"I first remembers living on the plantation of Mr. Jake Dumas near El
Dorado Landing. You know it's Calion now. We lived up towards Camden and
it was there that my ma and pa was married and buried. I was a big girl
durin' the war. My job was to card and spin. And I use to carry the
children to school. When I would get to the school I would put the
children off, git straddle and ride that horse home. When I would get
there old mos would say Ca'line did you run him? I'd say naw sir. Then
he'd say, 'Oh, Carryline put the horse in the lot and come out here. I'd
say, 'Master I didn't run that horse' but didn't do no good. He sure
would whip me. I'd get down and roll. I would stomp and he would do the
same. I wondered how he could tell I'd run that horse. But course he
could cause that horse had the thumps (heart beating rapidly).
"I remember seeing the soldiers come through during the war. They come
by droves stealing horses, setting the cotton on fire and taking sumpin
to eat, too.
"Yes, I does still member the songs we sung durin' the war but I've got
the asthmy and ain't got much wind fur singin'.
"You want to know the reason,
You want to know the reason,
You want to know the reason, I'll tell you why,
We'll whip them Yankees, whole hog or die."
"Hooray, Hooray, Hooray for the Southern Girl.
Hooray for the homespun dress the Southern ladies wear.
My homespun dress is plain I know,
I glory in its name;
Hooray for the homespun dress the Southern ladies wear."
"I've got the asthmy honey and jest caint sing no more.
"You asked 'bout my husband and chillun. I been married fo' times. My
first man's name was Dick Hagler, the next Frank Bibby, the next Henry
Harris and the last one was Tom Smith. That's where I get my name
Ca'line Smith. I never did have but one daughter but she had sixteen
chillun. She's daid now and mah granchillun is scattered.
"I got the asthmy an jes don' feel like talkin' no more. Long time ago
when I was sick master always had a doctor to me now I have to hire one.
And they always fed me good and clothed me but after I was free I would
go round and work around to git a little sumpin to eat."
Interviewer: Thomas Elmore Lucy
Person interviewed: Caroline Smith, Russellville, Arkansas
Age: 83
"Ca'line Smith's my name and dey calls me 'Aunt Ca'line.' I was born
about de year 1855 as I was about dis high (measuring) when de War broke
out. I remembers de boys marching away in their grey uniforms just as
plain. We chillen would watch dem as dey went away; we could see em as
we peeped through de winders and de cracks in de walls.
"I was born in Mississippi close to Columbus on de plantation of my
master, John Duncan. And he was a purty strict old master, sure, but
sometimes he was kind to us. When we was set free he let us all go
wherever we wanted to, but didn't pay us nothin'.
"All de slaves that I remembers stayed on around in different parts of
Mississippi after de War and engaged in farmin', and workin' on roads
and streets, and other public work. About forty years ago I come to Pope
County, Arkansas wid my parents and has lived here ever' since.
"I don't remember nothin' about de Klu Klux Klan or if our folks was
ever bothered wid em.
"Yes suh, I keeps workin' every day and likes to keep up my sewin'.
Plenty of it to do all de time--jest like I'm doin' today. My health is
purty good ceptin' I has a sort of misery in my side.
"I draws a pension of $7.50 a month, but I dunno who sends it.
"I belongs to de Adventist Church, and I sure believes in always tellin'
de trufe and nofin' but de trufe; we better tell de trufe here, for some
of dese days we all gwine where nofin' but de trufe will be accepted.
"No suh, I ain't never took any interest in politics and ain't never
voted.
"Dese young'uns today is simply too much for me; I can't understand em,
and I dunno which way dey headed. Some few of em seems to have sound
common sense, but--well, I just refuse to talk about em."
Interviewer: Pernella Anderson
Person Interviewed: Edmond Smith
D Avenue
El Dorado, Ark.
Age: ?
"I was born in Arcadia, Louisiana a long, long time ago. Now my work
when I was a child was farmin'. I did not stay a child long, I been
grown ever since I was fourteen. My father lived till I was eleven, and
I thought since I was the oldest boy I could take his place of bossin',
but my mother would take me down a button hole lower whenever I got too
high.
"Before my papa died we had a good livin'. We lived with his mistress's
daughter, and we thought we lived in heaven. My papa made all of the
shoes and raised all of the cattle from which he got the hide. We raised
all the wool to make our wool clothes and made all of the clothes we
wore. And food--we did not know what it was to go to a store to buy.
Didn't have to do that. You see, people now living out of paper sacks.
Every time they get ready to cook it's go to the store. We old timers
lived out of our smokehouse.
"In there we had dried beef, cured pork, sugar from syrup, sweet
potatoes, onions, Irish potatoes, plenty of dried fruit and canned
fruit, peanuts, hickory nuts, walnuts; eggs in the henhouse and chickens
on the yard, cows in the pen and milk and butter in the house.
"My mama even made our plow lines. She had a spinning wheel and you know
how to spin?--you can make ropes for plow lines too. Just twist the
cotton and have it about six inches long and put it in the loom and let
it go around and around. You keep puttin' the twisted cotton in the loom
and step on the peddle and no sooner than done, that was worked in a
rope. Now, if you don't know what I am talking about it is useless for
me to tell you.
"After papa died that left no one to work but mama and I tell you time
brought about a change. A house full of little children--we lived from
hand to mouth. Not enough corn to feed one mule. No syrup, no hogs, no
cows. Oh! we had a hard time. I remember hearing my mama many a night
ask God to help her through the struggle with her children. The more my
mama prayed the harder times got with her. Wasn't no churches around so
she had to sing and pray at home. The first Sunday School I remember
going to was in 1892. I went to school and got as high as fifth grade,
then I ran away from my mama.
"Just becaise I let old bad man overpower me I got grown and mannish.
Couldn't nobody tell me a thing. I would steal, I would fight, I would
lie. I remember in 1896 I went to church--that was about the fourth time
I had been to church. The preacher began preachin' and I went outdoors
and cut the harness off of his mule and broke one of his buggy wheels. I
went down in the woods and cut a cow just for meanness. I stole a gun,
and I would shoot anytime and anywhere, and nobody bothered me because
they was scared to. I stole chickens, turkeys and anything.
"I got in trouble more times than a little, so the last time I got in
trouble some white people got me out and I worked for them to pay my
fine out. While working for them I made shoes. They taught me to do
carpenter work. They taught me to paint; to paper; to cook; work in the
field and do most anything. I came to my senses while working with those
people and they made a man out of me. When I left there I was a first
class carpenter. Those white people was the cause of me getting
independent. I didn't get no book sense, but if you get with some good
white people, that will be worth more than an education."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Emma Hulett Smith; Hazen, Arkansas
Age: 66
"I was the first colored baby born here or very near here. There was
only three houses in this town (Hazen). I think they muster been log
houses.
"My folks belong to Dr. Hazen. He brought families from Tennessee. When
the war broke out he took em to Texas. Then he brought em back here.
When they was freed I heard my mother say they worked on for him and his
boys (Alex and Jim Hazen) and they paid them. He was good to them. They
had er plenty always. After the war they lived in good log houses and he
give em land and lumber for the church. Same church we got cept a storm
tore it down and this one built in place of it. He let em have a school.
Same place it stands now. My mother (Mandy Hulett) got a Union pension
till she died. She cooked at the first hotel in Hazen for John Lane. She
washed and ironed till she died. We girls helped and we wash and iron
all we can get now. None of us not on relief (Fannie nor Emma). I can't
wash no more. My hands and arms swell up with rheumatism. I still iron
all I can get.
"The present conditions seems awful unsettled; wages low, prices high
and work scarce at times. Men can get work in the hay two months and
bout two months work in the rice or pickin cotton, either one. Then the
work has played clean out till hay time next year.
"How do they live? Some of their _wifes_ cooks for white people and
they eat all they make up soon as they get paid. Only way they live."
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Ervin E. Smith
811 Ringo Street, Little Rock, Arkansas
Age: 84
"I have been in this state for forty-nine years. I will be here fifty
years on the fifteenth of December.
"I was born in Ebenezer Township, York County, South Carolina, on the
twenty-ninth day of April, in 1854. That makes me eighty-four years old
on Friday. I was born on Good Friday--on Good Friday at six o'clock in
the morning.
"I am telling you what I was instructed all of my life. My father, W.D.
Smith, and my mother, Haria, told me these things. My mother carried a
nickname, Salina, all her life, but her real name was Haria.
"I'll tell you how they happened to keep such good records. We had a
little advantage over the other people of that day. My father never
got any school education, but his brothers instructed him--his
half-brothers. They were white. They was good, too. I mean them brothers
thought just as much of me as they did of anybody else. So my father
got pretty good training. He got it from his brothers and that's how he
learned to keep such good records.