in de Quarter what was know'd as a chilluns' house. A nurse stayed in it all de time to care fer all de plantation chilluns. My granny 'Kissy' acted as nurse dar some. Aunt Peggy and aunt Ciller was two mo'. Ciller was de daughter of a King in Africa, but dat story been traveling ever since she got to dese shores, and it still a-gwine. All dese helped to nurse me. Dey fed us on milk, plenty of it. We had honey, lasses and lots of good things. When I was a little bit-a boy I had a big bowl to eat out of. And us chilluns et like hogs and got fat. We allus had fine food. My marster give me a biscuit sometime from his plate and I wouldn't have tuck 25c fer it. He allus put butter in it or ham and gravy. He would say, 'Dat's de doctrine, Be kind!' Nobody never got no 'borious beating from our master's hands.

"I been toiling here on dis earth fer a long time. De Lawd spared me to bring up a big race of chilluns myself. We is awful po' and ain't none of my chilluns got things as well as I had when my marster give it to me. My daughter and grand-daughter lives wid Mr. Nathan Littlejohn. He is rich. I stay in de house wid dem. Dey 'vides wid me dat what dey has. But dat ain't much. I has great-great-grand chilluns dat I ain't never seed. I have five chilluns living to my knowings. Last time I counted, I had 137 grand and great-grand chilluns. So you see I looks into de fourth generation of my own family.

"Me and Old man Zack went to a hanging one time. Both of us clamed up into a tree so dat we could look down on de transaction from a better angle. De man, I means de sheriff, let us go up dar. He let some mo' niggers clamb up in de same tree wid us. De man dat was being hung was called Alf Walker. He was a mulatto and he had done kil't a preacher, so you see dey was hanging him fer his wickedness, sho as you born dey was.

"While me and Zack up in dat tree a-witnessing dat transaction, peers like we become mo' acquainted wid one another dan we had ever been since us know'd one another.

"Sheriff 'low'd, 'You is got only fifteen minutes to live in. What has you got to say?' Alf got up and talked by giving a lecture to folks about being lawful citizens. He give a lecture also to young folks who he 'low'd dat was not in sech condition as he was. He talking to dem 'bout obeying de parents and staying at home. Me and Zack exchange glances and Zack 'low, 'Alf ain't never stayed at home none since he been big enough to tramp over de country and he up dar fixing to git his neck broke fer his waryness, and trying to tell us good folks young and old how us should act. Now ain't he something to be a-telling us what to do.'

"Finally, Alf had done talked his time out and de sheriff 'low, 'Now you is only got two minutes, what does you want?'

Alf hollered, 'Mr. Sheriff, lemme shake hands wid somebody.' Sheriff say everybody dat wishes to may shake his hand. Me and Zack stayed up in dat tree, but some of de niggers went up and shaked hands wid Alf.

"Time out! You could-a heard a pin drap. I could hear my breath a-coming. I got scared. Zack looked ra'al ashy. Nobody on de ground moved, jest stayed ra'al quiet and still. Noose drapped over de man's neck and tightened. Some one moved de block from under his foots. Dat jerked him down. Whoop! All dem in de tree fell out 'cept me and Zack, dey was so scared. Alf Walker wasn't no mo'. Me and Zack sot up in dat tree like two cranks. Us sot dar as if it hadn't tuck no 'fect on us a-tall. All de other folks got 'fected. Zack tickled me when he saw me studying. He 'low 'you act awful hard-hearted.' I 'low, 'dat man telling us how to do jest now, and dar he is hanged. Us still a-setting in dis tree, ain't we? We ain't never wanted to see no mo' hangings, is we Zack?' Zack 'low dat we ain't.

"Onc't de guide low'd to de President, 'You raises your hat to a nigger?' President 'low, 'I ain't gwine to let nobody be mo' polite dan I is.' He never let nobody have mo' sense dan he did either. Dat was Washington.

"Me and Zack is gwine to tell you how it is. We is old and ain't no need fer old folks to try and fool. I is too shame to beg. I wants de pension. Is you gwine to tell me 'bout it? Dis de truth, I is took a chip fer food. If I could got to school and write fast as I can shake my fist, I'd be a-giving out dat pension right fast. I likes character and principle. I got a boy turned into 64 years. He got character and principle, and he still do what I say. I never put my mouth amongst old folks when I was young. Me and Zack often talks over old times."

Source: Elias Dawkins (84), Rt. 1, Gaffney, S. C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. 8/20/37.



Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 3, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage

STORIES OF EX-SLAVES

Upon learning where an ex-slave lived, the writer walked up to a house on Pickenpack street where two old colored men were sitting on the front porch. Asked if one of them was named 'Will Dill', the blacker of the two motioned to himself and said,

"Come here, come in and have a seat," at the same time touching the porch swing beside him.

He acknowledged that he lived in slavery days, "but was a small boy, walking and playing around at that time". His master was Zeek Long, who lived in Anderson County not far from "Three and Twenty Mile Creek' and used to ask him:—what the rooster said, what the cow said, what the pig said; and used to get a great deal of amusement out of his kiddish replies and imitation of each animal and fowl. From his own calculation, he figured he was born in 1862 in the home of his mother who was owned by Zeek Long. His father, also, was owned by the same master, but lived in another house. He remembers when the Yankees came by and asked for something to eat. When they had gotten this, they went to the corn crib, which was chock full of corn, and took the corn out, shucked it, and gave it to their horses. All the good horses had been hidden in the woods and only two or three old poor ones were left in the stables, but the Yankees did not take these for they only wanted good horses. He remembers seeing the patrollers coming around and checking up on the 'niggers'. He had an uncle who used to slip off every night and go to see some colored girl. He had a path that he followed in going to her house.

"One night Uncle Bob, he started to go see his gal, and it was pretty late, but he followed his path. There were some paterollers out looking for him, and t'rectly they saw him. Uncle Bob lit out running and the paterollers started running, too. Here they had it up and down the path. Uncle Bob, he knew there was a big ditch crossing the path, but the paterollers didn't know it; so when Uncle Bob got to the gully, he jumped right over it and run on, but one of the patrollers fell into the gully and broke his neck. After dat, Uncle Bob, he stayed in and kept quiet, for he knew the paterollers had it in for him."

He asked the writer if he had ever heard a chicken talk. He said that he had, and described a scene at the house one day when a preacher was there. The chickens and guineas came around the house as usual to get their feed, but didn't get it. He "quoted" the rooster as saying; "Has the preacher gone yet?" A guinea hen answered, "not yet—not yet".

He said that he often heard turkeys talk. They would ask each other questions, and another fowl would answer. He once heard a mule that was in the barn, say: "Lord! Lord! All I want is corn and fodder."

Being told by the negro who was sitting beside him, that he did not believe animals and fowls could talk, he at once said:

"Sure—roosters and gobblers can talk, one day there was a turkey hen and a lots of little turkeys scratching around a certain place on a hill, the little turkeys were heard to say, 'Please mam, please mam'. An old gobbler standing and strutting near, cried out, 'Get the hell out of here'. The turkey hen then moved to another place to feed."

He said that he gets out in his porch early in the mornings and whistles to the birds, and that soon a large flock of birds are all around him. Offering to demonstrate his ability, he began to whistle in a peculiar way. Soon thereafter, two or three English sparrows flew into the yard from nearby trees.

"See thar! See thar!" he said, pointing to them.

"When the war was over," he continued, "we stayed on at Marster's plantation for some time. I grew up, and was always a fellow who liked hard work. I have railroaded, was a tree doctor, helped dig wells and did a lot of hard work. The white people was always pleased with my work and told me so. I went down a well once to help clean it out. It looked like to me that well was caving in above me; so I hollered for them to pull me out. When I got out, I told them I wasn't going down no wells any more unless somebody threw me in."

He said that he had seen lots of wild turkeys when he was a boy. One day when he was going to get some "bacco" for his aunt, he saw a hen and a lot of little turkeys—

"I run after the little wild turkeys but I never kotched a one. That old mother hen would fly from one limb in a tree to another limb in another tree and call them. They was the runningest things I ever saw. I nearly run myself to death but I never did get one."

Every now and them, he said, one of the men on the plantation would shoot a wild hog and we would have plenty of meat to eat. The hogs ran wild in those days, he said.

"I never saw a ghost," he said, "unless it was one night when we boys was out with our dogs 'possum hunting. The dogs treed a possum in a little scrubby tree. I was always a good climber; so I went up the tree to shake the 'possum out. I shook and shook but the 'possum would not fall out of the tree. I shook so hard that my hat fell off and I told the niggers not to let the dogs tear my hat. That was no skunk in the tree, 'cause we couldn't smell anything, but when I looked again at the 'possum, or whatever it was, it got bigger and bigger. I scrambled down the tree right away, nearly falling out of it, but I wanted to get away. The dogs acted kinda scared; yet they would run up to the tree and bark. One old dog I had did not bark, he just hollered. We left the thing in the tree. I don't know what it was, but it warn't no 'possum, for I'd shook it out of the tree if it had been."

In further discussing the subject of fowls in talking among themselves, he said that he had often noticed a rooster and some hens standing around in the shade talking.

"The rooster will say something and the hens will listen; then answer him back, 'yes'. One day I heard a turkey hen say, 'we are poor, we are poor'. The old turkey gobbler said, 'well, who in the hell can help it.' Yes sir, they talk just like we do, but 'taint everybody can understand 'em."

He said that he had fifteen children by his first wife. He remained single for thirteen years after his wife's death, and never had any children by his second wife.

"Do you reckon we'll ever get a pension in our old age?" he asked. "It seems to me they would give us old fellows something to live on, for we can't work. How can we live now-a-days? When a man has done good work when he was able, the country ought to take care of him in his old age.

"I was a hand for hard work all my life. I was raised that way; but now, that I can't do nothing, it looks like the state ought to take care of me.

"My father told me when I was sitting up to a gal and I told him I was gwinter marry her, 'Son don't you never cut that woman across the back, for as sure as you do, that cut will be against you on Judgement Day."

"When I was laid up with the misery in my side, my feet swelled up and busted, and I had a awful hurting in my side and back. People wanted me to believe I had been conjured, but I did not believe it, and I told them I would eat all the stuff that a conjure man could bring. Anybody that believes in conjuring is just a liar. God is the only a person who can bring suffering on people. He don't want to do it, but it's because we do something He don't want us to when He makes people suffer. It is the bugger man that does it."

"Uncle" Will said that his father and mother were married by a "jack-leg" preacher who, when told that they wanted to get married, had them both to jump backwards and forwards over a broom. He then told them that they were man and wife.

Source: Will Dill, 555 Pickenpack St., Spartanburg, S. C. Interviewer: F. S. DuPre, Spartanburg, Dist. 4 5/19/37



W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C.

THOMAS DIXON EX-SLAVE 75 YEARS OLD.

Tom Dixon, a mulatto, is a superannuated minister of the Gospel. He lives in Winnsboro, S. C., at the corner of Moultrie and Crawford Streets. He is duly certified and registered as an old age pensioner and draws a pension of $8.00 per month from the Welfare Board of South Carolina. He is incapable of laborious exercise.

"I was born in 1862, thirteen miles northeast of Columbia, S. C., on the border line of Kershaw and Fairfield Counties. My mother was a slave of Captain Moultrie Gibbes. My father was white, as you can see. My mother was the cook for my white folks; her name was Malinda. She was born a slave of Mr. Tillman Lee Dixon of Liberty Hill. After she learned to cook, my marster bought her from her master and paid $1,200.00 for her. After freedom, us took the name of Dixon.

"My mistress in slavery time was Miss Mary. She was a Clark before she married Marse Moultrie. I was nothing but a baby when the war ended and freedom come to our race. I lived on my marster's Wateree River plantation, with mother, until he sold it and went into the hotel business at Union, S. C.

"My mother then went to Columbia, S. C., and I attended Benedict College. I became a preacher in 1886, the year of the earthquake. That earthquake drove many sinners to their knees, me amongst them; and, when I got up, I resolved to be a soldier of the cross, and every since I have carried the shield of faith in my left hand and the sword of the Word in my right hand.

"The night I was converted, the moon was shining brightly. We was all at a revival meeting out from Blythewood, then called Dako, S. C. First, we heard a low murmur or rolling sound like distant thunder, immediately followed by the swaying of the church and a cracking sound from the joists and rafters of the building. The women folks set up a screaming. The men folks set up a hollering: 'Oh Lordy! Jesus save me! We believe! Come Almighty King!' The preacher tried to quiet us, but we run out the church in the moonlight, men and women crying and praying. The preacher, Rev. Charlie Moore, continued the services outside and opened the doors of the church, and every blessed soul come forward and joined the church.