"My mother's master told my mother that she was free. He called all the slaves in and told them they were free as he was. I don't think he give them anything when they were freed. He was a kind a poor fellow. Didn't have but six or seven slaves. He offered to let them stay and make crops. My father had a better job than that. Did you ever know Bishop Lane out in Tennessee? My father and he were ordained at the same time in the some C. M. E. Church. Then he moved to Kentucky and joined the A. M. E. Church. My father died in 1875 and my mother in 1906.

"I have been married forty-seven years. I married on the twenty-sixth day of December in 1889. I heard my mother and father say that they married in slavery time and they just jumped over a broom. I don't belong to no church. I am off on a pension. I got a good job doin' nothing. My pension is paid by the Railroad.

"I put up forty-four years as a brakeman and five years on ditching trains before I went to braking. My old road master put me on the braking. A fellow got his fingers cut off and they turned his keys over to me and put me to braking and I went there and stayed.

"I have two children. Both of them are living—a girl and a boy. I have had a big bunch of young people 'round me ever since I married. Raised a couple of nephews. Then my two. All of them married. That is my daughter's oldest child right there. (He pointed to a pretty brownskin girl—ed.)

"My father died when I was eight, and I was away from home railroading most of the time and didn't hear much about old times from my mother. So that's all I know.

"I have lived right here on this spot for forty-three years. About 1893 I bought this place and have lived here ever since. This was just a big woods and weed patch then. There weren't more than about six houses out here this side of the Rock Island Railroad.

"I commenced voting in 1889. Cast my first ballot then. I never had any trouble about it."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Ambus Gray R.F.D. #1. Biscoe, Arkansas Age: 80

"I was ten year old when the Civil War come on. I was born Tallapoosy County, Alabama. I belong to Jim Gray. I recollect the paddyrollers. I don't recollect the Ku Klux Klan. There was twelve boys and two girls in our family in time. I was among the older set.

"Bout all I remembers bout slavery was how hard the hands had to work. We sho did haf to work! When we wasn't clerin new ground and rollin pine logs an burnin brush we was er buildin fences and shuckin an shellin corn. Woman you don't know nufin bout work! We cler new groun all day den burn brush and pile logs at nite. We build fences all day and kill hogs and shuck corn dat night. No use to say word bout bein tired. Never heard nobody complainin. They went right on singin or whislin'. Started out plowin and drappin corn then plantin' cotton. Choppin' time come on then pullin' fodder and layin' by time be on. Be bout big meetin time and bout fo that or was over everybody was dun in the cotton field till dun cold weather. I remembers how they sho did work.

"Both my parents was field hands. They stayed on two years after the war was over. Jim Gray raised red hogs and red corn, whooper-will peas. He kept a whole heap of goats and a flock of sheep.

"We didn't see no real hard times after the war. We went to Georgia to work on Armstrongs farm. We didn't stay there long. We went to Atlanta and met a fellar huntin' hands down at Sardis, Mississippi. We come on there. Rob Richardson brought the family out here. I been here round Biscoe 58 years when it was sho nuf swamps and woods.

"I don't think the Ku Klux ever got after any us but I seen em, I recken. I don't know but mighty little. The paddyrollers is what I dreaded. Sometime the overseer was a paddyroller. My folks didn't go to war. We didn't know what the war was for till it had been going on a year or so. The news got circulated round the North was fighting to give the black man freedom. Some of em thought they said that so they'd follow and get in the lines, help out. Some did go long, some didn't want to go get killed. Nobody never got nuthin, didn't know much when it was freedom. I didn't see much difference for a year or more. We gradually quit gettin' provisions up at the house and had to take a wagon and team and go buy what we had. We didn't have near as much. Money then like it is now, it don't buy much. It made one difference. You could change places and work for different men. They had overseers just the same as they did in slavery.

"The Reconstruction time was like this. You go up to a man and tell him you and your family want to hire fer next year on his place. He say I'm broke, the war broke me. Move down there in the best empty house you find. You can get your provisions furnished at certain little store in the closest town about. You say yesser. When the crop made bout all you got was a little money to take to give the man what run you and you have to stay on or starve or go get somebody else let you share crop wid them. As the time come on the black man gets to handle a little mo silver and greenbacks than he used to. Slaves didn't hardly ever handle any money long as he live. He never buy nothin, he have no use for money. White folks burried money durin the war. Some of them had a heap of money.

"I have voted but I don't keep up wid it no mo. It been a long time since I voted. This is the white folks country an they goiner run it theirselves. No usen me vote. No use the women votin as I see it. Jes makes mo votes to count. The rich white man is goiner run the country anyhow.

"I farmed all my life. I been here in Biscoe fifty-eight years. I worked for Richardson, Biscoe, Peeples, Nail. I owned a home, paid $150 for it. I made it in three years when we had good crops.

"Times are harder now than I ever seen em here. If you have a hog you have to pen it up and buy feed. If you have a cow, when the grass die, she is to feed. If you have chickens there ain't no use talkin, they starve if you don't feed em. No money to buy em wid an no money to buy feed for em. Times is hard. Durin the cotton boom times do fine (cotton picking time). The young folks is happy. They ain't got no thought of the future. Mighty hard to make young folks think they ever get old. Theys lookin at right now. Havin em a good time while they young."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Green Gray R.F.D. #1 Biscoe, Arkansas Age: 70—73?

"I was born after de war in Alabama. Then we went to Atlanta, Georgia. Bout the first I recollect much bout was in Atlanta. I was seventeen years old. They was building the town back up where it had been burnt. If you was a carpenter you could get rough work to do. My father was a farmer and had a family; soon as he could he come with a man he met up wid to Sardis, Mississippi. He had twelve children. Some of em born down in Mississippi. The reason we all went to Atlanta was dis—we was workin fer a man, white man, named Armstrom. White woman told me go do somethin, bring in a load er wood I think it was, and my mother told me not to do it. He and my father had a fuss an he tied my father to some rails and whooped him. Soon as they done that we all left. They hunted us all night long. Crowd white folks said they goiner kill us. Some fellow come on to Atlanta and told us bout em huntin us. Thater way folks done. It muster been bout the very closin of the war cause I heard em say I was give to my young mistress, Sallie Gray. I don't remember who they say she married. I never did live wid em long fore my papa took me.

"The first free school was in Pinola County, Mississippi. I went to it. The teacher was a white man named George Holliday.

"I votes a Republican ticket. Miss, I don't know nothin much bout votin, cassionly I vote to help my side out a little. We used to elect our town officers here in Biscoe but the white folks run it now. Professor Hardy and Professor Walker was the postmasters (both Negroes) for a long while. John Clay was constable and Oscar Clark magistrate (both Negroes). One of the school board was Dr. Odom (Negro). They made pretty fair officers.

"I was a cow herder, and a fire boy, and a farmer. When I come to Biscoe I was a farmer. I married and had two children. My wife lef me and went wid another fellar then she jumped in the river right down yonder and drowned. I started workin at the sawmill and workin in the lumber. I owns a little home and a spot of ground it on 25' x 90'. I made it workin fer Mr. Betzner (white farmer). I'm farmin now.

"Times is hard. You can't get no credit. Between times that you work in the crop it is hard to live. Used to by workin hard and long hours could make a good livin. Wages better now, $1 to $1.75 a day. Long time ago 60c a day was the price. Then you could buy meat five and six cents a pound. Now it 20c. Flour used to be 40c a sack. Now it way outer sight. The young folks don't work hard as I used to work but they has a heap better chance at edgercation. Some few saves a little but everything jes so high they can't get ahead very much. It when you get old you needs a little laid by."



#666 Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Neely Gray 818 E. Fifteenth, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 87

"I was born in Virginia. Dr. Jenkins bought my mother from a man named Norman. Brought us here on the boat. I know I was walkin' and talkin'. I don't remember about the trip, but I remember they said they had to keep me out from fallin' in the river. I was too playified to remember anything about it.

"Durin' the War I was a girl six or seven years old. Big enough to nuss my mother's next chile, and she was walkin' and talkin' 'fore surrender.

"My mother was pushin' a hundred when she died. I was her oldest chile. Sold with her.

"Dr. Jenkins had three women and all of 'em had girls. Raised up in the house. Dr. Jenkins said, 'Doggone it, I want my darkies right back of my chair.' He never did 'buse his colored folks. He was a 'cepted (exceptional) man—so different. I never saw the inside of the quarters.

"Dr. Jenkins' house wasn't far from the river. You could hear the boats goin' up and down all night.

"I was scared of the Yankees 'cause they always p'inted a gun at me to see me run. They'd come in the yard and take anything they wanted, too.

"After surrender mama went and cooked for a man named Hardin.

"Hardest time I ever had was when I got grown and had to take care of my mother and sister. Worked in the field.

"I was married out from behind a plow. Never farmed no more.

"My fust husband was a railroad man. I tried to keep up with him but he went too fast; I couldn't keep up. He got so bad they finally black-balled him from the road.

"I tell you nobody knows what it is till you go through with it. I've had my bitters with the sweet.

"Been married four times and I've buried two husbands. I just raised one chile and now she's dead. But I got great-grandchillun—third generation—in Houston, Texas, but I never hear from 'em.

"I get along all right. The Welfare helps me and I try to live right."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Nely Gray 821 E. 18th Avenue, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 84 Occupation: Does a little quilting

"Yes ma'm, I was sold from Richmond, Virginia. Dr. Jenkins bought my mother when I was a little girl walkin' and talkin'. Put me up on the block and sold me too. I was bout three years old.

"Dr. Jenkins was mighty good to his hands. Say he was goin' to raise his little darkies up back of his chair. He thought lots of his colored folks.

"I member seein' the Rebels ridin' horses, three double, down the road time of the war. I used to run off from mama to the county band—right where the roundhouse is now. Mama used to have to come after me. You know I wasn't no baby when I shed all my teeth durin' slavery days.

"Yankee soldiers? Oh Lord—seed em by fifties and hundreds. Used to pint the gun at me jest to hear me holler and cry. I was scared of em. They come in and went in Dr. Jenkins' dairy and got what they wanted. And every morning they'd blow that bugle, bugle as long as a broom handle. Heard em blow 'Glory, Glory Hallelujah'. I liked to hear em blow it.

"Yankees marched all up and down the river road. They'd eat them navy beans. I used to see where they throwed em in the fence corner. Saw so many I don't like em now. They called em navy beans and I called em soldier beans.

"I member it well. I'm a person can remember. Heap a folks tell what other folks see but I tell what I see. Don't tell what nobody told me and what I heard.

"I member when they had the battle in Pine Bluff. We was bout three miles from here when they fit-up here. I member all of it.

"They started to send us to Texas and we got as far as the ravine when they heard the Yankees wasn't comin' so we went back home.

"I stayed round the house with the white folks and didn't know what nothin' was till after surrender. We stayed with Dr. Jenkins for a week or two after surrender, then a man come and took my mother down in the country. I don't know what she was paid—she never did tell us her business.

"I was mama's onliest girl and she worked me day and night. Hoed and picked cotton and sewed at night. Mama learned me to knit and I used to crochet a lot. She sure learned me to work and I ain't sorry.

"I worked in the field till I come out to marry a railroad man. I never went to school but two or three months in my life directly after freedom. My husband was a good scholar and he learned me how to read and write. I learned my daughter how to read and write so when she started to school they didn't have to put her in the chart class. When she was six years old she could put down a figger as quick as you can.

"Been married four times and they's all dead now. Ain't got nobody but myself. If it wasn't for the white folks don't know what I'd do.

"I used to cook for Dr. Higginbotham when she had company. She couldn't do without old Nely. One time she sent for me to cook some hens. I soaked em in soda water bout an hour and fried em and you couldn't tell em from friers.

"I'm weak in my limbs now but I believe in stirrin'. Welfare helps me but I quilts for people. Yes'm, I stirs—if I didn't I just couldn't stand it.

"This here younger generation is gone. They ain't goin'—they's gone. Books ain't done no good. I used to teach the Bible lesson once a week, but I don't fool with em now. Ain't got no manners—chews gum and whispers.

"I got great grand children lives in Houston and they don't give me a penny. I don't know what I'd do if twasn't for the Welfare.

"Used to wash and iron. I've ironed twenty shirts in one-half a day."



MAY 11 1938 Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: "Happy Day" Green Near Barton and Helena, Arkansas Age: Grown during the Civil War

"I don't know how old I is, young mistress. I was here 'fore the Civil War, young mistress. I was born in South, Alabama, young mistress. Well, it was nigh Montgomery, Alabama, young mistress. My mama name Emily Green. She had three children to my knowing. I don't know no father. My owner was Boss William Green, young mistress. His wife was Miss Lizabuth, young mistress. They did have a big family, young mistress. To my knowing it was: Billy, Charlie, Bunkum, Ida, Mary, Sally, Jimmy, Buddy. I never went to school a day in my life, young mistress. When I come on big 'nuff to work I had to help keer for mama and two girl sisters, young mistress.

"When I come to this state, Van Vicks and Bill Bowman immigrated one hundred head of us. They landed some of us at Helena. Our family was landed at Phillips Bayou, young mistress.

"I was a cowboy, me and George. He was another black boy, young mistress. We kept flies offen Boss William Green and Miss Lizabuth, young mistress. They took naps purt nigh every day when it be the long days (in summer), young mistress. Mama was milk woman. Boss William Green had goats and 'bout a dozen heads of milch cows, young mistress. I was willed to Mars Billy. He went off to war and died 'fore the War begun, young mistress.

"Nobody run 'way from Boss William Green. He told 'em if they run off he would whoop 'em. He didn't have no dogs, young mistress. They be a white man near by owned nigger hounds, young mistress. He take his hounds, go hunt a runaway, young mistress. You would pay him, I reckon, young mistress.

"I did get some whoopings, young mistress. They used a cow hide strap on me, young mistress. They blistered me a right smart, young mistress.

"We didn't have so much to eat. They give us one peck meal, four pounds meat a week. Mama done our cooking, young mistress. We had good clothes, warm clothes, woolen clothes, young mistress. We had a few sheep about the place. We had a few geese 'mong the turkeys, guineas, ducks, and chickens. They kept the peafowls for good luck, young mistress.

"Fur a fact they had a big garden, young mistress. Boss William Green worked the garden. He made us pull the plow—four of us boys. He said the stock would tromp down more'n they'd make, young mistress. Two of his boys and me and George pulled his plough. We had a big garden.

"I chopped in the field, picked up chips on the clearings. I chopped cook wood right smart, young mistress.

"When freedom come on, grandpa come after mama. Boss William Green told her, 'You free.' He give her ten bushels corn, good deal of meat—back bone and spareribs. He come one Saturday evening, young mistress. She took 'long whatever she had at our house in the way of clothing and such lack, young mistress. Well, grandpa was share crapping, young mistress.

"The Ku Kluckses come one night. They kept us getting 'em water to run through something under their sheets. The water was running out on the ground. We did see it for a fact, young mistress. We was scared not to do that. They was getting submission over the country, young mistress. They would make you be quiet 'long the roadside, young mistress. They would make you be quiet where you have meeting. They would turn the pots down on the floor at the doors, young mistress. The Ku Kluckses whooped some, tied some out to trees and left 'em. They was rough, young mistress.

"I worked in the field all my life.

"Times is good fer me, young mistress. I live with my niece. I get twelve dollars assistance 'cause I been sick, young mistress. I owns a pony. All I owns, young mistress.

"I hab voted, young mistress. I'm too old to vote now, young mistress. I reckon I voted both ways some, young mistress.

"Young folks is so strong and happy they is different from old folks, young mistress."



#774 Interviewer: Watt McKinney Person interviewed: Henry Green Barton, Arkansas Age: 90

Uncle Henry Green, an ex-slave ninety years of age, is affectionately known throughout a large part of Phillips County as "Happy Day". This nickname, acquired in years long past, was given him no doubt partly on account of his remarkably happy disposition, but mainly on account of his love for the old religious song, "Happy Day", that Uncle Henry has enjoyed so long to sing and the verses of which his voice still carries out daily over the countryside each morning promptly at daybreak and again at sundown.

Uncle Henry and his old wife, Louisa, live with Uncle Henry's sister, Mattie Harris, herself seventy-five years of age, on a poor forty acre farm that Mattie owns in the Hyde Park community just off the main highway between Walnut Corner and West Helena. Henry acts as janitor at the Lutherian Church at Barton and the three do such farming as they are able on the thin acres and with the few dollars that they receive each month from the Welfare Board together with the supplies furnished them at the Relief Office these three old folks are provided with the bare necessities sufficient to sustain them.

Uncle Henry, his wife and sister Mattie are the most interesting of the several ex-slave Negroes in this county whom it has been my pleasure and good fortune to interview. As I sat with them on the porch of their old, rambling log house the following incidents and account of their lives were given with Uncle Henry talking and Mattie and Louisa offering occasional explanations and corrections:

"Yes sir, Boss Man, my right name is Henry Green but eberybody, dey all calls me 'Happy Day'. Dat is de name whut mos' all calls me fer so long now dat heap of de folks, dey don't eben know dat my name is sho nuf Henry Green. I sho ain't no baby, Boss Man, kase I is been here er long time, dat I is, and near as I kin cum at hit I is ninety years old er mo, kase Mattie sey dat de lady in de cote-house tell her dat I is ninety-fo, en dat wuz three years er go. I is er old nigger, Boss Man, en er bout de onliest old pusson whut is lef er round here in dis part of de county. I means whut is sho nuf old, en what wuz born way bak in de slabery times, way fo de peace wuz 'clared.

"Us wuz borned, dat is me en sister Mattie, er way bak dere in Souf Alabama, down below Montgomery, in de hills, en on de big place whut our ole marster, William Green, had, en whar de tanyard wuz. Yo see, old marster, he runned er big tanyard wid all de res of he bizness, whar dey tan de hides en mek de shoes en leather harness en sich lak, en den too, marster, he raise eberything on de place. All whut he need fer de niggers en he own fambly, lak cotton, wheat, barley, rice en plenty hogs en cows. Iffen peace hadn't er been 'clared en Marse Billy hadn't er died I wuz gwine ter be Marse Billy's property, kase I wuz already willed ter Marse Billy. Marse Billy wuz old Marster William Green's oldest son chile, en Marse Billy claimed me all de while. Marse Billy, he went off to de War whar he tukkin sik en died in de camp, 'fore he cud eben git in de fitin.

"Atter de War wuz ober en peace cum, my grandmammy en my grandpappy, dey cum en got my mammy en all us chillun en tuk us wid dem ter Montgomery, en dat wuz whar us wuz when dem two Yankee mens immigrated us here ter Arkansas. Dey immigrated er bout er hundred head er niggers at de same time dat us cum. My grandpappy en my grandmammy, dey didn't belong ter old Marster William Green. I jist don't know whut white folks dey did belong ter, but I knows dat dey sho cum en got my mammy en us chillun. Old marster, he neber mine dem er leavin' en tole 'em dat dey free, en kin go if us want ter go, en when us left old marster gib mammy ten bushels er corn en some hog heads en spareribs en tole her ter bring de chillun bak er gin 'fore long kase he gwine ter gib all de chillun some shoes at de tanyard, but us neber did go bak ter git dem shoes kase we wuz immigrated soon atter den.

"No sir, Boss Man, we don't know nuthin' 'bout who our pappy wuz. Dar wuzn't no niggers much in slabery times whut knowed nuthin' 'bout dey pappys. Dey jes knowed who dey mammys is. Dats all dey knowed 'bout dat. Us neber hab no pappy, jes er mammy whut wuz name Emily Green.

"Boss Man, yo see how black I is en kinky dat my hair is en yo can see dat me en sister Mattie is sho pure niggers wid no brown in us. Well, yo know one thing, Boss Man, en dis is sho whut my mammy done tole us er heap er times, en dat is dat when I wuz born dat de granny woman runned ter old mis en tell her ter cum en look at dat baby whut Emily done gibed birth ter, and dat I wuz nigh 'bout white en hed straight hair en blue eyes, en when old mis seed me dat she so mad dat she gib mammy er good stroppin kase I born lak dat but hit warn't long atter I born 'fore I gits black, en old mis see den dat I er pure nigger, en den she tell mammy dat she sorry dat she stropped her 'bout me being white en er habin blue eyes en straight hair. No sir, Boss Man, I jes don't know how cum I change but dat sho is whut mammy did tell us. Sister Mattie, she know dat.

"Yes sir, Boss Man, I kin tell you all er bout de old slabery times, en cordin ter whut I'se thinkin', en fer as me myself is, wid de times so tight lak dey is now days wid me, and all de time be er stud'in' 'bout how ter git er long, hit wud be er heap better fer hit to be lak hit wuz den, kase us neber hed nuthin ter worry 'bout den cept ter do dat whut we wuz tole ter do, en all de eatin' en de cloes wuz gib ter us. Our marster trained us up right, fer ter do our wuk good en ter obey whut de white folks sey en ter sho be polite to de white folks, en atter us lef old marster den our mammy she trained us de same way, en we is always polite, kase manners is cheap.

"All de nigger chillun in slabery time wore slips, bofe de gals en de boys. Dere wuzn't no breeches fer de little ones eben atter dey git old enuf ter wuk en go ter de fiel's, dey still wear dem slips, en dey used ter feed us outen dem big wooden bowls whut dey mix de bread up in, wid sometimes de pot-likker, en sometimes mostly wid de milk, en de chillun, dey go atter dat grub en git hit all ober dey faces en dey hands en dey slips en er bout de time dey git through eatin' de old mis she cum out en when dey through old mis, she hab 'em ter wash dey hands en faces nice en clean.

"On dem Sundays dat de marster want all de niggers ter go ter church fer de preachin', he send dem all de order ter wash up good en clean en put on dey clean cloes en git ready fer de preachin', en fust ter cum up dar whar he waitin' ter see dat dey look good en nice en clean, en when us git up dar ter de house lookin' fresh en good, de marster's folks, dey talk lak dis ter one er nudder; dey sey: 'Look er here at my nigger, Henry, dat boy is lookin' fine. He is gwine ter be er big healthy man en er good wukker,' en atter dey all done looked all de niggers ober dey tell 'em ter be gwine on ter de church en dey go on en sit in de bak behine all de white folks en hear de white man preach. Dar wuzn't no nigger preachers in dem days dat I ever seed.

"Now I know dat yo has heard of dem paddyrollers. Well, I tell yo, Boss Man, dem paddyrollers, dey wuz bilious. Dey wuz de mens whut rid out on de roads at night ter see dat all dem niggers whut wuz out en off dey marster's places hed er pass from dey marsters. Dem paddyrollers, dey wud stop er nigger whut dey find out at night en sey, 'Boy, whar yo gwine? En is yo got yo pass?' En de Lawd help dem niggers whut dey cotch widout dat pass. Iffen er nigger be cotch out et night widout de pass writ down on de paper frum he marster, en dem paddyrollers cotch him, dat nigger sho haf ter do sum good prayin' en pretty talkin' er else dey tek him ter whar dey got four stobs drove down in de groun en dey tie he hans en feet ter dem stobs en den ware him out wid er big heaby strop. De mostest reason dat sometimes de niggers out at night is on account dey courtin' some gal whut libes on some udder place. When yo see de paddyrollers er comin' en yo ain't got no pass writ down on de paper en yo don't want ter git er stroppin, den de onliest thing fer yo ter do is ter run en try ter git on yer marster's place 'fore dey git yo, er try ter dodge 'em er somepin lak dat. Iffen de paddyrollers got dem nigger hounds wid 'em when de nigger break en run, den de onliest thing dat de nigger kin do den is ter wuk de conjure. He kin wuk dat conjure on dem hounds in seberal different ways. Fust, he kin put er liddle tuppentine on he feet er in he shoe, en er lot er times dat will frow de hounds off de track, er else, iffen he kin git er hold er some fresh dirt whar er grabe ain't been long dug, en rub dat on he feet, den dat is er good conjure, en mo dan dat iffen he kin git ter catch er yearlin calf by der tail en step in de drappins whar dat calf done runned er long wid him er holdin' on ter de tail, den dat is a sho conjure ter mak dem hounds lose de track, en dat nigger kin dodge de paddyrollers.

"Lak I sey, Boss Man, 'bout de onliest thing dat de niggers in slabery time wud lebe de place at night fer, wud be dey courtin', en mostly den on er Wednesday er Saturday night, so I gwine ter tell yo how dey sometimes dodge de paddyrollers whilst dey courtin' dere wimmens at night. Yo see, mos' all de wimmens, dey be er wukkin at night on dey tasks dat dere old mis gib 'em ter do, er weavin' er de cloth. Dese wimmens wud be er settin' 'roun de fire weavin' de cloth en de nigger be dar too er courtin' de gal, en all ter once here cum dem paddyrollers, some at de front door en some at de back door, en when de wimmens er hear 'em er comin', dey raise er loose plank in de flo whut dey done made loose fer dis bery puppus, en de nigger he den drap right quick down 'neath de flo twix de jists, en de wimmens den slap de plank right bak in place on top er de man ter hide him, so iffen de paddyrollers does come in dat dey see dat dere ain't no man in dar. Dat wuz de way dat de niggers used ter fool 'em heap er times.

"I 'members dem days well when de War gwine on yit I neber did see no Yankee mens er tall, en de closest dat us eber cumbed ter see de Yankees wuz dat time when old marster hed de horn blowed ter signal de niggers ter git de kerrige hosses en de milk cows off ter de woods kase he had done heard dat de Yankees wuz er cumin, but dey missed us en dem Yankees, dey neber find old marster's place. I seed some of our sojer mens do, once, atter us lef old marster en go ter Montgomery wid our grandpappy. Dese sojer mens, dey come in ter town on de train bak frum de War whar dey been fitin fer so long, en dey happy en singin', dey so glad dat peace done 'clared. Hit wuz er whole train full er dem Fedrit sojers, en dey wimmens en chilluns all dere er huggin' en er kissin' 'em ginst dey git off de train en gibin 'em cakes en sich good things ter eat.

"Yes sir, Boss Man, de niggers wuz treated good in slabery times en wuz trained up right, ter wuk, en obey, en ter hab good manners. Our old marster, he neber wud sell er nigger en he feed 'em good, en dey lub en 'spected him. Yo sho hed better 'spect him, en iffen yo didn't dat strop wud be er flyin'. All er old marster's niggers wuz good multiplyin' peoples. Dey sho wuz, en dey raise big famblies. Dats one thing whut er woman hed ter be in dem days er she sho be sold quick. Iffen she ain't er good multiplier dey gwine ter git shut er her rail soon. Day tuk extra pains wid dem good multiplyin' wimmins too en neber gib dem no heaby wuk ter do no mo dan weavin' de cloth er sich roun de place.

"Whilst our old marster, he neber sell no niggers, de speculators, dey hab 'em fer sale er plenty, en I has seed 'em er passin' in de road en er long string er gwine ter de place whar de sale gwine ter be. 'Fore dey git ter de sale place dey roach dem niggers up good jes lak dey roach er mule, en when dey put 'em on de block fer de white mens ter bid de price on 'em den dey hab 'em ter cut de shines en de pidgeon wing fer ter show off how supple dey is, so dey bring de bes' price.

"Dey neber hed no farm bells in slabery times fer ter ring en call de hans in en outen de fiel's. Dey hed horns whut dey blowed early en late. De wuk wud go on till hit so dark dat dey can't see. Den de horn wud blow en de niggers all cum in en git dey supper, en cook dey ash cakes in de fire whut dey build in dey own cabins. Boss Man, is yo eber et er ash cake? I don't 'spects dat yo know how ter mek one er dem ash cakes. I gwine ter tell yo how dat is done. Fust yo git yo some good home groun meal en mix hit well wid milk er water en a liddle salt an bakin' powder whut yo mek outen red corn cobs, den yo pat dem cakes up right good en let 'em settle, den put 'em in de hot ashes in de fireplace en kiver 'em up good wid some mo hot ashes en wait till dey done, en Boss Man, yo sho is got er ash cake dat is fitten ter eat. Dats de way dat us made 'em in slabery times en de way dat us yit meks 'em. Us didn't know whut white bread wuz in de old days, hardly, 'ceptin sometimes 'roun de marster's kitchen er nigger wud git er hold of er biscuit. All de bread dat de slabe niggers git wud be made outen cornmeal er dem brown shorts whut de marsters gib 'em in de rashions.

"Us wuz all well fed do in slabery times en kept in good fat condition. Ebery once in er while de marster wud hab er cow kilt en de meat 'stributed out mongst de folks en dey cud always draw all de rashions dat dey need.

"Dey used ter hab dem big corn shuckin's too in de old days. De corn wud be piled up in er pile es big es er house en all de han's wud be scattered out roun' dat pile er corn shuckin' fas' as dey cud, en atter dey done shucked dat pile er corn, ole marster wud hab two big hogs kilt en cooked up in de big pots en kittles, en den dem niggers wud eat en frolic fer de longes', mekin music wid er hand saw en er tin pan, en er dancin', en laffin, en cuttin' up, till dey tired out. Dem wuz good days, Boss Man. I sho wish dat I cud call dem times bak ergin. De marsters whut hed de big places en de slabe niggers, dey hardly do no wuk er tall, kase dey rich wid niggers en lan', en dem en dey famblies don't hab no wuk ter do, so de old marsters en de young marsters, dey jes knock erbout ober de country on dey hosses, en de young misses en de old misses, dey ride er bout in de fine kerrige wid de coachman er doin' de drivin'. Dey hab de oberseers ter look atter de mekin er de crops, so de bosses, dey jes sort er manage, en see dat de bizness go on de right way.

"De marsters en de misses, dey look atter dere niggers good do en see dat dey keep demselves clean en 'spectible, en try ter keep de disease outen 'em. Ebery Monday mornin' dey gib 'em all er little square, brown bottle er bitters fer dem ter take dat week. Dat wuz dere medicine, but iffen er nigger do git sick, den dey sent fer de doctor right er way en hab de doctor ter 'zamine de sick one en sey, 'Doctor, kin you do dat nigger eny good?' er 'Do whut yo kin fer dat nigger, Doctor, kase he is er valuable han' en wuth muney.'

"I neber wuz sick none do in my life, but I jes nathally been kilt, near 'bout, one time in de gin when my head git cotched twixt de lever en de band wheel en Uncle Dick hed ter prize de wheel up offen my head ter git me loose, en dat jes nigh 'bout peeled all de skin offen my head. Old marster, he gib me er good stroppin fer dat too. Dat wuz fer not obeyin', kase he hed done tole all us young niggers fer ter stay 'way frum de gin house.

"I wuzn't gwine ter be trained up ter wuk in de fiel's, I wuz trained ter be er pussonal servant ter de marster, en sister Mattie, she wuz gwine ter be trained up ter be er house woman, en so wuz my old woman, Louisa, kase her mammy wuz er house woman herself fer her white folks in South Carolina, so I rekkin dats de reason us always thought we so much en better 'en de ginral run er niggers.

"Yes sir, Boss Man, de niggers is easy fooled. Dey always is been dat way, en we wuz fooled er way frum Alabama ter Arkansas by dem two Yankee mens, Mr. Van Vleet en Mr. Bill Bowman, whut I tole yo er bout, dat brung dat hundred head er folks de time us cum. Dey tole us dat in Arkansas dat de hogs jes layin' er roun already baked wid de knives en de forks stickin' in 'em ready fer ter be et, en dat dere wuz fritter ponds eberywhars wid de fritters er fryin' in dem ponds er grease, en dat dar wuz money trees whar all yo hed ter do wuz ter pik de money offen 'em lak pickin' cotton offen de stalk, en us wuz sho put out when us git here en fine dat de onliest meat ter be hed wuz dat whut wuz in de sto, en dem fritters hed ter be fried in de pans, en dat dar warn't no money trees er tall. Hit warn't long 'fore my grandpappy en my grandmammy, dey lef 'en went bak ter Alabama, but my mammy en us chillun, we jes stayed on right here in Phillips County whar us been eber since, en right en dat room right dar wuz whar us old mammy died long years er go.

"Well, Boss Man, yo done ax me en I sho gwine ter tell yo de truf. Yes sir, I sho is voted, en I 'members de time well dat de niggers in de cotehouse en de Red Shirts hab ter git 'em out. Dat wuz de bes' thing dat dey eber do when dey git de niggers outen de cotehouse en quit 'em frum holdin' de offices, kase er nigger not fit ter be no leader. I neber cud wuk under no nigger. I jes nathally neber wud wuk under no nigger. I jist voted sich er length er time, en when de Red Shirts, dey say dat er nigger not good enuf ter vote, en dey stopped me frum votin', en I don't mess wid hit no mo.

"Yes sir, Boss Man, I blebe dat de Lawd lef' me here so long fer some good puppose, en I sho hopes dat I kin stay here fer er heap er mo years. I jes nathally lubes de white folks en knows dat dey is sho gwine ter tek care of old 'Happy Day', en ain't gwine ter let me git hurt.

"De young niggers in dis day sho ain't lak de old uns. Dese here young niggers is jes nathally de cause of all de trubble. Dey jes ain't been raised right en ter be polite lak de old ones, lak me, I don't hold it er gin yo, kase, mebbe yo pappy en yo mammy owned my pappy en my mammy in slabery times en whupped 'em, kase I 'spects dat dey needed all de punishment whut dey got. All de education whut I got, Boss Man, is jes ter wuk, en obey, en ter lib right.

"I knows dat I ain't here far many mo years, Boss Man, en I sho hopes dat I kin git ter see some of my marsters, de Greens, ergin, 'fore I goes. I ain't neber been back since I lef, en I ain't neber heard frum none of 'em since I been in Arkansas, en I know en cose dat all de old uns is gone by now, but I 'spects dat some of de young uns is lef yit. I wud sho lak ter go back dar ter de old place whar de tanyard wuz, but I neber wud hab dat much money ter pay my way on de train, en den, I don't rekkin dat I cud fine de way nohow. I wud git some of de white folks ter write er letter back dar fer me iffen I know whar ter send hit, er de name of some of my young marsters whut mebbe is dar still. Yes sir, Boss Man, I sho hopes dat I kin see some of dem white folks ergin, en dat some of dese days dey will fine me. Yo know I is de janitor at de church at Walnut Corner whar de two hard roads cross, en whar all de cars cum by. De cars, dey cum by dar frum eberywhars, en so ebery Sunday morning atter I gits through er cleanin' up de church, I sets down on de bench dar close ter Mr. Gibson's sto, whar dey sell de gasolene en de cold drinks, en whar de cars cum by frum eberywhar, en I sets dar er lookin' at all dem white folks er passin' in dey cars, en sometimes dey stop fer ter git 'em some gasolene er sumpin, en I says ter myself dat mebbe one er my young marsters sometimes gwine ter be in one of dem cars, en gwine ter drive up dar er lookin' fer me. Er heap er times when de cars stop dar will be er white gentman in de cars whut git out en see me a settin' dar on de bench, en he sey, 'Uncle, yo is rail old, ain't yo?' An den he ax me my name en whar I borned at, en er heap er times dey buy me er cigar. Well, Boss Man, dats how cum I sets on dat bench dar at de road crossin' at Walnut Corner ebery Sunday, mos' all day, atter I gits through er cleanin' up de church, jes settin' dar watchin' dem cars cum by en 'spectin one of dese days fer one of my young marsters ter drive up en ter fine me er settin' dar waitin' fer him, en when he cum, iffen he do, I know dat he sho gwine ter tek me back home wid him."



Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Frank Greene 2313 Saracen Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 78

"Yes'm, I can remember the Civil War and the Yankees, too. I can really remember the Yankees and my old boss. I can't remember everything but I can remember certain things just as good.

"Dr. Ben Lawton was my old boss. That was in South Carolina. That was what they called Buford County at that time.

"Had a place they called the Honey Hill Fight. I used to go up there and pick up balls.

"I can remember the Yankees had little old mules and blue caps and the folks was runnin' from 'em.

"I remember old boss run off and hid from 'em—first one place and then another.

"I remember the Yankees would grab up us little folks and put us on the mules—just for fun you know. I can remember that just as well as if 'twas yesterday—seems like.

"They burned old boss's place down. He had five or six plantations and I know he come back and rebuilt after peace declared, but he didn't live long.

"He wasn't a mean man. He was good to his folks. We stayed there two years after surrender and when I come to this country, I left some of my uncles on that same place.

"I remember a white gentlemen in South Carolina would just jump his horse over the fence and run over the folks, white and black, cotton and all. He was a rich man and he'd just pay 'em off and go on. He wouldn't put up the fence neither. He was a hunter—a sporting man.

"Me? Yes ma'am, I used to vote—the Republican ticket. We ain't nothin' now, we can't vote. I never had any trouble 'bout votin' here but in the old country we had some trouble. The Democrats tried to keep us from votin'. Had to have the United States soldiers to open the way. That was when Hays and Wheeler was runnin'.

"Here in the South the colored folks is free and they're not free. The white folks gets it all anyway—in some places.

"But they ain't nobody bothered me in all my life—here or there.

"I went to school some after the war. Didn't have very much, but I learned to read and write and 'tend to my own affairs.

"I have done farm work all my life and some public work. I got the same ambition to work as I used to have but I can't hold it. I start out but I just can't hold it.

"Just to pass my opinion of the younger generation, some of 'em level-headed, but seems to me like they is a little rougher than they was in my day.

"I think every one should live as an example for those coming behind."



MAY 11 1938 Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: George Greene Temporary—1700 Pulaski St., Little Rock, Ark. Permanent—Wrightsville, Ark. Age: 85?

Birth and Age

"I don't know when I was born. I don't know exactly, but I was born in slavery time before the War began. I was big enough to wait on the table when they was fighting. I remember when they was setting the Negroes free. I was born in Aberdeen, Mississippi, in Monroe County. Seven miles from the town of Aberdeen, out on the prairies, that is where I was born.

"I figure out my age by the white woman that raised me. She sent me my age. When they was working the roads, my road boss, I told him I was forty-five years old and he didn't believe it. So I sent to the white woman that raised me from a month-old child. When I left her, I'd done got grown. Her name was Narcissus Stephenson; she had all our ages and she sent mine to me.

"She may be dead now. I could've stayed right there if she isn't dead, because she never did want me to come away. Right out in Arkansas, I come,—to my sorrow. Well, I done right well till I got crippled. Got hit by an automobile. That's what I'm doin' here now."

Parents and Relatives

"My father's name was Nathan Greene. I reckon he went by that name, I can't swear to it. I wasn't with him when he died. I was up in Mississippi on the Mississippi River and didn't get the news in time to get there till after he was dead. He was an old soldier. When the Yankees got down in Mississippi, they grabbed up every nigger that was able to fight. If I'd get his furlough papers, I'd a been drawin' pension before I did. But his brother was with him when he died and he let the dismiss papers get lost, and nobody got nothin'. Don't draw nothin' from it at all. Couldn't find the papers when I was down there.

"I don't know whether my father used his master's name or his father's name. His father's name was Jerry Greene, and his master's name was Henry Bibb. I don't know which name he went by, but I call myself Greene because his father's name was Jerry Greene. No Bibb owned him at first. Jerry Greene was born in North, Alabama in Morgan County. That's where he was born. Bibb bought him and brought him down to Mississippi where I was born. Lord! Old Man Bibb owned a lot of 'em, too. My father and grandfather were both colored but my grandfather was an old yellow man. You know, he had to take his color after his papa. I don't know my great-grandfather's name. They can't tell nothin' 'bout that in them days. His papa, my grandfather's papa, I can't tell for sure whether he was white or black.

"My mother's name was Adeline Greene. Grandpa's wife's name was Louisa. She was one of these kinder mixed with Indian. She lived to see a many a year before she died. She lived to be a hundred and fifteen years of age before she died. I knowed Grandma Louisa. Up until I was a man grown. She was about my color with long straight hair and black (hair). Old Lady Bibb was her mistress. She died way after freedom.

"I don't know mama's age. I was here in Arkansas when she died. Didn't know she was dead until a month after she was buried. She died in Mississippi. Grandma, mama, and all of them died in Mississippi.

"My grandma on my mother's side was named—I can't remember her name, but I knowed her. I can't remember what the old man's name was neither. It's been so long it just went from my memory. They never told me much neither. Folks didn't talk much to children in those days. I wouldn't hardly have thought of it now anyway."

House and Furniture

"A old log house was what I was born in,—when I come out from Mississippi that old house was still standing. Aw, they put up houses them days. It had one room. Didn't have but one room,—one window, one door,—didn't have but one door to go in and out. I remember that well. Didn't have no whole parcel of doors to go in and out. Plank floors. I wasn't born on the dirt! I was born on planks. Our house was up off the ground. We had a board roof. We used four foot boards. Timber was plentiful then where they could make boards easy. Boards was cheap. There wasn't no such things as shingles. Didn't have no shingle factories.

"We didn't have nothing but on old wooden bed. It wasn't bought. It was made. Made it at home. Carpenter made it. Making wooden beds was perfect then. They'd break down every two or three years. They lasted. There was boards holding then. Wasn't no slats nor nothing. Nail them boards to the post and to the sides of the house, and that was the end of it with some people. We had a corded bed. Put them ropes through the sides and corded them up there as tight as Dick's hatband—and they stayed. They made their own boards, and made their own ropes, and corded them together, and they stayed. Chairs! Shucks! They just took boxes. They made chairs too—took shucks and put bottoms in them. Them chairs lasted. Them shucks go way, they'd put more there. Wish I had one of them chairs now. We made a box and put our rations in it. Them days they made what they called cupboards. They made anything they wanted to. When they got free, they'd buy dishes. When they got free, boxes and cupboards went out of style. They bought safes. There wasn't no other furniture. We used tin pans for dishes in slavery time. When we got free, we bought plates.

"When them pans fell they didn't break. They even as much as made their own trays to make bread in. They would take a cypress tree and dig it out and them scoundrels lasted too. Don't see nothin' like that now. Tin pan is big enough to make up bread in now. In them days they made anything. Water buckets,—they did buy them. Old master would give 'em a pass to go get 'em. Anything they wanted, he would give 'em if he thought it necessary. Old master would get 'em all the buckets. He was good and he would buy what you would ask him for. They made milk buckets. They made 'em just like they make 'em now."

Work of Family in Slave Time

"My people were all field hands. My master had a great big farm—three or four hundred acres. I waited table when I was a little chap and I learned to plow before the War was over."

Good Master

"Old Man Bibb was as good and clever a man as ever you knowed. That overseer down there, if he whipped a man Old Man Bibbs would say, 'Here's your money. Don't want you beating up my niggers so they can't work. I don't need you.' He'd tell 'im quick he don't need him and he can git. That's the kind of man he was. Wouldn't let you be mobbed up. He was a good christian man. I'll give that to him. In the time of the War when they was freeing slaves and I was a little old eight-year-old kid, there was a little old Dutchman, a Tennessee man, he came out in the country to get feed. Out there in Alabama.

"I was in Alabama then. The white woman that raised me had taken me there. She had done married again and left me with mama awhile. While I was little, that was. When I was about seven, she came and got me again and carried me down in Alabama and raised me with her children. That white woman never called me nothin' but baby as long as she lived. You know she cared for me just like I was one of her's. When a person raise a child from a month old she can't help from loving it.

"This Dutchman come and asked me where my parents was and I told him they was in Mississippi. He slipped me away from my folks and carried me to Decatur and they got cut off there. He was a Yankee soldier, and old Forrest's army caught 'em and captured me and then carried me first nearly to Nashville. They got in three miles of the town and couldn't get no closer. They ran us so we never got no res' till we got to Booneville, Mississippi. Then I sent word to Bibb and my uncle came up and got me. Him and Billie Bibb, my young master. Billie Bibb was a soldier too. He was home on a furlough. I was glad to see him because I tell you in the army there was suffering. But I'll tell you I'll give them credit, those Tennessee men took care of me just as though I was their own. I was in a two mule wagon. I drove it. I was big enough to drive. The ambulance man stopped in Nashville to see his folks and got a furlough and went on home."

Work

"I learned how to work—work in the field. Wasn't nothing but field work. I learned how to hoe first. But in Alabama I learned how to plow. I didn't want to be no hoe man; I wanted to plow. When I went back to Mississippi, they put me on the plow. I was just eight years old when I learned to plow."

Share cropping

"Right after freedom, I just kept on plowing. We share cropped. My mama and I would take a crop. She'd work. We'd all work like the devil until I got a job and went to town. She was willing to let me go. That was when I married too."

How Freedom Came

"All I know about freedom was Old Man Henry Bibb come out and told us we was free. That is how I came to know it. He came out there on the farm and said, 'Well, you all free as I am. You can stay here if you want to or you can go somewhere else.' We stayed. Mama stayed there on the farm plumb till she come to town. I don't know how many years. I was there in town and so she come onto town later. Moved in with the people she was with. They gave up their place. I was nineteen years old when I left the country. My mother gave me her consent,—to marry then, too. She came to town a few years later.

"The slaves weren't given nothin' after they was freed. Nothing but what they worked for. They got to be share croppers."

Ku Klux Klan

"The Ku Klux never bothered me but they sure bothered others. Way yonder in Mississippi directly after the surrender, they'd hated it so bad they killed up many of them. They caught white men there and whipped them and killed them. They killed many a nigger. They caught a white man there and whipped him and he went on up to Washington, D. C. and came back with a train load of soldiers. They came right down there in the south end of our town and they carried them Ku Kluxers away by train loads full. They cleaned out the east side of the river. The Ku Klux had been stringing up niggers every which way. 'Twasn't nothin' to find a nigger swinging up in the woods. But those soldiers come from Washington City. If they didn't clean 'em up, I'll hush.

"I don't know what become of 'em. They never did come back to Aberdeen."

Occupations Followed and Life Since Freedom

"I ain't worked a lick in four or five years. If I lived to see August tenth, I will be eighty-six years old. I used to follow railroading or saw milling or farming. That is what I followed when I was able to work. The last work I did was farming, working by the day—a dollar and a half a day. And they cut it down and cut me down. Now they ain't giving nothing. If a man gets six bits a day he doing good. Harder times in Arkansas now than I have ever seen before. If a man is able to take care of his family now, he is doing well. They don't give niggers nothing now.

"The only way I live is I get a little pension. They give me eight dollars a month and commodities. That is all I live on now. That keeps me up, thank God. I have been getting the pension about ever since they started. I reckon it is about two years. I have been receiving it every month. It ain't failed yet. They been taking care of me pretty well ever since they started. First start it wasn't nothin' but rations. They give me groceries enough to las' me every month. I had a wife then.

"I have been a widow now four years. Four years I've been a widow. But there ain't nothin' like a man staying in his own house. I have made out now for four years. Right there cooking and washing for George! I didn't have nothing else to do. Fellow can't tell what day the Lord will say, 'Stop', but as long as I am this way, I'll keep at it.

"This soreness in my leg keeps me in bad shape. I came here to get my leg fixed. It gets so I can't walk without a stick. I don't like to stay with other folks. They're sinners and they use me sorta sinful—speak any sort of language. But they sure 'nough treats me nice.

"I got my leg hurt last December. Car ran into me at Wrightsville, and knocked me down and threw me far as from here to that thing (about fifteen feet). After they flung me down, I was flat on my back a long while. I couldn't move. When a fellow gets old and then gets crippled up, it's hard. But I'm gettin' 'long pretty well now, 'cept that this leg ain't strong."



DEC — 1937 Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Andrew Gregory Brinkley, Arkansas Age: 74

"I was born in Carroll County, Tennessee. My mother was owned by Houston. She said when war was declared he was at a neighbor's house. He jumped up and said, 'I gonner be the first to kill a Yankee.' They said in a few minutes he fell back on the bed dead. My father owner was Tillman Gregory. After freedom he stayed on sharecroppin'. From what he said that wasn't much better than bein' owned. They had to work or starve. He said they didn't make nobody work but they didn't keep nobody from starvin' if they didn't go at it. They was proud to be free but that didn't ease up the working.

"My people stayed on in Tennessee a long time. When I was nineteen years old they was making up a crowd to come here to work. Said the land was new. I come wid them. It was a big time. We come on the Hardcash (steamboat). I farmed and cleared land all my life. I sold wood, hauled wood. I've done all kinds of form work. I get $12 from the Welfare Association.

"The young generation is a puzzle to me. That why I stand and watch what they do. The folks make the times. It's a puzzle to me too."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Annie Griegg Madison, Arkansas Age: 84

"I was born a slave, born in Nashville, Tennessee. I was sold twice. I don't recollect my mother; I was so small when I was parted from her. I had two sisters and I recollect them. One of my sisters was sold the same day I was sold and I recollect my other sister was named Rebecca. I never seen her no more after I was sold. I was the youngest.

"Mother belong to Captain Walker. That was before the Civil War so I know he wasn't an officer in it. His daughter married a man named Mr. Foster. Captain Walker had give me to his daughter when she married. They lived in Nashville, Tennessee too. Mr. Foster sold me and Captain Walker sold my sister Ann and Mr. Bill Steel Henderson at Columbia, Tennessee bought us both and give my sister to his widowed sister for a house girl and nurse and he kept me.

"They lived close to us and my sister stayed at our house nearly all the time. My sister and me was sold for the some price, $100 a piece. She could count and knew a dollar. She had some learning then. I never went to school a day in my life.

"The first block was a big tree and stumps sawed off for steps by the side of it. The big tree had been sawed off up high. The man cried me off standing on the next stump step. My sister told me our mother was a cook at Captain Walker's. She told me my father was a Foster. It was my understanding that he was a white man. My sister was darker than I was. Mr. Foster sold me for a nurse. Mr. Henderson's sister was name Mrs. McGaha (?). My sister nursed and cooked. I nursed three children at Mr. Henderson's. He was good to me. I loved the children and they was crazy about me. He sold me to Mr. Field Mathis. I nursed four children for them. I never did know why I was sold. Mr. Henderson was heap the best. Mr. Henderson never hit me a lick in his life.

"Mathis was cruel. He drank all the time. He got mad and stamped my hand. I nearly lost the use of my hand. It was swollen way up and hurt and stayed riz up till his cousin noticed it. He was a doctor. He lived in the other end of the house—the same house. He found some bones was broke loose in my hand (right hand). Dr. Mathis (Dr. Mathis or Dr. Mathews who died at Forrest City, Arkansas) set his brother out about treating little nurse thater way. Told him he oughter be ashamed of hisself. Dr. Mathis splintered my hand and doctored it till it got well.

"Mr. Field Mathis was a merchant. They moved to Colt, Arkansas at the beginning of the War, Dr. and Mr. Field Mathis both. We come on the train and steamboats. It was so new to me I had a fine time but that is all I can tell about it. Mr. Field was cross with his wife. She was fairly good to me. I had all the cooking, washing and ironing to do before I left there.

"After we come to Arkansas I never got to see my sister. My husband was a good scholar. He could write. He wrote and wrote back to find my sister and mother but they never answered my letters. I asked everybody that come from there about my sisters and mother but never have heard a word. I slept on a pallet on the floor nearly all my life. I had a little bed at Mr. Henderson's.

"I didn't know it was freedom till one day when I was about fourteen or fifteen years old—judging from my size and what I done. I went off to a spring to wash. I had one pot of clothes to boil and another just out of the pot to rub and rinse. A girl come to tell me Mrs. Field had company and wanted me to come cook dinner. I didn't go but I told her I would be on and cook dinner soon as I could turn loose the washing. There was two colored girls and a white girl could done the cooking but I was a good cook. The girl put on the water for me to scald the chickens soon as she went to the house. When I got there Mrs. Field Mathis had a handful of switches corded together to beat me. I picked up the pan of boiling water to scald the chickens in. She got scared of me, told me to put the pan down. I didn't do it. I didn't aim to hurt her. I wouldn't throwed that boiling water on nothing. She sent to the store for her husband. He come and I told him how it was about the clothes and three girls there could cook without me. He got mad at her and said: 'Mary Agnes, she is as free as you are or I am. I'm not going to ever hurt her again and you better not.' That is the first I ever heard about freedom. It had been freedom a long time. I don't know how long then.

"I stayed on, washed out the clothes and strung them up that evening. I ironed all the clothes and cooked the rest of the week. Mr. Field got me a good home with some colored folks. He told me if I would go there he never would let nobody bother me and he never would mistreat me no more. I worked some for them but they paid me. She ought to thought a heap of me the way I cooked and worked for her. That was my freedom. I was sold on a platform to Mr. Mathis.

"After freedom I done field work. I never seen a Ku Klux in my life. I cooked out some and I married. I still cooked out. I was married once and married in a church. I have seven children living and seven dead.

"I live with my daughter and her family and I get $6 and commodities. I'm mighty thankful for that. It helps me a whole lots.

"I recken young folks do the best they know to do. Seems like folks are kinder hearted than they used to be. Times have changed a heap every way. Times is harder for poor folks than the others. It is a true saying that poor folks have hard ways and rich folks have mean ways. They are more selfish. I always had to work hard. Both times I was sold for $100."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Persons interviewed: William and Charlotte Guess West Memphis, Arkansas Ages: 68 and 66

William Guess

"I was born in Monroe County, Arkansas. Father come from Dallas, Texas when a young man before he married. Him and two other men was shipped in a box to Indian Bay. I've heard him and Ike Jimmerson laugh how they got bumped and bruised, hungry and thirsty in the box. I forgot the name of the other man in the box. They was sent on a boat and changed boats where they got tumbled up so bad. It was in slavery or war times one. White folks nailed them up and opened them up too I think. Father was born in Dallas, Texas. Mother was a small woman and come from Tennessee. Billy Boyce in Monroe County owned her. That is the most I ever heard my folks tell about the Civil War."

Charlotte Guess

"Mother was born in Dallas, Texas. She was born into slavery. She was a field woman. She was sold there and brought to Mississippi at about the close of the Civil War. She was sold from her husband and two children. She never seen them. She farmed cotton and corn in Texas. Her husband whooped her, so she was glad to be sold. She married after the surrender to another man in Mississippi. No, he didn't beat her. They had disputes. She was the mother of ten children. She lived to be 82 years old. She went from Arkansas back to Mississippi to die."

INTERVIEWER'S NOTE

It would be interesting if I could find out more about why the Negroes were sent in the box. He seemed not to know all about it. This Negro man when young was a light mulatto. He is light for his age. He looks and acts white. Has a spot on one eye.



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Lee Guidon Clarendon, Arkansas Age: 89

"Yes maam I sho was in the Cibil War. I plowed all day and me and my sister helped take care of the baby at night. It would cry and me bumpin' it. [In a straight chair, rocking.] Time I git it to the bed where its mama was it wake up and start cryin' all over again. I be so sleepy. It was a puny sort o' baby. Its papa was off at war. His name was Jim Cowan an' his wife Miss Margaret Brown 'fore she married him. Miss Lucy Smith give me and my sister to them. Then she married Mr. Abe Moore. Jim Smith was Miss Lucy's boy. He lay outen the woods all time. He say no needen him gittin' shot up and killed. He say let the slaves be free. We lived, seemed lack, on 'bout the line of York an' Union Counties. He lay out in the woods over in York County. Mr. Jim say all they fightin' 'bout was jealousy. They caught him several times but ebry time he got away frum 'em. After they come home Mr. Jim say they never win no war. They stole and starved out the South.

"They didn't want the slaves talkin' 'bout things. One time I got ruffed up and I say I was goin' to freedom—the wood whar Mr. Jim be—and I recollect we was crossin' over a railin' fence. My ma put her hand over my mouth like dis, and say you don't know anything 'bout what you sain' boy.

"I neber will forgit Mr. Neel. He was all our overseer. He say 'Lee Good Boy' plows so good. He never spoke an unkind word in his life to me. When I haf to go to his house he call me in an' give me hot biscuits or maybe a potato. I sure love potato [sweet potatoes]. He was a good old Christian man. The church we all went to was made outer hand hewd logs—great big things. My pa lived in Union County on the other side the church.

"He lived to be 103 years old. Ma lost her mind. They both died right here with me—a piece outer town. He was named Pompey and ma Fannie. Her name 'foe freedom was Fannie Smith, then she took the name Guidon.

"After freedom a heap of people say they was going to name their selves over. They named their selves big names then went roaming 'round lack wild, huntin' cities. They changed up so it was hard to tell who or whar anybody was. Heap of 'em died an' you didn't know when you hear 'bout it if he was your folks hardly. Some of the names was Abraham an' some called their selves Lincum. Any big name 'ceptin' their master's name. It was the fashion. I herd 'em talking 'bout it one ebenin' an' my pa say fine folks raise us an' we goiner hold to our own names. That settled it wid all of us.

"Ma was a sickly woman all her life. They kept her 'round the house to help cook and sweep the yards. Not a speck of grass, not a weed growd on her yard. She swep it 'bout two times a week. It was prutty and white. The sand jes' shined in the sun. Had tall trees in the yard.

"I can't recollect 'bout my papa's master cause I was raised at my mama's master's place. He said many and many a time Joe Guidon never had to whoop him. After he growd up he never got no whoopins a tall. Joe Guidon learned him to plow an' he was boss of the plow hands. His wife was named Mariah Guidon. He say she was a mighty good easy woman too.

"Saturday was ration day and Sunday visitin' day. But you must have your pass if you leave the farm an' go over to somebody elses farm.

"When I was a boy one thing I love to do was go to stingy Tom's still house. His name was Tom Whiteside. He sure was stingy and the meanest white man I ever seed. I went to the still house to beat peaches to make brandy. It was four miles over there and I rode. We always made least one barrel of peach brandy and one of cider. That would be vinegar 'nough by spring. 'Simmon beer was good in the cole freezin' wether too. We make much as we have barrels if we could get the persimmons. He had a son name Bill Whitesides.

"Once an old slave woman lost her mind. Stingy Tom sent her to get a Bull tongue and she chased after one of the bulls down at the lot try in' to catch it. She set his barn fire and burned thirteen head of horses and mules together. Stingy Tom had the sheriff try to get her tell what white folks put her up to do it. He knowed they all hated him cause he jes' so mean. The old woman never did tell but they hung her anyhow. There was a big crowd to see it. Miss Lucy jes' cried and cried. She say Satan got no use for Stingy Tom he so mean. That the first person I ever seed hung. They used to hang folks a heap. The biggest crowds turned out to see it.

"The old woman's son he went to the woods he so hurt cause they going to hang his ma.

"The Missouri soldiers were worse than the Yankees. They waste an' steal your corn and take your horses. They brought a little girl they stole and let Stingy Tom have her. He kept her and treated her so mean. They thrash out wheat and put it on big heavy sheets to dry. The little girl had to sit outen the sun an' keep the chickens offen it. I seed him find her 'sleep and hit hard as he could in the face wid big old brush. It was old dogwood brush wid no leaves on it. He wouldn't let that little girl have no biskit on Sunday mornin'. Everybody had all the hot biskit they could eat on Sunday mornin'. Well after freedom, long time, her aunt heard she was down there and come an' got her. She grow up to be a nice woman. Them same Missouri soldiers took Henry Guidon (younger brother of Lee Guidon) off. Stole him from the master—stole his mule. They was so mean. They found out when they shoot, the mule so scared it would throw Henry. They kept it up and laughed. Course it hurt Henry. Liable to kill him. They say they making a Yankee soldier outen him that way. One night before they got too fur gone he rode off home. They burn whole cribs corn. Could smell it a long ways off. They was mean to eberybody.

"I recken I do know 'bout the Ku Kluck. I knowed a man named Alfred Owens. He seemed all right but he was a Republican. He said he was not afraid. He run a tan yard and kept a heap of guns in a big room. They all loaded. He married a southern woman. Her husband either died or was killed. She had a son living wid them. The Ku Kluck was called Upper League. They get this boy to unload all the guns (16 shooters). Then the white men went there. The white man give up and said, 'I ain't got no gun to defend myself wid. The guns all unloaded an' I ain't got no powder and shot.' But the Ku Kluck shot in the houses and shot him up like lace work. He sold fine harness, saddles, bridles—all sorts of leather things. The Ku Kluck shure run them outen their country. They say they not going to have them 'round and they shure run them out, back where they came from.

"Charles Good had a blacksmith. They [the Missouri soldiers] opened a fence gap when they came through. They took him, tied him to a tree and shot him in the face with little shot. He suffered there till Wednesday when he was still living. They tied him to the tree wid his own gallowses. They was doubled and strong. Then some of them went down there and finished up the job beating him over the head with the guns till he was dead. The Ku Kluck broke up every gun they could find. They sure better not ketch a gun at the quarters of colored folks. They whoop him and break up the gun. Ask him where he got that gun and start more bad trouble.

"They packed a two-story jail so full of men they had orders to turn 'em out. Then they built a high fence 'bout eight foot tall and put 'em in it. They had lights and guards all 'round it. They kept 'em right out in the hot sun in that pen. That's where the Yankees put the Ku Klucks. Then they had trials and some was sent to Albany for three years and eight years and the like. They made glass at Albany. Them Yankees wouldn't let 'em have no bonds. Then the white folks told them they needn't settle among them. They owned all the land and wouldn't sell them a foot for nuthing. A heap of lawyers and doctors got in it. That fence was iron and bob wire. The Ku Kluck killed good men, but Republicans.

"We stayed on like we were 'cause we done put in the crop and the Ku Kluck never did bother us. We made a prutty good crop. Then we took our freedom. Started workin' fer money and part of the crop.

"I married in 1871. Me and Emma went to bed. Somebody lam on the door. Emma say 'You run they won't hurt me.' I say 'They kill me sure.' We stayed and opened the door. They pull the cover offen her looking. They lifted up a cloth from over a barrel behind the bed in the corner. I say that are a hog. He say we right from hell we ain't seen no meat. Then they soon gone. The moon shining so bright that night. They were lookin' for my wife's brother I heard 'em say. They say he done something or another.

"Charleston was the nearest a army ever come to me but I seed a heap of soldiers on the roads. One road was the Rock Hill road.

"One man I heard 'em talk cheap about had the guns and powder. They shot holes in the walls. He climbed up in the fireplace chimney and stood up there close to the brick. It was dark and they couldn't see him. They looked up the chimney but didn't see him. It was a two-story chimney. Lady if you ain't never seen one I can't tell you just how it was. But they shot the house full of holes and never harmed him.

"For them what stayed on like they were Reconstruction times 'bout like times before dat 'ceptin' the Yankees stole out an' tore up a scanlus heap. They tell the black folks to do something and then come white folks you live wid and say Ku Kluck whoop you. They say leave and white folks say better not listen to them old Yankees. They'll git you too fur off to come back and you freeze. They done give you all the use they got fer you. How they do? All sorts of ways. Some stayed at their cabins glad to have one to live in an' farmed on. Some runnin' 'round beggin', some hunting work for money an' nobody had no money 'ceptin' the Yankees and they had no homes or land and mighty little work fer you to do. No work to live on. Some goin' every day to the city. That winter I heard 'bout them starving and freezing by the wagon loads.

"I never heard nuthing 'bout votin' till freedom. I don't think I ever voted till I come to Mississippi. I votes Republican. That's the party of my color and I stick to them long as they do right. I don't dabble in white folk's buzness an' that white folks votin' is their buzness. If I vote I go do it and go on home.

"I been plowin' all my life and in the hot days I cuts and saws wood. Then when I gets outer cotton pickin' I put each boy on a load of wood an' we sell wood. Then we clear land till next spring. I don't find no time to be loafing. I never missed a year farming till I got the Brights disease an' it hurt me to do hard work. The last years we got $3 a cord. Farmin' is the best life there is when you are able.

"I come to Holly Springs in 1850, stopped to visit. I had six children and $90 in money. We come on the train. My parents done come on from South Carolina to Arkansas. Man say this ain't no richer land than you come from. I tried it seven years. I drove from there, ferried the rivers. It took a long time. We made the best crop I ever seed in 1888. I had eight children, my wife. I cut and hauled wood all winter. I soon had three teams haulin' wood to Clarendon. Some old men, [white men] mean things! Learned one of my boys to play craps. They done it to git his money.

"When I owned most I had six head mules and five head horses. I rented 140 acres of land. I bought this house and some other land about. The anthrax killed nearly all my horses and mules. I got one big fine mule yet. Its mate died. I lost my house. My son give me one room and he paying the debt off now. It's hard for colored folks to keep anything. Somebody gets it frum 'em if they don't mind.

"The present times is hard. Timber is scarce. Game is about all gone. Prices higher. Old folks cannot work. Times is hard for younger folks too. They go to town too much and go to shows. They going to a tent show now. Circus coming they say. They spending too much money for foolishness. It's a fast time. Folks too restless. Some of the colored folks work hard as folks ever did. They spends too much. Some folks is lazy. Always been that way.

"I signed up to the Governmint but they ain't give me nuthin' 'ceptin' powdered milk and rice what wasn't fit to eat. It cracked up and had black somethin' in it. A lady said she would give me some shirts that was her husbands. I went to get them but she wasn't home. These heavy shirts give me heat. They won't give me the pension an' I don't know why. It would help me buy my salts and pills and the other medicines like Swamp Root. They won't give it to me."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Linley Hadley Madison, Arkansas Age: 77

"I was born the very day the Civil War started, April 12, 1861. I was born in Monroe County close to Aberdeen, Mississippi. My papa was named Dave Collins. He was born far back as 1832. He was a carriage driver.

"Mama was born same year as papa. She was a field hand and a cook. She could plough good as any man. She was a guinea woman. She weighed ninety-five pounds. She had fourteen children. She did that. Had six or seven after freedom. She had one slave husband. Her owners was old Master Wylie Collins and Mistress Jane. We come 'way from their place in 1866.

"I can recollect old Master Collins calling up all the niggers to his house. He told them they was free. There was a crowd of them, all mixes. Why all this took place now I don't know. Most of the niggers took what all they have on their heads and walked off. He told mama to move up in the loom house, if she go off he would kill her. We moved to the loom house till in 1866.

"One night some of the niggers what had been Collins' slaves come and stole all mama's children, toted us off on their backs at night. Where we come to cross the river, Uncle George Tunnel was the ferryman. He had raised mama at his cabin at slavery. He took us to his white folks. We lived with them a year and then mama moved on Bill Cropton's place and we lived there forty years. All the Croptons dead now.

"We come to Arkansas in 1891 close to Cotton Plant. 1898, I come to Madison. Been here ever since.

"Grandma belong to Master Rogers where we knowed George Tunnel. Mama, named Harriett, and Aunt Miller was sold. A man in Texas bought Aunt Miller. We never could hear a word from her. After freedom we tried and tried. Master Collins was mean. You couldn't lay your hand on mama's back without laying it on marks where she had been beat. All his niggers was glad to leave him. They stripped mama's clothes down to her waist and whooped her, beat the blood out with cowhides. Master Collins 'lowed his niggers to steal, then his girls come take some of it to their house to eat. Master Collins didn't have no boys.

"Papa was a little chunky man. He'd steal flour and hogs. He could tote a hog on his back. My papa went on off when freedom come. They was so happy they had no sense. Mama never seen him no more. I didn't neither. Mama didn't care so much about him. He was her mate give to her. I didn't worry 'bout him nor nobody then.

"Master Collins did give us plenty to wear and eat too. When I left there we all worked. Mama married ag'in. We kept on farming. I farmed all my life.

"I got a boy what works. We own our house and all this place (one-half acre). I don't get no help from nowhere. Seem like them what works and tries ought to be the ones to get help and not them what don't never pay no taxes. Fast generation it is now. But they don't bother me. I got a good boy. Times is hard. Everything you have to buy is high."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Anna Hall (mulatto) Brinkley, Arkansas Age: 68

"I don't know nuthin' cept what I heard folks talk 'bout when I was a child. I was born good while after that war. My folks lived in Scott County near Jackson, Mississippi when I was little and in slavery times too. My mother's mistress was Miss Dolly Cruder. She was a widow and run her own farm. I don't remember her. She give her own children a cotton patch apiece and give the women hands a patch about and they had to work it at night. If the moon didn't give light somebody had to hold a literd (lantern) not fur from 'em so they could see to hoe and work it out. I think she had more land then hands, what they made was to be about a bale around for extra money. It took all the day time working in the big field for Miss Dolly. I heard 'em say how tired they would be and then go work out their own patches 'fore they go to bed. I don't remember how they said the white girls got their cotton patches worked. And that is about all I remembers good 'nough to tell you.

"They didn't expect nothing but freedom out the war. The first my mother heard she was working doing something and somebody say, 'What you working fur don't you know you done free?' That the first she knowed she was free. They just passed the word round; that's how they heard it and the soldiers started coming in to their families. Some of them come back by themselves and some come riding several of them together.

"I know they didn't give my mother nothing after the war. She washed and ironed 'bout all her life.

"The young generation is doing better than we old folks is. If there is any work to get they gets it in preference to us. Education is helping some of 'em here in Brinkley. Some of the young ones gets good money. They teaches and cooks. Times is hard for some.

"I live wid my son. Yes he own his house. I gets $8 from the relief. We has 'bout 'nough to live on and dat is all."



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Ellie Hamilton (male) Clarendon, Arkansas Age:

"I was born about near Holly Springs, Mississippi. My parents' masters' name William and Mary Ellen Jefferies. I don't know much 'bout them. My parents' name Neely and Amos Hamilton. I judge that was pa's master's name. They had eight children. Three of us living yet.

"I been farmin' and workin' 'round Clarendon ever since I was a chap. I work 'round hotels and stores and farm too.

"I votes when we have a leader for our party. It don't do no good. I never seed no good come outen the colored race votin' yet.

"Some ways times is much better, much better! Some ways they is worser. The people is educated better'n I had a chance at.

"Work wages is a heap better. I has worked for $7 a month. Now some can get $18 to $20 a week. But the young generation throwin' it away. They ain't going to save a bit of it. The present condition is worse morally. They used to could depend on a man. You can't hardly depend on the younger generation. They is so tricky. Folks going too much. I recollect when I was a child I went to town one or two times a year. I didn't want all I seen there then neither. Seems lack folks spends so much money foolishly.

"I own a home, no cow, no hog, no land. Get $10 a month from the PWA. [HW: [WPA?]]

"I come to Arkansas to farm. It is a fine farmin' country, Miss. My father died and left my mother wid seven children to raise. She come on out here to make a livin'.

"I remember when Tilden and Hendrick lost and Hayes and Wheeler was elected. They sung songs 'bout 'em and said 'Carve that possum nigger to the heart.' It done been so long since we sung them rally songs I forgot every line of all of them. People used to sing more religious songs seems like than they do now. They done gone wild over dancin' 'stead of singin'.

"I farmed for J. P. Cherry at Holly Springs from time I was eight year old till I was twenty-one year old. That's a long time to stay by one man ain't it?"



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Josephine Hamilton Hazen, Arkansas Age: 77

"I was born near Houston, Mississippi, in 1860. We lived about three miles north when I can first recollect. My mistress was named Frankie Hill and my master was Littleton Hill. I had some sisters and brothers dead but I had four brothers and one sister that got up grown. The first house I remembers living in was a plank house. Then we lived in a log house wid a stick-and-dirt chimney. I was wid my old master when he died of heart trouble. She lack to died too. We setting by de fire one night and he held the lamp on one knee and reading out loud. It was a little brass lamp with a handle to hook your finger in. He was a Baptist. He had two fine horses, a big gray one and a bay horse. Joe drove him to preaching. Miss Frankie didn't go. He said his haid hurt when dey went to eat dinner and he slept all the evening. He et supper and was reading. I was looking at him. He laid his haid back and started snoring. He had long white hair. I say 'Miss Frankie, he is dieing.' Cause he turned so pale. He was setting in a high back straight chair. We got him on the bed. He could walk when we held him up. His brother was a curious old man. He et morphine a whole heap. He lived by himself. I run fast as my legs would take me. Soon as I told him he blowed a long horn. They said it was a trumpet. You never seen such a crowd as come toreckly. The hands come and the neighbors too. It being dot time er night they knowed something was wrong. He slept awhile but he died that night. I stayed up there wid Miss Frankie nearly all de time. It was a mile from our cabin across the field. Joe stayed there some. He fed and curried the horses. Nom I don't remember no slave uprisings. They had overseers on every farm and a paddyroll. I learned to sew looking at the white folks and my ma showed me about cutting. There wasn't much fit about them. They were all tollerably loose. We played hiding behind the trees a heap and played in the moonlight. We played tag. We picked up scaley barks, chestnuts, and walnuts. Miss Frankie parched big pans of goobers when it was cold or raining. Some of the white folks was mean. Once young mistress was sick. She had malaria fever. I was sitting down in the other room. Young master was lying on de bed in the same room. A woman what was waiting on her brought the baby in to put a cloth on him. He was bout two months old, little red-headed baby. He was kicking and I got tickled at him. Young master slapped me. The blood from my nose spouted out and I was jess def for a long time. He beat me around till Miss Polly come in there and said 'You quit beating that little colored girl. You oughter be ashamed. Your wife in there nearly dead.' 'Yes maam, she did die.' I never will forgit Miss Polly. I saved one of the young mistress little girl bout seven or eight years old. Miss Frankie raised a little deer up grown. It would run at anybody. Didn't belong at the house. It got so it would run me. It started at the little girl and I pulled her in on the porch backwards and in a long hall. Her mama show was proud. Said the deer would paw her to death.

"I remembers everybody shouting and so glad they was free. It was a joyful time. If they paid my folks for work I didn't know it. We stayed on with Miss Frankie till I was grown and her son Billy Hill took her to Houston, Texas to live. Miss Sallie and Miss Fannie had been married a long time. We always had a house to live in and something to eat.

"I show never did vote. I would not know nothing about it. I think the folks is getting wiser and weaker. Some of us don't have much as we need and them that do have wastes it. I always lived on the farm till eight years ago when my husband died. I wasn't able to farm by myself. I didn't have no children. I come to Hazen to live wid dese here girls I raised. (Two girls.) They show is good to me. No maam I ain't never got no old age pension. They won't give it to me. We come to Arkansas in 1918. We lived down around Holly Grove. We had kin folks wrote about out here and we wanted to change. Long as I was able I had a good living but since I been so feeble I have to make out wid what the children bring me. I don't know if de times is getting any better, don't seem lack the people training their children a tall. They say they kaint do nothing wid em. I allus could do something wid dem I raised. I used to look at them and they minded me. The trouble is they ain't learning to work and won't do nothing less they going to get big pay. Then they run spend it fast as they can go for fool-bait."



FOLKLORE SUBJECTS

[HW: Arkansas] Little Rock District Name of Interviewer: Irene Robertson Subject: HERBS—CURES & REMEDIES, ETC. Story—Information (If not enough space on this page add page)

If you borrow salt it is bad luck to pay it back.

Parch okra seed grind up or beat it up and make coffee.

Parch meal or corn and make coffee.

In slavery times they took red corn cobs burned them and made white ashes, sifted it and used it instead of soda.

Beat up charcoal and take for gas on the stomach.

Sift meal add salt and make up with water, put on collard leaf, cover with another collard leaf put on hot ashes. Cover with hot ashes. The bread will be brown, the collard leaves parched up, "It is really good." Roast potatoes and eggs in the ashes.

In slavery times they made persimmon beer. Had regular beer barrels made a faucet. Put old field hay in the bottom, persimmons, baked corn bread and water. Let stand about a week, a fine drink with tea cakes. It won't make you drunk.

Comb hair after dark makes you forgetful.

Asafoetida and garlic on the bait makes the fish bite well.

Rub fishing worms on the ground makes them tougher so you can put them on the hook.

This information given by: Josephine Hamilton Place of Residence: Hazen, Arkansas Occupation: Field work and washwoman. AGE:



FOLKLORE SUBJECTS

Pine Bluff District Name of Interviewer: Martin—Pettigrew Subject: Negro Customs Story—Information (If not enough space on this page add page)

"My mother made three crops after she wuz freed, and I wuz born when she made her third crop, so I thinks I wuz born 'round 1868. I wuz born in Bolivar County, Mississippi. My mother and father were slaves and belonged to the Harris family. Only one I 'members is my sister, she died. My brothers went off and worked on ships, and I never saw them no mo'.

"After freedom, my mother kept working for her marster and misstis, and they paid them for their work. They stayed on the same plantation until I wuz almost grown.

"At Christmas time, we had heaps to eat, cakes, homemade molasses candy that you pulled, popcorn, horse apples which wuz good, mo' better'n any apples we get these days.

"The white folks give gifts in the big house and mammy went to the house and the white folks give her the things to put in we nigger chilluns' stockings.

"We hung up our stockings in our house and up at the white house too. 'Fore Christmas, the white folks would tell us if we stole chickens, eggs, ducks and things, or go in the apple orchard, and wuz bad, Santa Claus would not come to us. But if we were good, he would bring gifts to us. 'Fore Christmas, the white folks would make a Santa Claus out of clothes and stuff it, put a pack on his back, and stand him up in the road. Colored chillun feared to go near him.

"I have never been arrested, never been in the jail house or calaboose. Went to school when I could.

"Traveled all over, worked on canal in South America.

"Name of boat I wuz on was the 'Clamshell, No. 4', with Captain Nelson, fum New York."

This Information given by: Peter Hamilton Place of Residence: Near airport—Pine Bluff, Ark. Occupation: Age: 68



Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Lawrence Hampton R.F.D., Forrest City, Arkansas Age: 78

"I was born in Orangeburg, South Carolina. My parents' names was Drucilla and Peter Hampton. She was the mother of twelve children. They both b'long to John D. Kidd and Texas Kidd. To my knowing they had no children. They was old to me being a child but I don't reckon they be old folks. They had a plantation, some hilly and some bottom land. He had two or three hundred slaves. He was a good, good man. He was a good master. He had some white overseers and some black overseers. Grandpa Peter was one of his overseers. He was proud of his slaves. He was a proud man.

"We all had preaching clothes to wear. He had his slaves be somebody when they got out of the field. They went in washing at the fish pond, duck pond too. It was clear and sandy bottom. Wouldn't be muddy when a lot of them got through washing (bathing). They was black but they didn't stink sweaty. They wore starched clean ironed clothes. They cooked wheat flour and made clothes. When the War come on their clothes was ironed and clean but the wheat was scarce and the clothes got flimsy. John D. Kidd was loved by black and white. He was a good man. Grandpa George had a son sold over close to Memphis. They had twelve children last letter mama had from them. I've never seen any one of them.

"Grandpa Peter was a overseer. After he was made overseer he was paid. That was a honor for being good all his life. When freedom come on he had ten thousand dollars. He was pure African, black as ace of spades. He give papa and the other four boys five hundred dollars a piece to start them farms. Papa died when he was sixty-five and grandma was about a hundred. Mama was seventy-five when she died. Grandpa was eighty-five when he died. They didn't know exactly but that was about their ages. It was a pretty big honor to be a carriage man. They had young men hostlers and blacksmiths.

"Freedom—The boys all stayed around and girls too. They bought places about. They never would charge John D. Kidd for work. They let the girls cook, milk, and set the fowls, long as the old couple lived. They never took no pay. They go in gangs and chop out his crop and big picnic dinners all they ever took from him. We all loved that old man.

"They done some whooping on the place but it was a shame. They got over it and went on dressed up soon as the task was done. Never heard much said about it. I never seen nobody whooped.

"My own folks whooped me. We was free then.

"I heard how easy to farm out in Arkansas. I come to Forrest City in 1884. I was 'bout twenty-five years old then. It was a mud hole is right. I farmed all my life. We made money.

"My color folks don't know how to take care of their money. They can make money but don't handle it long.

"I owns a home and twenty acres of land. I want to keep it. Me and my wife live out there. I had ten children and four of them still living. They all good children and I'm proud to own they mine.

"John D. Kidd had a lot of his wife's brothers that come visiting. I'd find out they be up there. Here I'd go. We'd swim, fish, ride, and I'd love to be around them and hear them talk. That was the kind of good times we had when I was a boy. I missed all that when I come here. It was sich fine farming land. I couldn't go back to stay. I been back numbers of times visiting.