Part I

[TR: ***] = Transcriber Note

[HW: ***] = Handwritten Note

SLAVE NARRATIVES

A Folk History of Slavery in the United States

From Interviews with Former Slaves

TYPEWRITTEN RECORDS PREPARED BY

THE FEDERAL WRITERS' PROJECT

1936-1938

ASSEMBLED BY

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS PROJECT

WORK PROJECTS ADMINISTRATION

FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

SPONSORED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

WASHINGTON 1941

VOLUME II

ARKANSAS NARRATIVES

PART 7

Prepared by

the Federal Writers' Project of

the Works Progress Administration

for the State of Arkansas

INFORMANTS

Vaden, Charlie

Vaden, Ellen

Van Buren, Nettie

Vaughn, Adelaide J.

Wadille [TR: Waddille], Emmeline

Wadille (Waddell), Emmeline (Emiline)

Waldon, Henry

Walker, Clara

Walker, Henry

Walker, Jake

Walker, Jake

Wallace, Willie

Warrior, Evans

Washington, Anna

Washington, Eliza

Washington, Jennie

Washington, Parrish

Watson, Caroline

Watson, Mary

Wayne, Bart

Weathers, Annie Mae

Weathers, Cora

Webb, Ishe

Wells, Alfred

Wells, Douglas

Wells, John

Wells, Sarah

Wells, Sarah Williams

Wesley, John

Wesley, Robert

Wesmoland, Maggie

West, Calvin

West, Mary Mays

Wethington, Sylvester

Whitaker, Joe

White, Julia A.

White, Lucy

Whiteman, David

Whiteside, Dolly

Whitfield, J.W.

Whitmore, Sarah

Wilborn, Dock

Wilks, Bell

Williams, Bell

Williams, Charley

Williams, Charlie

Williams, Columbus

Williams, Frank

Williams, Gus

Williams, Henrietta

Williams, Henry Andrew (Tip)

Williams, James

Williams, John

Williams, Lillie

Williams, Mary

Williams, Mary

Williams, Mary

Williams, Rosena Hunt

Williams, III, William Ball (Soldier)

Williamson, Anna

Williamson, Callie Halsey

Willis, Charlotte

Wilson, Ella

Wilson, Robert

Windham, Tom

Wise, Alice

Wise, Frank

Withers, Lucy

Woods, Anna

Woods, Cal

Woods, Maggie

Word, Sam

Worthy, Ike

Wright, Alice

Wright, Hannah Brooks

Yates, Tom

Young, Annie

Young, John

FOLKLORE SUBJECTS

Name of Interviewer: Irene Robertson

Subject: NEGRO LORE

Story:--Information

This information given by: Charlie Vaden

Place of Residence: Hazen, Green Grove, Ark.

Occupation: Farming

Age: 77

[TR: Information moved from bottom of first page.]

Charlie Vaden's father ran away and went to the war to fight. He was a

slave and left his owner. His mother died when he was five years old but

before she died she gave Charlie to Mrs. Frances Owens (white lady). She

came to Des Arc and ran the City Hotel. He never saw his father till he

was grown. He worked for Mrs. Owens. He never did run with colored folks

then. He nursed her grandchildren, Guy and Ira Brown. When he was grown

he bought a farm at Green Grove. It consisted of a house and forty-seven

acres of land. He farmed two years. A fortune teller came along and told

him he was going to marry but he better be careful that they wouldn't

live together or he might "drop out." He went ahead and married like he

was "fixing" to do. They just couldn't get along, so they got divorced.

They had the wedding at her house and preacher Isarel Thomas (colored)

married them and they went on to his house. He don't remember how she

was dressed except in white and he had a "new outfit too."

Next he married Lorine Rogers at the Green Grove Church and took her

home. She fell off the porch with a tub of clothes and died from it just

about a year after they married.

He married again at the church and lived with her twenty years. They had

four girls and four boys. She died from the change of life.

The last wife he didn't live with either. She is still living.

Had another fortune teller tell his fortune. She said, "Uncle, you are

pretty good but be careful or you'll be walking around begging for

victuals." He said it had nearly come to that now except it hurt him to

walk. (He can hardly walk.) He believes some of what the fortune tellers

tell comes true. He has been on the same farm since 1887, which is

forty-nine years, and did fine till four years ago. He can't work,

couldn't pay taxes, and has lost his land.

He was paralized five months, helpless as a baby, couldn't dress

himself. An herb doctor settled at Green Grove and used herbs for tea

and poultices and cured him. The doctors and the law run him out of

there. His name was Hopkins from Popular Bluff, Missouri.

Charlie Vaden used to have rheumatism and he carried a buckeye in each

pants pocket to make the rheumatism lighter. He thought it did some

good.

He has a birthmark. Said his mother must have craved pig tails. He never

had enough pig tails to eat in his life. The butchers give them to him

when he comes to Hazen or Des Arc. He said he would "fight a circle saw

for a pig tail."

He can't remember any old songs or old tales. In fact he was too small

when his mother died (five years old).

He believes in herb medicine of all kinds but can't remember except

garlic poultice is good for neuralgia. Sassafras is a good tea, a good

blood purifier in the spring of the year.

He knows a weather sign that seldom or never falls. "Thunder in the

morning, rain before noon." "Seldom rains at night in July in Arkansas."

He has seen lots of lucky things but doesn't remember them. "It's bad

luck to carry hoes and rakes in the living house." "It's bad luck to spy

the new moon through bushes or trees."

He doesn't believe in witches, but he believes in spirits that direct

your course as long as you are good and do right. He goes to church all

the time if they have preaching. Green Grove is a Baptist church. He is

not afraid of dead people. "They can't hurt you if they are dead."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Ellen Vaden

DeValls Bluff, Ark.

Age: 83

"I am 83 years old. My mother come from Georgia. She left all her kin.

Our owner was Dave and Luiza Johnson. They had two girls and a

boy--Meely, Colly and Tobe. My mother's aunt come to Memphis in slavery

time and come to see us. She cooked and bought herself free. The folks

what owned her hired her out till they got paid her worth. She died in

Memphis. I never heard father say where he come from or who owned him.

He lived close by somewhere.

"My mother cooked. Me and Dave Johnson's boy nursed together. When they

had company, Miss Luiza was so modest she wouldn't let Tobe have

'titty'. He would come lead my mother behind the door and pull at her

till she would take him and let him nurse. She said he would lead her

behind the door.

"I don't remember freedom. I know the Ku Klux was bad around Augusta,

Arkansas. One time when I was little a crowd of Ku Klux come at about

dusk. They told Dave Johnson they wanted water. He told them there was a

well full but not bother that woman and her children in the kitchen.

Dave Johnson was a Ku Klux himself. They went on down the road and met a

colored woman. She knowed their horses. She called some of them by name

and they let her alone.

"One time a colored man was settin' by the fire. His wife was sick in

bed. He seen the Ku Klux coming and said 'Lord God, here comes the

devil.' He run off. They didn't bother her. She told them she was sick.

When she got up and well she wouldn't live with that husband no more.

"Up at Bowens Ridge they took some colored men out one night and if they

said they was Republicans they let them go but if they said they was

Democrats they whooped them so hard they nearly killed some of them.

Some said they was bushwhackers or carpet baggers and not Ku Klux.

"I am a country-raised woman. I had a light stroke and cain't work in

the field. I get $8.00 and commodities. I like to live here very well. I

don't meddle with young folks business. Seems like they do mighty

foolish things to me. Times been changing ever since I come in this

world. It is the people cause the times to change. I wouldn't know how

to start to vote."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Nettie Van Buren, Clarendon, Arkansas

Ex school-teacher

Age: 62

"My mother was named Isabel Porter Smith. She come from Springville.

Rev. Porter brought her to Mississippi close to Holly Springs. Then she

come to Batesville, Arkansas. He owned her. He was a circuit rider. I

think he was a Presbyterian minister. I heard her say they brought her

to Arkansas when she was a small girl. She nursed and cooked all the

time. After freedom she went with Reverend Porter's relatives to work

for them. I know so very little about what she said about slavery.

"My father was raised in North Carolina. His name was Jerry Smith and

his master he called Judge Smith. My father made all he ever had

farmin'. He knew how to raise cotton. He owned a home. This is his home

(a nice home on River Street in Clarendon) and 80 acres. He sold this

farm two miles from here after he had paralysis, to live on.

"My parents had two girls and two boys. They all dead but me. My

mother's favorite song was "Oh How I Love Jesus Because He First Loved

Me." They come here because my mother had a brother down here and she

heard it was such fine farmin' land.

"When I was a little girl my father was a Presbyterian so he sent me to

boardin' school in Cotton Plant and then sent me to Jacksonville,

Illinois. I worked my board out up there. Mrs. Dr. Carroll got me a

place to work. My sister learned to sew. She sewed for the public till

her death. She sewed for both black and white folks. I stretches

curtains now if I can get any to stretch and I irons. It give me

rheumatism to wash. I used to wash and iron.

"My husband cooks on a Government derrick boat. He gets $1.25 and his

board. They have the very best things to eat. He likes the work if he

can stay well. He can cook pies and fancy cookin'. They like that. Say

they can't hardly get somebody work long because they want to be in town

every night.

"We have one child. I used to be a primary teacher here at Clarendon.

"I never have voted. My husband votes but I don't know what he thinks

about it.

"I try to look at the present conditions in an encouraging way. The

young people are so extravagant. The old folks in need. The thing most

discouraging is the strangers come in and get jobs home folks could do

and need and they can't get jobs and got no money to leave on nor no

place to go. People that able to work don't work hard as they ought and

people could and willin' to work can't get jobs. Some of the young folks

do sure live wild lives. They think only of the present times. A few

young folks are buying homes but not half of them got a home. They work

where they let 'em have a room or a house. Different folks live all

kinds of ways."

Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor

Person interviewed: Adelaide J. Vaughn

1122 Cross Street, Little Rock, Arkansas

Age: 69

"I was born in Huntsville, Alabama. My mother brought me from there when

I was five years old. She said she would come to Arkansas because she

had heard so much talk about it. But when she struck the Arkansas line,

she didn't like it and she wanted to go back. I have heard her say why

but I don't remember now; I done forgot. She thought she wouldn't like

it here, but she did after she stayed a while.

"My bronchial tubes git all stopped up and make it hard for me to talk.

Phlegm gits all around. I been bothered with them a good while now.

"My mother, she was sold from her father when she was four years old.

The rest of the children were grown then. Master Hickman was the one who

bought her. I don't know the one that sold her. Hickman had a lot of

children her age and he raised her up with them. They were nice to her

all the time.

"Once the pateroles came near capturing her. But she made it home and

they didn't catch her.

"Mr. Candle hired her from her master when she was about eighteen years

old. He was nice to her but his wife was mean. Just because mother

wouldn't do everything the other servants said Mis' Candle wanted to

whip her. Mother said she knew that Mis' Candle couldn't whip her alone.

But she was 'fraid that she would have Sallie, another old Negro woman

slave, and Kitty, a young Negro woman slave, to help whip her.

"One day when it was freezing cold, she wanted mother to stand out in

the hall with Sallie and Clara and wash the glasses in boiling hot

water. She was making her do that because she thought she was uppity and

she wanted to punish her. When mother went out, she rattled the dishes

'round in the pan and broke them. They was all glasses. Mis' Candle

heard them breaking and come out to see about it. She wanted to whip

mother but she was 'fraid to do it while she was alone; so she waited

till her husband come home. When he come she told him. He said she

oughtn't to have sent them out in the cold to wash the glasses because

nobody could wash dishes outside in that cold weather.

"The first morning she was at Mis' Candle's, they called her to eat and

they didn't have nothing but black molasses and corn bread for mother's

meal. The other two ate it but mother didn't. She asked for something

else. She said she wasn't used to eating that--that she ate what her

master and mistress ate at home.

"Mis' Candle didn't like that to begin with. She told my mother that she

was a smart nigger. She told mother to do one thing and then before she

could do it, she would tell her do something else. Mother would just go

on doing the first thing till she finished that, and Mis' Candle would

git mad. But it wasn't nobody's fault but her own.

"She asked mother to go out and git water from the spring on a rainy

day. Mother wouldn't go. Finally mother got tired and went back home.

Her mistress heard what she had to tell her about the place she'd been

working. Then she said mother did right to quit. She had worked there

for three or four months. They meant to keep her but she wouldn't stay.

Mis' Hickman went over and collected her money.

"When mother worked out, the people that hired her paid her owners. Her

owners furnished her everything she wanted to eat and clothes to wear,

and all the money she earned went to them.

"Mis' Candle begged Mr. Hickman to let him have mother back. He said

he'd talk to his wife and she wouldn't mistreat her any more but mama

said that she didn't want to go back and Mrs. Hickman said, 'No, she

doesn't want to go back and I wouldn't make her.' And the girls said,

'No, mama, don't let her go back.' And Mis' Hickman said, 'No, she was

raised with my girls and I am not going to let her go back.'

"The Hickmans had my mother ever since she was four years old. My

grandfather was allowed to go a certain distance with her when she was

sold away from him. He walked and carried her in his arms. Mama said

that when he had gone as far as they would let him go, he put her in the

wagon and turned his head away. She said she wondered why he didn't look

at her; but later she understood that he hated so bad to 'part from her

and couldn't do nothing to prevent it that he couldn't bear to look at

her.

"Since I have been grown I have worked with some people at Newport. I

stayed with them there and married there, and had all my children there.

"I heard the woman I lived with, a woman named Diana Wagner, tell how

her mistress said, 'Come on, Diana, I want you to go with me down the

road a piece.' And she went with her and they got to a place where there

was a whole lot of people. They were putting them up on a block and

selling them just like cattle. She had a little nursing baby at home and

she broke away from her mistress and them and said, 'I can't go off and

leave my baby.' And they had to git some men and throw her down and hold

her to keep her from goin' back to the house. They sold her away from

her baby boy. They didn't let her go back to see him again. But she

heard from him after he became a young man. Some one of her friends that

knowed her and knowed she was sold away from her baby met up with this

boy and got to questioning him about his mother. The white folks had

told him his mother's name and all. He told them and they said, 'Boy, I

know your mother. She's down in Newport.' And he said, 'Gimme her

address and I'll write to her and see if I can hear from her.' And he

wrote. And the white people said they heard such a hollering and

shouting goin' on they said, 'What's the matter with Diana?' And they

came over to see what was happening. And she said, 'I got a letter from

my boy that was sold from me when he was a nursing baby.' She had me

write a letter to him. I did all her writing for her and he came to see

her. I didn't get to see him. I was away when he come. She said she was

willing to die that the Lord let her live to see her baby again and had

taken care of him through all these years.

"My father's name was Peter Warren and my mother was named Adelaide

Warren. Before she was married she went by her owner's name, Hickman. My

daddy belonged to the Phillips but he didn't go in their name. He went

in the Warren's name. He did that because he liked them. Phillips was

his real father, but he sold him to the Warrens and he took their name

and kept it. They treated him nice and he just stayed on in their name.

He didn't marry till after both of them were free. He met her somewheres

away from the Hickman's. They married in Alabama.

"Mama was born and mostly reared in Virginia and then come to Alabama.

That's where I was born, in Alabama. And they left there and came here.

I was four years old when they come here.

"I never did hear what my father did in slavery time. He was a twin. The

most he took notice of he said was his brother and him settin' on an old

three-legged stool. And his mother had left some soft soap on the fire.

His brother saw that the pot was goin' to turn over and he jumped up. My

father tried to get up too but the stool turned over and caught him,

caught his little dress and held him and the hot soap ran over his dress

and on to his bare skin. It left a big burn on his side long as he

lived. His mother was there close to the house because she knowed the

soap was on and those two little boys were in there. She heard him

crying and ran in and carried him to her master. He got the doctor and

saved him. My father's mother didn't do nothing after that but 'tend to

that baby. Her master loved those little boys and kept her and _didn't

sell her because of them_. (The underscoring is the interviewer's--ed.)

That was his last master--Warren. Warren loved him more than his real

father did. Warren said he knew my father would never live after he had

such a burn. But he did live. They never did let him do much work after

the accident.

"I think my father's master, Warren--I can't remember his first

name--farmed for a living.

"My father and mother had five children. I don't know how many brothers

my father had. I have heard my mother say she had four sisters. I never

heard her say nothin' 'bout no brothers--just sisters.

"I had six children. Got three living and three dead. They was grown

though when they died. I had three boys and three girls. I got two boys

living and one girl. The boy in St. Louis does pretty well. But the

other in Little Rock doesn't have much luck. If he'd get out of Little

Rock, he would find more to do. The one in St. Louis don't make much now

because they done cut wages. He's a dining-car waiter. This girl what's

here, she does all she can for me. She has a husband and my husband is

dead. He's been dead a long time.

"I belong to Bethel A.M.E. Church. You know where that is. Rev. Campbell

is a good man. We had him eight years. Then we got Brother Wilson one

year and then they put Campbell back.

"I don't know what to think of these young people. Some of them is

running wild.

"When I was working for myself, I was generally a maid. But that is been

a long time ago. I washed and ironed and done laundry work when I was

able a long time ago. But I can't do it now. I can't do it for myself

now. I washed for myself a little and I got the flu and got in bad

health. That was about four years ago. I reckon it was the flu; I never

did have no doctor. When I take the least little cold, it comes back on

me."

Interviewer's Comment

This old lady appears nearer eighty than sixty-nine, and she speaks with

the sureness of an eyewitness.

Interviewer: Mrs. Blanche Edwards

Person interviewed: Emmeline Waddille (deceased)

Lonoke County, Arkansas

Age: 106

She immigrated with her owner, L.W.C. Waddille, to Lonoke County in

1851, coming to Hickory Plains and then to Brownsville. They moved from

Hayburn, Georgia in a covered wagon drawn by oxen.

She lived with a great-granddaughter, Mrs. John High, seven miles north

of Lonoke, until 1932, when she died. She had nursed six generations of

the Waddille family. She was born a deaf-mute but her hearing and speech

were restored many years ago when lightening struck a tree under which

she was standing.

Emmeline told of how they would stop for the night on the rough journey,

and while the men fed the stock, the women and slaves would cook the

evening meal of hoecake, fried venison, and coffee. The women slept in

the wagons and the men would sleep on the creek watching for wild life.

With other pioneers, they suffered all the hardships and dangers

incident to the settling of the new country more than three-fourths of a

century ago.

Emmeline always had good care. She worked hard and faithfully and was

amply rewarded.

[HW: High]

Circumstances of Interview

STATE--Arkansas

NAME OF WORKER--Blanche Edwards

ADDRESS--Lonoke, Arkansas

DATE--October 20, 1938

SUBJECT--An Old Slave [TR: Emiline Waddell]

[TR: Repetitive information deleted from subsequent pages.]

1. Name and address of informant--Mrs. John G. High, living nine miles

north of Lonoke, Arkansas.

2. Date and time of interview--October 20, 1938

3. Place of interview--At the home of Mrs. John G. High, nine miles

north of Lonoke.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with

informant--

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you--

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Text of Interview

Emiline Waddell, a former slave of the L.W. Waddell family, lived to be

106 years old, and was active up to her death.

She was born a slave in 1826 at Haben county, Georgia, a slave of

Claybourne Waddell, who emigrated to Brownsville, in 1851, in covered

wagons, oxen drawn.

Her "white folks" were three weeks making the trip from the ferry across

the Mississippi to old Brownsville; after traveling all day through the

bad and boggy woods, at the end of their rough journey at eventide, the

movers dismounted and began hasty preparations for the night. While the

men were feeding the stock and providing temporary quarters, the women

assisted the slaves in preparing the evening meal, of hoe-cake, fried

venison and coffee. Then the women and children would sleep in the

wagons while the men kept watch for wild life.

Mammy Emiline was a faithful old black mammy, true to life and

traditions, and refused her freedom, at the close of the war, as wanted

to stay and raise "Old Massa's chilluns," which she did, for she was

nursing her sixth generation in the Waddell family at the time of her

death. Even to that generation there was a close tie between the

southern child and his or her black mammy. A strange almost unbelievable

thing happened to Emiline; she was born a deaf mute, but her hearing and

speech was restored many years before her death, when lightening struck

a tree under which she was standing.

Superstitious beliefs were strong in her and her tales of "hants" were

to "her little white chilluns", really true but hair-raising. Then she

would talk and live again the "days that are no more", telling them of

the happy prosperous, sunny land, in her negro dialect, and then tell of

the ruin and desolation behind the Yankees; the hard times my white

folks had in the reconstruction days--negro and carpetbag rule; then

give them glimpses of good--much courage, some heart and human feeling;

perhaps ending with an outburst of the negro spiritual, her favorite

being, "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home."

After a faithful service of 106 years, Emiline died in 1932 at the home

of Mrs. John G. High, a great-granddaughter of L.W.C. Waddell living

nine miles north of Lonoke, and the grown up great-great-grandchildren

still miss Mammy.

Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor

Person interviewed: Henry Waldon

816 Walnut Street. North Little Rock, Arkansas

Age: 84

"I was plowing when they surrendered. I had just learned to plow, and

was putting up some land. My young master come home and was telling me

the War was ended and we was all free.

"I was born in Lauderdale County, Mississippi. I think it was about

1854. My father's name [HW: was] ----, my mother's [HW: was] ----, I

knew them both.

"My mother belonged to Sterling and my father belonged to a man named

Huff--Richmond Huff.

"We lived in Lauderdale County. Huff wouldn't sell my father and my

people wouldn't sell my mother. They lived about a mile or so apart.

They didn't marry in them days. The niggers didn't, that is. Father

would just come every Saturday night to see my mother. His cabin was

about three miles from her's. We moved from Lauderdale County to Scott

County, Mississippi, and that separated mama and papa. They never did

meet again. Of course, I mean it was the white people that moved, but

they carried mama and us with them. Papa and mama never did meet again

before freedom, and they didn't meet afterwards.

"My mother had twelve children--eight girls and four boys. She had one

by a man named Peter Smith. She was away from her husband then. She had

four by my father--two boys and two girls; my father's name was Peter

Huff. My mother's name was Mary Sterling. I never did see my father no

more after we moved away from him.

"My father made cotton and corn, plowed and hoed in slavery time. His

old master had seventy-five or eighty hands. His old master treated him

pretty rough. He whipped them about working. He never hired no overseer

over them. When he whipped them he took their shirts off and whipped

them on their naked backs. He cut the blood out of some of them. He

never did rub no salt nor vinegar in their wounds. His youngest son done

his overseeing. He would whip them sometime but he wasn't tight on them

like some that I knowed.

"A fellow by the name of Jim Holbert was mean to his slaves as a man

could be. He would whip them night and day. Work them till dark; then

they would eat supper. Cook their own supper. Had nothing to cook but a

little meat and bread and molasses. Then they would go back and bale up

three or four bales of cotton. Some nights they work till twelve o'clock

then get up before daylight--'round four o'clock--and cook their

breakfast and go to work again. That was on Jim Holbert and Lard Moore's

place. Them was two different men and two different places--plantations.

They whipped their slaves a good deal--always beating down on somebody.

They made their backs sore. Their backs would be bleeding just like they

cut it with knives. Then they would wash it down with water and salt.

"On my master's farm, each one cooked in his own cabin. While the hands

were working, my master left one child, the largest, stay there and

taken care of the little ones.

"They had bloodhounds too; they'd run you away in the woods. Send for a

man that had hounds to track you if you run away. They'd run you and bay

you, and a white man would ride up there and say, 'If you hit one of

them hounds, I'll blow your brains out.' He'd say 'your damn brains.'

Them hounds would worry you and bite you and have you bloody as a beef,

but you dassent to hit one of them. They would tell you to stand still

and put your hands over your privates. I don't guess they'd have killed

you but you believed they would. They wouldn't try to keep the hounds

off of you; they would set them on you to see them bite you. Five or six

or seven hounds bitin' you on every side and a man settin' on a horse

holding a doubled shotgun on you.

"My old miss's sister hired slave women out to old Jim Holbert once. One

of them was in a delicate state, and they dug a hole and put her stomach

down in it and whipped her till she could hardly walk.

"Holbert lived to see the niggers freed. All of his slaves left him

pretty well when freedom come. He managed to hold on to his money. He

didn't go to the War. He was pretty old. He had two sons in the War--his

wife had one in there and he had one. One of them got wounded but he

didn't die.

"My mistress's oldest son, Ed Sterling, got shot in the Civil War. He

got shot right in the side at Franklin, Tennessee. It tore his whole

side off--near about killed him. But he lived to ride paterole. He was

mean. Catch a man in bed with his wife at night, he'd whip him and make

him go home. He was the meanest man in the world. All the other sons

were better than he was. His name was Ed Sterling.

"The first thing I remember was work. You weren't allowed to remember

nothing but work in slave times and you got whipped about that. You

weren't allowed to go nowhere but carry the mules out to the pasture to

eat grass. Sometimes they jump the fence and go over in the field and

eat corn. Me and another fellow named Sandy used to watch them all day

Sunday. Watching the mules and working in the fields through the week

was the first work I remember. Me and my sister worked on one row. The

two of us made a hand. She is down in Texas somewheres now. They taken

her from old lady Sterling's place. She give them to her son and he

carried them down in Texas. He had a broken leg and never did go to the

war. If he did, I never knowed nothing about it.

"None of the masters never give me anything. None of them as I knows of

never give anything to any of the slaves when they freed 'em. Never give

a devilish thing. Told them that they was free as they was and that they

could stay there and help them make crops if they wanted to. The biggest

part of them stayed. The rest went away. Their husbands taken them away.

"Right after the war my mother married an old fellow who used to be old

Holbert's nigger driver. He stayed on Sterling's place one night. He

stayed there a year. Then he married my mother and went to old Holbert's

place and of course, we had to go too. I stayed there and worked for

him. And my mama too and the two youngest sisters and the youngest

brother stayed with me. I run away from him in '86. I went down the

railroad about five miles and an old colored fellow give me a job. He

used to belong to the railroad boss.

"I worked nearly two years on that railroad; then I left and come on

down to Arkansas. I have been right here on this spot about forty years.

I don't know how long it is been since I first come here, but it is been

a long time ago. I paid fire insurance on this place for thirty-nine

years. I lived over the river before I came to North Little Rock. I

worked for the railroad company thirty-eight years. It's been fifteen

years since I was able to work--maybe longer.

"I belong to Little Bethel Church (A.M.E.) here in North Little Rock. I

been a member of that church more than thirty-five years.

"I have been married twice, and I am the father of three children that

are living and two that dead--Tommy, Jim, Ewing, Mayzetta, and the baby.

He was too young to have a name when he died.

"I think things is worse than they ever was. Everything we get we have

to pay for, and then pay for paying for it. If it wasn't for my wife I

could hardly live because I don't get much from the railroad company."

Interviewer: Mary D. Hudgins

Person Interviewed: Aunt Clara Walker Aged: 111

Home: "Flatwoods" district, Garland County. Own property.

Story by Aunt Clara Walker

"You'll have to wait a minute ma'am. Dis cornbread can't go down too

fas'. Yes ma'am, I likes cornbread. I eats it every meal. I wouldn't

trade just a little cornbread for all de flour dat is.

Where-bouts was I born? I was born right here in Arkansas. Dat is it was

between an on de borders of it an dat state to de south--yes ma'am,

dat's right, Louisiana. My mother was a slave before me. She come over

from de old country, she was a-runnin' along one day front of a--a--dat

stripedy animal--a tiger? an' a man come along on an elephant and scoop

her up an' put her on a ship.

Yes ma'am. My name's Clara Walker. I was born Clara Jones, cause my

pappy's name was Jones. But lots of folks called me Clara Cornelius,

cause Mr. Cornelius was de man what owned me. Did you ever hear of a

child born wid a veil over its face? Well I was one of dem! What it

mean? Why it means dat you can see spirits an' ha'nts, an all de other

creatures nobody else can see.

Yes ma'am, some children is born dat way. You see dat great grandchild

of mine lyin' on de floor? He's dat way. He kin see 'em too. Is many of

'em around here? Lawsey dey's as thick as piss-ants. What does dey look

like? Some of 'em looks like folks; an' some of 'em looks like hounds.

When dey sees you, dey says "Howdy!" an' if you don't speak to 'em dey

takes you by your shoulders an dey shakes you. Maybe dey hits you on de

back. An' if you go over to de bed an lies in de bed an' goes to sleep,

dey pulls de cover off you. You got to be polite to 'em. What makes 'em

walk around? Well, I got it figgured out dis way. Dey's dissatisfied.

Dey didn't have time to git dey work done while dey was alive.

Dat greatgrandchild of mine, he kin see 'em too. Now my eight

grandchildren an' my three children what's alivin' none of 'em can see

de spirits. Guess dat greatgrandchild struck way back. I goes way back.

My ol' master what had to go to de war, little 'fore it was over told me

when he left dat I was 39 years old. Somebody figgured it out for me dat

I's 111 now. Dat makes me pretty old, don't it?

There was another fellow on a joinin' plantation. He was a witch doctor.

Brought him over from Africa. He didn't like his master, 'cause he was

mean. So he make a little man out of mud. An' he stick thorns in its

back. Sure 'nuff, his master got down with a misery in his back. An' de

witch doctor let de thorn stay in de mud-man until he thought his master

had got 'nuff punishment. When he tuck it out, his master got better.

Did I got to school. No ma'am. Not to book school. Dey wouldn't let

culled folks git no learnin'. When I was a little girl we skip rope an'

play high-spy (I Spy). All we had to do was to sweep de yard an go after

de cows an' de pigs an de sheep. An' dat was fun, cause dey was lots of

us children an we all did it together.

When I was 13 years old my ol' mistress put me wid a doctor who learned

me how to be a midwife. Dat was cause so many women on de plantation was

catchin' babies. I stayed wid dat doctor, Dr. McGill his name was, for 5

years. I got to be good. Got so he'd sit down an' I'd do all de work.

When I come home, I made a lot o' money for old miss. Lots of times,

didn't sleep regular or git my meals on time for three--four days. Cause

when dey call, I always went. Brought as many white as culled children.

I's brought most 200, white an' black since I's been in Hot Springs.

Brought a little white baby--to de Wards it was--dey lived jest down de

lane--brought dat baby 'bout 7 year ago.

I's brought lots of 'em an' I ain't never lost a case. You know why.

It's cause I used my haid. When I'd go in, I'd take a look at de woman,

an' if it was beyond me, I'd say, 'Dis is a doctor case. Dis ain't no

case for a midwife. You git a doctor.' An' dey'd have to get one. I'd

jes' stan' before de lookin' glass, an' I wouldn't budge. Dey couldn't

make me.

I made a lot of money for ol' miss. But she was good to me. She give me

lots of good clothes. Those clothes an my mother's clothes burned up in

de fire I had a few years ago right on dis farm. Lawsey I hated loosin'

dose clothes I had when I was a girl more dan anything I lost. An' I

didn't have to work in de fields. In between times I cooked an' I would

jump in de loom. Yes, ma'am I could weave good. Did my yards every day.

I weave cloth for dresses--fine dresses you would use thread as thin as

dat you sews wid today--I weaves cloth for underclothes, an fo

handkerchiefs an for towels. Den I weaves nits and lice. What's

dat--well you see it was kind corse cloth de used for clothes like

overalls. It mas sort of speckeldy all over--dat's why dey called it

nits and lice.

Law, I used to be good once, but after I got all burned up I wasn't good

for so much. It happened dis way. A salt lick was on a nearby

plantation. Ever body who wanted salt, dey had to send a hand to help

make it. I went over one day--an workin' around I stepped on a live

coal. I move quick an' I fall plum over into a salt vat. Before dey got

me out I was pretty near ruined.

What did dey do? Dey killed a hog--fresh killed a hog. An' dey fry up de

fat--fry it up wid some of de hog hairs an' dey greesed me good. An' it

took all de fire out of de burns. Dey kept me greezed for a long time. I

was sick nearly six months. Dey was good to me.

An one day, young miss, she married. Ol' miss give me to her 'long of 23

others. Twenty four was all she could spare an' keep some for herself an

save enough for de other children. We went to California. Young Miss was

good, but her husband was mean. He give me de only white folks whippin I

ever had. Ol' miss never had to whip her slaves. I was tryin' to cook on

an earth stove--dat's why it happen. Did you ever hear of an earth

stove? Well, dey make sort of drawers out of dirt. You burn wood in 'em.

After you git used to it you kin cook on it good. But dat day I was busy

an' I burned de biscuits. An' he whip me.

I run off. I knew in general de way home. When I come to de Brazos river

it looked most a mile across. But I jump in an' I swim it. One day I

done found a pearl handled pocket knife. A few days later I meet up wid

a white boy. An' he say its his knife, an' I say, 'White boy, I know dat

ain't your knife, an' you know it ain't. But if you'll write me out a

free pass, I'll give it to you.' An' so he wrote it. After dat, I could

walk right up to de front gates an ask for somthin' to eat. Cause I had

a paper sayin' I was Clara Jones an' I was goin' home to my ol' mistress

Mis' Cornelius. Please paterollers to leave me alone. An' folks along de

way, dey'd take me in an' feed me. Dey'd give me a place to stay an fix

me up a lunch to take along. Dey'd say, "Clara, you's a good nigger.

You's a goin' home to your ol' miss, so we's goin' to do for you."

An' I got within five miles of home before dey catch me. An' my ol' miss

won't let me go back. She keep me an' send another one in my place. An'

de war kept on, an ol' massa had to go. An' word come dat he been

killed.

Yes, 'em, some folks run off, an' some of 'em stayed. Finally ol' miss

refugeed a lot of us to California. What is it to refugee. Well, you

see, suppose you was afraid dat somebody go in' to take your property

an' you run 'em away off somewhere--how you come to know.

When de war was over, young miss she come in an she say, 'Clara, you's

as free as I am.' 'No, I ain't.' says I. 'Yes, you is,' says she. 'What

you goin' to do?' 'I's goin' to stay an' work for you.' says I. 'No'

says she, 'you ain't cause I can't pay you.' 'Well,' says I, 'I'll go

home to see my old mother.' 'Tell you what,' says she, 'I ain't got nuff

money to send you, only part--so you go down to whar' dey is a'pannin'

gold. You kin git a Job at $2.00 per day.'

Many's a day I've stood in water up to my waist pannin' gold. In dem

days dey worked women jest like men. I worked hard, an' young miss took

care of me. When I got ready to come home I bought my stage fare an' I

carried $300 on me back to my ol' mother.

De trip took six weeks. Everywhere de stage would stop young miss had

writ a note to somebody and de stage coach men give it to 'em an dey

took care of me--good care.

When I got home to my mother I found dat ol' miss had give all of 'em

somthin' along with settin 'em free. My mother had 12 children so she

git de mos'. She git a horse, a milk cow, 8 killin' hogs and 50 bushels

of corn. She moved off to a little house on ol' miss's plantation and

make a crop on halvers. She stay on dar for three--four years. Den she

move off into another county where she could go to meetin without havin'

to cross de river. An' I stayed on wid her an help her farm--I could

plow as good as a man in dem days.

Finally I hear dat you could make more money in Hot Springs, so I come

to see. My mother was dead by dat time. De first year I made a crop for

Mr. Clay--my granddaughter cooks and tends to children for some of his

folks today. When I went to town an I washed at de Arlington hotel. It

wasn't de fine place it is today. It was jest boards like dis cabin of

mine. An I washed at another hotel--what was it--down across de creek

from de Arlington. Yes ma'am, dat's it. De Grand Central--it was grand

too--for dem days. An' I cooked for Dr. McMasters. An' I cooked for

Colonel Rector--de Rectors had lots of money in dem days. I could make a

weddin' cake good as anybody--with, a 'gagement ring in it. I could make

it fine--tho I don't know but two letters in de book an' thoses is A and

B.

I married Mr. Walker. He was a hod carrier when dey built de old red

brick Arlington. I remember lots of things dat happened here. I remember

seein' de smoke from de fire--dat big one. We was a livin' near Picket

Springs--you don't know whare dat is. Well, does you know where de

soldier's breast work was--now I git you on to remembering.

Den, later on we moved out an' got a farm near Hawes. I traded dat place

for dis one. Yes, ma'am I likes livin' in de country. Never did like

livin' in town.

I don't right know whether culled folks wanted to be free or not. Lots

of 'em didn't rightly understand, Ol' miss was good to hers. Some of 'em

wasn't. She give 'em things before an she give 'em things after. Of

course, we went back an' we washed for 'em. But one mortal blessin. Ol'

miss had made her girls learn how to cook an' wait on themselves.

Now take de Combinders. Dey was on de next plantation. Dey was mean.

Many a time you could hear de bull whip, clear over to our place, PLOP,

PLOP. An' if dey died, dey jest wrapped 'em in cloth an' dig a trench,

an' plow right over 'em. An' when de war was over, dey wouldn't turn dey

slaves loose. An de Federals marched in an' marched 'em off. An' ol'

Mis' Combinder she holler out an she say, 'What my girls goin' to do?

Dey ain't never dressed deyselves in dey life. We can't cook? What we

do?' An' de soldiers didn't pay no attention. Dey just marched 'em off.

An' ol' man Combinder he lay down an' he have a chill an' he die. He die

because day take his property away from him.

Yes, ma'am, Thank you for the quarter. I's goin' to buy snuff. I gets

along good. My grandson he hauls wood for de paper mill. An' my

granddaughters dey works for folks cooks an takes care of children. I

had a good crop dis year. I'll have meat, I got lots of corn, an' I got

other crops. We're gettin' along nice, mighty nice. Thank you ma'am."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Henry Walker, Hazen, Arkansas

Age: 80

I was born nine miles south of Nashville, Tennessee. The first I ever

knowed or heard of a war, I saw a lot of the funniest wagons coming up

to the house from the road. I called the old mistress. She looked out

the window and pushed me back up in the corner and shot the door. She

was so scared. I thought them things they had on their coats (buttons)

was pretty. I found out they was brass buttons. I peeped out a crack it

was already closed 'cept a big crack, I seed through. Well, the wagons

was high in front and high in the back and sunk in the middle. Had pens

in the wheels instead of axels. Wagon had a box instead of a bed. The

wagons would hold a crib full of corn. They loaded up everything on the

place there was to eat and carried it off. My folks and the other folks

was in the field. Colored folks didn't like 'em taking all they had to

eat and had stored up to live on. They didn't leave a hog nor a chicken,

nor anything else they could find. They drove off all the cows and

calves they could find. Colonel Sam Williams, the old master, soon did

go to war then. The folks had a hard time making a living. Old mistress

had four girls and her baby Ed was one day older than I was. The

children of the hands played around in the woods and every place and

stayed in the field if they was big enough to do any work. Old mistress

had all the children pick up scaley barks and hickory nuts and chestnuts

and walnuts. She put them in barrels. She sold some of them. She had a

heap of sugar maple trees. They put an elder funnel to run the sap in

buckets. We carried that and she boiled it down to brown sugar. She had

up pick up chips to burn when she simmered it down or made soap. She

kept all the children hunting ginsing up in the mountains. She kept it

in sacks. A man come by and buy it. We hunted chenqupins down in the

swamps. There was lots of walnut trees in the woods.

No the slaves didn't leave Colonel Williams. He left them. He brought me

and Ed and we went back and moved to the old Williams farm on Arkansas

River close to Little Rock. Then he sent for my folks. They come in

wagons. They worked for him a long time and scattered about. I stayed at

his house till he said "Henry, you are grown; you better look out for

yourself now." Ed was gone. He sent all the girls off to school and Ed

too. They taught me if I wanted to learn but I didn't care much about

it. I went to the colored school and Ed to the white school. He learned

pretty well. I never did like to 'sociate or stay 'bout colored folks

and I didn't like to mind 'em. Old mistress show did brush me out

sometimes and they called my mother to tend to me. When I was real

little they drove the hands to the block to be sold out along the road.

Old mistress say: "If you don't be good and mind we'll send yare off and

sell you wid 'em." That scared me worse than a whooping. Never did see

anybody sold. Heard them talk a heap about it. When one of them wouldn't

work and lay out in the woods, or they wouldn't mind they soon got sold

off. They mated a heap of them and sold them for speculation. No mam I

didn't like slavery. We had plenty to eat but they worked for all they

got. Had good fires and good warm houses and good clothes but I did not

like the way they give out the provisions. They blowed a horn and

measured out the weeks paratta for every family. They cooked at the

cabins for their own families. There was several springs and a deep rock

walled well at old mistress' house. Old mistress always lived in a fine

house. I slept at my mother's house nearly all the time. She had a big

family. White folks raised me up to play with Ed till I thought I was

white. They taught me to do right and I ain't forgot it. I never was

arrested. I married three times, bought three marriage license all in

Prairie County. All three wives died.

I owns dis house 'cept a mortgage of $50. One of my boys got in a

difficulty. I don't know where he is to get him to pay it off. The other

boy he's not man enough either to pay it off.

I never did know jess when the Civil War did close. I kept hearing 'em

say we are free. I didn't see much difference only when Colonel Williams

come back times wasn't so hard. Then he sold out and come to Arkansas.

Then each family raised his own hogs and chickens and finally got to

have cows.

I was as scared of the Ku Klux Klan as of rattlesnakes. In Tennessee

they come up the road and back just after dark. They rode all night and

if you wasn't on your master's own land and didn't have a pass from him

or the overseer they would set the dogs on you and run you home.

Sometimes they would whip them. Take them home to the old master. I

never heard of no uprisings. People loved each other better then than

now. They didn't have so much idle time. There was always some work to

be doing. When they didn't mind they run them with dogs and whipped

them. The overseer and paddyrollers seed about that. The first day of

the year everybody went up to hear the rules and see who was to be the

overseer. Then they knowed what to do for the year. They never did kill

nobody. No mam that was too costly. They had work according to their

strength and age. The Ku Klux was to keep order.

I been living in Hazen forty or fifty years. All I ever have done was

farm sometimes one-half-for-the-other and sometimes on share-crop.

I have voted but not lately. I votes a Republican ticket. I votes that

way because it was the Republicans that set us free, I always heard it

said. I jess belongs to that party. Seems lack we gets easier times when

the Democrats reign. Colonel Williams was a Democrat.

The young folks are not as well off as I was at their age. They are

restless and won't work unless they gets big pay and they spends the

money too easy. The colored people are too idle and orderless. They

fight and hate one another and roam around in too much confusion.

I gets from $3 to $8 last month from the Sociable Welfare. My children

helps me mighty little. They got their own children to see after and

don't make much.

Colonel Williams and Ed are both dead. They did give me a lot of fine

clothes when I went to see them as long as they lived. I don't know

where the girls hab gone. Scattered around. I oughter never left my good

old home and white folks. They was show always mighty good to me.

I never could sing much. I used to give the Rebbel Yell. Colonel Yopp

give me a dime every time I give it. Since he died I ain't yelled it no

more. I learned it from Colonel Williams. I jess took it up hearing him

about the place.

FOLKLORE SUBJECTS

Name of Interviewer: Irene Robertson

Subject: Ex-Slave-Hunting

Story:--Information

This information given by: Henry Walker

Place of Residence: Hazen, Arkansas

Occupation: Farmer.

Age: 78

[TR: Information moved from bottom of first page.]

Henry Walker was born nine miles south of Nashville, Tennessee.

Remembered the soldiers and ran to the windows to see them pass. One day

he saw a lot of soldiers coming to the house. Henry ran in ahead and

said out loud, "them Yankeys are coming up here." The mistress slapped

Henry, hid him and slammed the doors. The soldiers did not get in but

they did other damage that day. They took all the mules out of the lot

and drove them away. They filled their "dugout wagons" with corn. A

dugout wagon would hold nearly a crib full of corn. They were high in

front and back and came down to a point, nearly touched the ground

between the wheels. The wheels had pens instead of axles in them.

The children ran like pigs every morning. The pigs ran to eat acorns and

the children--white and black--to pick up chestnuts, scaly barks and

hickory nuts. There were _lots_ of black walnuts. "We had barrels of

nuts to eat all winter and the mistress sold some every year at

Nashville, Tennessee. The woods were full of nut trees and we had a few

maple and sweet gum trees. We simmered down maple sap for brown sugar

and chewed the sweet gum. We picked up chips to simmer the sweet maple

sap down. We used elder tree wood to make faucets for syrup barrels.

There were chenquipins down in the swamps that the children gathered."

Henry Walker said that they were sent upon the hills to find ginsing and

often found long beds of it. They put it in sacks and a man came and

bought it from the mistress. The mistress' name was Mrs. Williams. She

kept the money for the ginsing and nuts too when she sold them.

Henry said he ate at Mrs. Williams', but the other children ate at the

cabin. On Saturday evening the horn would sound and every slave would

come to get his allowance of provisions. They used a big bell hung up in

a tree to call them to meals and to begin work. They could also hear

other farm bells and horns. Colored folks could have dances if they

would get permission. Some masters were overseers themselves and some

hired overseers. Patty Rell was a white man and the bush-wackers give us

trouble sometimes.

On January first every year everybody ate peas and "hog jole" and

received the new rules. The masters would say, "don't be running up here

telling me on the overseer." They had a bush harbor church and the white

preacher came to preach to black and white sometimes. They taught

obedience and the Golden Rules. No schools--Henry said since freedom the

white men had cheated him out of all he had ever made, with pen-and-ink.

He rather be whipped with a stick than a writing pen. He said Mr. and

Mrs. Williams were good people. Henry learned to knit his socks and

gloves at night watching the grown people. They made a certain number of

broches every night. He liked that.

Henry said Mr. Williams let him carry his gun hunting with him and

taught him how to shoot squirrels. They were plentiful. He had a lot of

dogs. The master went to the deer stand and Henry managed the twelve

hounds. He didn't like to fox hunt. About a hundred men and thirty dogs,

horns, etc. out for the chase. They came from Nashville and in the

country. A fox make three rounds from where he is jumped and then widens

out. They brought "fine whiskey" out on the chases.

When they had corn shuckings one Negro would sit on the fence and lead

the singing, the others shuck on each side. The master would pour out a

tin cup full of whiskey from a big jug for each corn shucker, and Mrs.

Williams would give each a square of gingerbread.

Mr. Williams set aside a certain number of acres of land every year to

be cleared, fenced and broke for cultivation by spring. Six or eight men

worked together. They used tong-hand sticks to carry the logs to the

piles where they were burning them. A saw was a side show, they used

mall, axe and wedge. After the log rolling there would be a big supper

and a good one. The visitors got what they wanted from the table first.

"That was manners."

"We took turns going to the Methodist church at Nashville with Mr. and

Mrs. Williams. They went in the fine carriage and the maid held the baby

but anybody else rode along behind on horseback. The carriage horses

were curried every day, kept up and ate corn and fodder. Mr. and Mrs.

Williams came to Nashville to big weddings and dances often."

After Henry Walker came to Hazen, Colonel Yopp had him feed his dogs and

attend him on big fox hunting trips. Since Colonel Yopp died January

1928 Henry seldom, or perhaps has never sung the song he sang to Colonel

for dimes if he needed a little change. He learned the song and whoop

back in in slavery days. He said William Dorch (colored boy) took it up

from hearing him sing for Colonel Yopp and would write it for me and

sing it and give it with the old Carolina, Georgia and Tennessee whoop.

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden

Person interviewed: Jake Walker

3002 Short W. Ninth Avenue, Pine Bluff, Arkansas

Age: 95

"Well, I was here--I was born in 1842, August the 4th. That makes me

ninety-five in the clear. If I live till next August I'll be ninety-six.

"No ma'am, I wasn't born in Arkansas, I was born in Alabama. I been here

in Arkansas bout forty or fifty years. I used to live in Mississippi

when I first left the old country.

"Oh yes'm, I was bout big enough to go durin' the War, but I wouldn't

run off. Couldn't a had no better master. That's the reason I'm livin'

like I do. Always took good care of myself. Never had no exposure.

"I _did_ work fore the War, I'll say! Done anything they said.

"John Carmichael was my old master and Miss Nancy was old missis.

"Oh yes ma'am, I seed the Yankees. They stopped there. I wasn't askeered

of nobody. I have went to the well and drawed water for em.

"I member when the War was gwine on. I didn't know why they was

fightin'. If I did I done forgot--I'll be honest with you. I didn't know

nothin' only they was fightin'. Most of my work was around the house. I

never paid no tention to that war. I was livin' too fine them days. I

was livin' a hundred days to the week. Yes ma'am, I did get along fine.

"Oh yes ma'am, I had good white folks. I never was sold. No ma'am, I

born right on the old home place.

"Patrollers? Had to get a pass from your master to go over there. Oh

yes, I know all about them. I have seed the Ku Klux too. Yes ma'am, I

know all about them things.

"I never been to school but half a day. I went to work when I was eight

years old and been workin' ever since.

"My father died in slave times and my mother died the fourth year after

surrender.

"After freedom, I worked there bout the course of three or four years.

Then I emigrated and come on to Mississippi. The most I done them times

was farmin'. Reckon I stayed in Mississippi five or six years.

"The most work I done here in Arkansas is carpenter work. I'm the first

colored man ever contracted in Pine Bluff.

"If I wasn't able to work, I don't think I'd stay here long.

"Used to drive the mule in the gin in slave times.

"We didn't have a bit of expense on us. Our doctor bills was paid and

had clothes give to us and had plenty of something to eat.

"Yes'm, I used to vote but it's been for years since I voted. Voted

Republican. I don't know why the colored people is Republican. You

askin' me something now I don't know nothin' about, but I believe in

votin' for the man goin' to do good--do the country good.

"Oh, don't talk about the younger generation--I jist can't accomplish

em, I sure can't. They ain't got the 'regenious' and get-up about em

they had in my time. They is more wiser, that's about all. The young

race these days--I don't know what's gwine come of em. If twasn't for we

old fogies, don't know what they'd do.

"We ain't never had that World War yet told about in the Bible. Called

this last war the World War but twasn't.

"I've always tried to keep my place and I ain't never been in any kind

of trouble."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Jake Walker, Wheatley, Arkansas

Age: 68

"I was born seven or eight miles from Hernando, Mississippi. My pa was a

slave over twenty years. He belong to Master Will Walker, and his white

mistress was Ann. They brought him from 'round Athens, Georgia. He was

heired through his master. His own mother died at his birth and he was

the son of a peddler through the country. He was a furriner but pa never

could tell. His young master never told him. His ma was the nurse about

the place. The peddler was a white man of some kind. He kept coming

about selling goods. The dogs made a bad racket. They never bought

nothing much. Old master suspicioned him trying to get away with

something about the place. He come right out and accused him to being up

to something. He denied it. He told the peddler not to come back. He

never. After it was over she told her mistress. He wanted her to go on

off with him. That made them mad. But he never was seen about there.

"When Will Walker got married he wanted my pa and he was give to him, a

horse and buggy, two mules, a lamb, and five young cows. He had some

money and he come to Mississippi. I reckon he did buy some land. He got

to be a slave owner before freedom. Pa said he drove the horse to the

buggy and his master rode a mule, led a mule and brought his cows, and

they kept the lamb in the buggy with them nearly all the way.

"I think they was good to him. His young mistress cried so much they all

went back once before freedom. They went on Christmas time. Only time he

ever was drunk. He got down and nearly froze to death. The white folks

heard he was somewhere down. They went and got him one Sunday morning in

a two-horse wagon. He was nearly dead. That was his first and last

spree.

"Pa said he nursed three of his young mistress' babies, Alfred, Tom, and

Kenneth.

"After freedom pa went to Texas with Alfred Walker. He owned a ranch out

on the desert and raised Texas ponies and big horn cows. They sent a

carload of young cattle to St. Louis and pa stopped back in Mississippi

and married ma. She was a Walker too, Libbie Walker. There was fourteen

of us children. They nearly all went to Louisiana to work in the timber.

I come to Clarendon. I been married three times. My last wife left me

and took my onliest child. Only child I ever had. They was at Hot

Springs last account I had of them. She was cooking for a woman over

there. My girl is up 'bout grown now. She come to Clarendon to see me

three years ago. I sent for her but she wouldn't stay. She writes to me,

but I have to get somebody to write for me and somebody to read her

letters. I can read print real good. I never went to school a day in my

whole life. We had to work early and late when I come up.

"I farmed, sawmilled, worked in the timber. I do public work, haul wood,

cut wood, and work in the field by day labor.

"I votes a Republican ticket. I haven't voted since Mr. Taft run. I

don't have no way to keep up with elections now. Folks used to talk

more, now they keeps quiet.

"I never heard pa say how he come to know about freedom. Ma said she was

refugeed to Texas and when they brung them back, Master Will Walker met

them at the creek on his place and he said, 'You all are free now. You

can go on my place or hunt other places.' They went on his place and

they lived there a long time. I don't remember ever living on that

place. Pa wasn't there then. I don't know where be could been. Ma and pa

was both Walkers but no blood kin. Ma didn't talk much about old times.

She was sold once, she said. Bass Kelly bought her. I don't know if Will

Walker traded for her. She never did say. Bass Kelly was mean to her. He

beat her and one time she hid and kept hid till she nearly starved, she

said. She hid in the corn crib. It was a log house. She didn't enjoy

slavery. Pa had a very good time, better than us boys had it when we

come up. He worked and kept us with him. He and ma died the same week.

They had pneumonia in Mississippi.

"I got one sister. She lives close to Shreveport. She keeps up with us

all. I go down there every now and then. She's not stove up like I am.

She wants me to stay with her all the time. I gets work down there

easier but I have the rheumatism bad down there.

"I don't know what will become of young folks. I wish I had their

chance. They can't wait for nothing. They in too big a hurry for the

crop to grow. Busy living by the day. When the year gone they ain't no

better off. Times is good in places. Hard in places. Times better in

Louisiana than up here. Work easier to get. Folks got more living.

"I'm chopping cotton on Mr. Hill's place. I gets ninety cents a day. I

can't get over the ground fast."

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden

Person interviewed: Willie Wallace

40th and Georgia Streets, Pine Bluff, Arkansas

Age: 80

"I was born in Green County, Alabama. Elihu Steele was my old master.

Miss Julia was old missis. She was Elihu's wife. Her mother's name was

Penny Hatter. Miss Penny give my mother to her daughter Julia.

"I was a twin and they choosed us for the cook and washer and ironer,

but surrender come along 'fore we got big enough to do anything.

"My father was crippled and couldn't work in the field, and I remember

he used to carry the children out to the field to be suckled.

"They had a right smart of slaves. My mother had twelve children and I'm

the baby.

"I remember they'd make up a big pot of corn bread and pot-liquor and

they'd say, 'Eat, chillun, eat.'

"I remember one time the white folks had some stock tied out, and I know

my sister's little boy didn't know no better and he showed the Yankees

where they was.

"I remember when they said the people was free, but our folks stayed

right on there--I don't know how many years--'cause my mother thought a

heap of her old missis, Penny.

"I went to school after freedom and learned how to read and write and

figger. I worked in the field till I got disabled. I never did wash and

iron and cook for the white folks.

"I was fifteen--somewhere in there--when I married and I'm the mother of

twelve children.

"I have lived in Thomas, West Virginia; Pittsburg, Pennsylvania;

Cumberland, Maryland; Milliken, Louisiana; and Birmingham, Alabama. I

just lived in all them places following my children around.

"I fell through a trestle in Birmingham and injured myself comin' from

church.

"I think the people is gettin' terrible now. You think they're gettin'

better? I think they're gettin' wuss.

"I got a book here called 'Uncle Tom' and I hates to read it sometimes

'cause the people suffered so.

"I don't think old master had any overseers. Miss Julia wouldn't 'low

any of her people to be beat."

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden

Person interviewed: Evans Warrior

609 E. 23rd Avenue, Pine Bluff, Arkansas

Age: 80

"I was born here in Arkansas in Dallas County. I don't know zackly what

year but I was bout five when they drove us to Texas. Stayed there three

years till the war ceasted.

"Old master's name was Nat Smith. He was good to me. I was big enough to

plow same year the war ceasted.

"Yankees come through Texas after peace was 'clared. They'd come by and

ask my mother for bread. She was the cook.

"We left Arkansas 'fore the war got busy. Everything was pretty ragged

after we got back. White folks was here but colored folks was scattered.

My folks come back and went to their native home in Dallas County.

"Never did nothin' but farm work. Worked on the shares till I got able

to rent. Paid five or six dollars a acre. Made some money.

"I heered of the Ku Klux. Some of em come through the Clemmons place and

put notice on the doors. Say VACATE. All the women folks got in one

house. Then the boss man come down and say there wasn't nothin' to it.

Boss man didn't want em there.

"I went to school a little. Kep' me in the field all the tims. Didn't

get fur enuf to read and write.

"Yes'm, I voted. Voted the Republican ticket. That's what they give me

to vote. I couldn't read so I'd tell em who I wanted to vote for and

they'd put it down. Some of my friends was justice of the peace and

constables.

"I been in Pine Bluff bout four years--till I got disabled to work.

"I been married five times. All dead but two. Don't know how many

chillun we had--have to go back and study over it.

"Some of the younger generation is out of reason. Ain't strict on

chillun now like the old folks was."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Anna Washington, Clarendon, Arkansas

(Back of Mrs. Maynard's home in the alley)

Age: 77

"I've forgot who my mother's owner was. She was born in Virginia. She

was put on a block and sold. She was fifteen years old and she never

seen her mother again after she left her. Her master was George

Birdsong. He bought my papa too. They was onliest two he owned. He

wanted them both light so the children would be light for house girls

and waiting boys. Light colored folks sold for more money on the block.

"The boss man over grandpa and grandma in Virginia was John Glover. But

he was not their owner. My grandpa was about white. He said his owners

was good to him but now grandma had a pided back where she had been

whooped. Grandpa come down from the Washington slaves so my papa said.

That is the reason I holds to his name and my boy holds to it. Papa said

he had to plough and clean up new ground for Master Birdsong. He was a

young man starting out and papa and mama was young too.

(She left and came back with some old scraps of yellow and torn papers

dimly written all over: Anna Washington, born 1860 at Hines County at

Big Rock. Mother born at Capier County. Father born at White County,

Virginia--ed.)

"This is what was told to me by my papa: His grandmother was born of

George Washington's housemaid. That was one hundred forty years ago. His

papa was educated under a fine mechanic and he help build the old

State-house at Washington. Major Rousy Paten was the Washington nigger

'ministrator.

"I had a sister named Martha Curtis after his young wife. I had a

brother named Housy Patton. They are both dead now. Pa lived to be

ninety-eight years old. My mama was as white as you is but she was a

nigger woman. Pa was lighter than I is now. I'm getting darker 'cause

I'm getting old. My pa was named Benjamin Washington.

"I heard my pa talk about Nat Turner. (She knew who he was o.k.--ed.) He

got up a rebellion of black folk back in Virginia. I heard my pa sit and

tell about him. Moses Kinnel was a rich white man wouldn't sell Nellie

'cause of what his wife said. She was a housemaid. He wrote own free

pass book and took her to Maryland. Father's father wanted to buy Nellie

but her owner wouldn't sell her. He took her.

"My mother had fourteen children. We and Archie was the youngest.

"Moses Kinnel was a rich white man and had lots of servants. He promised

never to sell Nellie and keep her to raise his white children. She was

his maid. He promised that her dying bed. But father's father stole her

and took her to Maryland.

"Pa run away and was sold twice or more. When he was small chile his

mother done fine washing. She seat him to go fetch her some fine laundry

soap what they bought in the towns. Two white men in a two-wheel open

buggy say, 'Hey, don't you want to ride?' 'I ain't got time.' 'Get in

buggy, we'll take you a little piece.' One jumped out and tied his hands

together. They sold him. They let him go to nigger traders. They had him

at a doctor's examining his fine head see what he could stand. The

doctor say, 'He is a fine man. Could trust him with silver and gold--his

weight in it.' They brung him to Mississippi and sold him for a big

price. He had these papers the doctor wrote on him to show.

"Then he sent for my mama after they sat him free. His name was Ben

Washington.

"He never spoke much of freedom. He said his master in Mississippi told

them and had them sign up contracts to finish that year's crop. He took

back his old Virginia name and I don't recollect that master's name.

Heard it too. Yes ma'am, heap er times. My recollection is purty nigh

gone.

"I don't get no younger in feelings 'cause I'm getting old."

FOLKLORE SUBJECTS

Name of Interviewer: S.S. Taylor

Subject: Slave memories--Birth, Mother, Father, Separation House

Subject: Slaves--Dwellings, Food, Clothes

Subject: Corn Shucking, Dances, Quiltings, Weddings among Slaves

Subject: Slaves--Fight with Master (junior); Slave uprisings

Subject: Confederate Army Negroes; Ex-slave Occupations

Story:--Information

[TR: Topics moved from subsequent pages.]

This information given by: Eliza Washington

Place of Residence: 1517 West Seventeenth

Little Rock, Arkansas

Occupation: Washing and Ironing (When able)

Age: About 77

[TR: Information moved from bottom of first page.]

The first thing I remember was living with my mother about six miles

from Scott's Crossing in Arkansas, about the year 1866. I know it was

1866 because it was the year after the surrender, and we know the

surrender was in 1865. I know the dates after 1866. You don't know

nothin' when you don't know dates. If you get up in court and say

somethin', the lawyers ask you when it happened and then they ask you

where did it happen, and if you can't tell them, they say "Witness is

excused. You don't know nothin'."

Mother and Father

My mother was born in North Carolina in Mecklinberg in Henderson County.

I don't know when she came to Arkansas, and I don't know when she went

to Tennessee.

My father was born in Tennessee. I don't know the county like I did in

North Carolina. I don't know the town either, but I think it was in the

rurals somewhere. The white folks separated my mother and father when I

was a little baby in their arms. The people to whom my father belonged

stayed in Tennessee, but my mother's people came to Arkansas. It must

have been along in the time of the war that they come to Arkansas.

Dwelling

My mother lived in a log house chinked with wood chinks. The chinks

looked like gluts. You know what a glut is? No? Well a glut looks like

the pattern of a shoe. They lay the logs together, and then chink up the

cracks with wood blocks made up like the pattern of a shoe. These were

chinks, wooden things about a foot long, shaped like a wedge. They were

used for chinking. After the logs were laid together, chinks would be

needed to stop up the holes between the logs. After the chinking was

finished, clay was stuffed in to stop up the cracks and make the house

warm. I've seen a many a one built.

Wide planks were used for the floors. The doors were hung on wooden

hinges. The doors were never locked. They didn't have any looks on them.

You could bar them on the inside if you wanted to. They didn't have no

fear of burglars in them days. People wasn't bad then as they is now.

They had just one window and one door in the house. The chimney was

built up like a ladder and clay and straw was stuffed in the framework.

I have seen such houses built right down here in Scott's. My mother was

a field hand. She lived in such a house in Tennessee. There wasn't no

brick about the house, not even in the chimney. In later years, they

have covered up all those logs with weather boards and made the houses

look like what they call "modern", but theyr'e the same old log houses.

Food

My mother said her white folks fed her well. She had whatever they had.

When she came to Arkansas, they issued rations, but she never was issued

rations before. When they issued rations, they gave them so much food

each week--so much corn meal, so much potatoes, so much cabbage, so much

molasses, so much meat--mostly rubbish-like food. We went out in the

garden and dug the potatoes and got the cabbage.

But in Tennessee, my mother got what ever she wanted whenever she wanted

it. If she wanted salt, she went and got it. If she wanted meat, she

went to the smokehouse and got it. Whatever she wanted, she went and got

it, and they didn't have no times for issuing out.

Social Affairs--Corn Shuckings, Quiltings and Dances

The biggest time I remember on the plantations was corn shucking time.

Plenty of corn was brought in from the cribs and strowed along where

everybody could get to it freely. Then they would all get corn and shuck

it until near time to quit. The corn shucking was always at night, and

only as much corn as they thought would be shucked was brought from the

cribs. Just before they got through, they would begin to sing. Some of

the songs were pitiful and sad. I can't remember any of them, but I can

remember that they were sad. One of them began like this:

"The speculator bought my wife and child

And carried her clear away."

When they got through shucking, they would hunt up the boss. He would

run away and hide just before. If they found him, two big men would take

him up on their shoulders and carry him all around the grounds while

they sang. My mother told me that they used to do it that way in slave

time.

Dances

They didn't dance then like they do now all hugged up and indecent. In

them days, they danced what you call square dances. They don't do those

dances now, they're too decent. There were eight on a set. I used to

dance those myself.

Quiltings

I heard mother say she went to a lot of quiltings. I suppose they had

them much the same as they do now. Everybody took a part of the quilt to

finish. They talked and sang and had a good time. And they had somethin'

to eat at the close just as they did in the corn shucking. I never went

to a quilting.

Worship

Some of the Niggers went to church then just as they do now, and some of

them weren't allowed to go.

Reverend Winfield used to preach to the colored people that if they

would be good niggers and not steal their master's eggs and chickens and

things, that they might go to the kitchen of heaven when they died.

An old lady once said to me, "I would give anything if I could have

Maria in heaven with me to do little things for me." My mother told me

that the niggers had to turn the pots down to keep their voices from

sounding when they were praying at night. And they couldn't sing at all.

Weddings

I can remember that they used to have weddings when I was a child around

the years 1867 and 1868. My mother told me of marriages and weddings.

She never saw no paint on anybody's face. They used to have powder, but

they never used any paint. Girls were better then than they are now.

Fight with Master

My mother's first master was named Rasly, and her second was named

Neely. She and her young master, John McNeely, who was raised with her

and who was about the same age as she was, got to fighting one day and

she whipped him clear as a whistle. After she whipped him that fight

went all over the country. She was between sixteen and seventeen years

old an he was about the same. She had never been whipped by the white

folks.

She was in the kitchen. I don't know what the trouble started over. But

they had an argument. There were some other white boys in the kitchen

with her young master, and they kept pushing the two of them up to

fight. He wanted to show off; so he told her what he would do to her if

she didn't hush her mouth. She told him to just try it, and the fight

was on. So they fought for about an hour, and the other white boys egged

them on.

She said that her old master never did whip her, and she sure wasn't

going to let the young one do it. I never heard that they punished her

for whipping her young master. I never heard her say that anybody tried

to whip her at any other time. My mother was a strong woman. She could

lift one end of a log with any man.

Slave Uprisings

My mother used to say that when she was about fourteen years old, (That

was about the time that the stars fell, and the stars fell in 1833

[HW:*]. So she must have been born in 1819. In 1833, she was sold for a

fourteen year old girl. That was the only time that she ever was sold.

That left her about eighty-three years old when she died in 1903.) She

used to say that when she was about fourteen years old, and was living

in North Carolina in Mecklinburg Co, in Henderson County, that the white

folks called all the slaves up to the big house and kept them there a

few days. There wasn't no trouble on my mother's place, but they had

heard that there was an uprising among the slaves, and they called all

the Niggers up to the house. They didn't do nothin' to them. They just

called them up to the house, and kept them there. It all passed over

soon. I don't know nothin' else about it.

Confederate Army Negroes

I've "heered" old Brother Zachary who used to belong to Bethel Church

tell about the surrender. Brother Zachary is dead now. He was a soldier

In the Confederate army. He fought all through the war and he used to

tell lots of stories about it.

You know, Lee was a tall man, fine looking and dignified. Grant was a

little man and short. Those two generals walked up to each other with a

white flag in their hands. And they talked and agreed just when they

would fight. And then they both went back to their armies, and they

fought the awfulest battle you ever "heered" of. The men lay dead in

rows and rows and rows. The dead men covered whole fields. And General

Lee said that there wasn't any use doing any more fighting. General

Grant let all the rebels keep their guns. He didn't take nothin' away

from them.

I saw General Grant when he came to Little Rock. There was an old white

man who had never been to Little Rock in his life. He said "I just had

to come up here to see this great general that they are talking about."

Occupations

We always worked in the field in slave time. I don't know nothin about

share cropping because I always did days work. I used to get four and

five dollars a week for washing. But now they wants the young folks and

they don't pay them five dollars for everything. I can't get a pension.

Why you reckon they won't give me one. They don't understand that that

little house I own doesn't even keep itself up. My daughter-in-law is

good to me but she needs everything she makes. I can't get much to do

now, and what little I gets, they don't pay me much for.

I don' remember nothin' else.

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Jennie Washington, DeValls Bluff, Arkansas

Age: 80

"My mother was a slave and my father too I recken. They belonged to Jack

Walton when I remembered. I was born at St. Charles. My mother died in

time of the war at St. Louis. This is whut I remembers. My mother was

sold twice. The Prices owned her and the Wakefields owned her before she

was owned by old Jack Walton. I was the youngest child. I had one

brother went to war and he drawed a pension long as he lived. We

children all got scattered out. Mr. Walton bout the age of my father and

he said some day all these niggers be set free and warnt long fore they

sho was. I had one older sister I recollect mighty well. My mother named

Fannie, my father named Abe Walton. He had a young master James Walton.

"When I was nuthin but a chile I remembers James dressed up like Ku Klux

Klan and scared me. The old master sho did whoop him bout that. They

take care of the little black children and feed em good an don't let em

do too hard er work to stunt em so they take em off and sell em for a

good price.

"I remembers the little old log house my granma and granpa way back over

on the place stayed in till they died. We went back after the war and

lived ten years on the same place. We lived close to the white folks in

a bigger house.

"I don't recollect no big change after freedom cept they quit selling

and working folks without giving them money. I was too small to notice

much change then I speck. Times has always been tight wid me. I ain't

never had very much. I did work an a livin is all I ever got out of it.

Never could make enough to get ahead.

"The white folks never give the darky nothing when freedom declared. We

used to raise tobacco and sell it to smoke and make snuff. And he had em

make ax handles to sell on the side for money till the crops gathered.

"If you believe in the Bible you won't believe in women votin' I never

did vote. I ain't goner never vote.

"The present condition is fine. Mrs. Robinson carries a great big truck

load to her farm every day to pick cotton. She sent word up here she

take anybody whut wanter work. I wish I was able to go. I loves to pick

cotton. She pay em seventy-five cents a hundred. She'll pay em too! I

don't know what they do this winter. Set by the fire I recken. But next

spring she'll let hoe that crop. She took em this past year to hoe out

that very cotton they pickin now. Her husband, he's sick. He keeps their

store up town. She takes a few white hands too if they wanter work. I

don't think the present generation no worse en they ever been. They

drawed up closer together than they used to be. They buys everything now

an they don't raise nuthin. It's the Bible fulfillin. Everything so high

they caint save nuthin!

"I married twice. First time in the church, other time at home. I had

four children. I had two in Detroit. I don't know where my son is. He

may be there yet. My daughter there got fourteen children her own. I

don't know where the others are. Nom [HW: long "o" diacritical] they

don't help me a bit, do well helpin theirselves. I gets the Welfare

sistance and I works my garden back here."

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden

Person interviewed: Parrish Washington

812 Spruce Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas

Age: 86

"I was born in 1852--born in Arkansas. Sam Warren was my old master.

"I remember some of the Rebel generals--General Price and General

Marmaduke.

"We had started to Texas but the Yankees got in ahead of us in the

Saline bottoms and we couldn't go no further.

"My boss had so much faith in his own folks he wouldn't leave here 'til

it was too late. He left home on Saturday night and got into the bottoms

on Sunday and made camp. Then the Yankees got in ahead of him and he

couldn't go no further, so we come back to Jefferson County.

"The Yankees had done took Little Rock and come down to Pine Bluff.

"My father died in 1860 and my mother in 1865.

"I can remember when they whipped the slaves. Never whipped me

though--they was just trainin' me up.

"Had an old lady on the place cooked for the children and we just got

what we could.

"I remember when peace was declared, the people shouted and rejoiced--a

heavy load had fell off.

"All the old hands stayed on the place. I stayed there with my uncle and

aunt. We was treated better then. I was about 25 years old when I left

there.

"I farmed 'til '87. Then I joined the Conference and preached nearly

forty years when I was superannuated.

"I remember when the Rebels was camped up there on my boss's place. I

used to love to see the soldiers. Used to see the horses hitched to the

artillery.

"Two or three of Sam Warren's hands run off and joined the Yankees. They

didn't know what it was goin' to be and two of 'em come back--stayed

there too.

"I used to vote the Republican ticket. I was justice of the peace four

years--two terms.

"I went to school here in Pine Bluff about two or three terms and I was

school director in district number two about six or seven years.

"I have great hope for the young people of the future. 'Course some of

'em are not worth killin' but the better class--I think there is a

bright future for 'em.

"But for the world in general, if they don't change they goin' to the

devil. But God always goin' to have some good people in reserve 'til the

Judgment."

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden

Person interviewed: Caroline Watson

517 E. 21st Avenue, Pine Bluff, Arkansas

Age: 82

"I was born in '55 in March on the 13th on Sunday morning in time for

breakfast. I was born in Mississippi. I never will forget my white

folks. Oh, I was raised good. I had good white folks. Wish I could see

some of em now.

"Well, I specs I do remember when the war started. I member when twas

goin' on. Oh Lord, I member all bout it. Old mistress' name was Miss

Ellen Shird.

"Oh the Yankees used to come around. I can see us chillun sittin' on the

gallery watchin' em. I disremember what color uniform they had on, but I

seen a heap of em.

"My old master, I can see him now--old Joe Shird. Just as good as they

could be.

"I should say I do remember when they surrendered. I know everybody was

joyous. But they done better fore surrender than they did

afterwards--that is them that had to go off to themselves.

"I was always so fast tryin' to work I wasn't studyin' bout no books,

but I went to school after surrender. My father and mother was smart old

folks and made us work.

"I just been married once. I did pretty well. I like to been married

since he's dead but I seen so many didn't do so well. I has four sons

and one daughter. My son made me quit workin'. They gets me anything I

want. I got a religion that will do to die with. I done give up

everything.

"Younger generation? What we goin' do with em? They ought to be sent off

some place and put to work. They just gone to the dogs. The Lord have

mercy. My heart just aches and moans and groans for em."

Circumstances of Interview

STATE--Arkansas

NAME OF WORKER--Samuel S. Taylor

ADDRESS--Little Rock, Arkansas

DATE--December, 1938

SUBJECT--Ex-slave

[TR: Repetitive information deleted from subsequent pages.]

1. Name and address of informant--Mary Watson, 1500 Cross Street, Little

Rock.

2. Date and time of interview--

3. Place of interview--1500 Cross Street, Little Rock.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with

informant--

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you--

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.--

Personal History of Informant

1. Ancestry--father, Abram McCoy; mother, Louise McCoy.

2. Place and date of birth--Mississippi. No date.

3. Family--

4. Places lived in, with dates--Lived in Mississippi until 1891 then

moved to Arkansas.

5. Education, with dates--

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates--

7. Special skills and interests--

8. Community and religious activities--

9. Description of informant--

10. Other points gained in interview--This person tells very little of

life, but tells of her parents.

Text of Interview (Unedited)

"My mother and father were McCoys. His name was Abram and her name was

Louise. My mother died right here when Brewer was Pastor of Wesley. You

ought to remember her. My mother died in 1928. My father died in 1897

when Joe Sherrill was pastor. Joe Sherrill went to Africa, you know. He

was a missionary.

"My mother was owned by Bill Mitchell. He came from Alabama. I can't

call the name of the town, just now. Yes, I can; it was Tuscaloosa. My

father came from South Carolina. McCoy was his owner. But how come him

to leave South Carolina he was sold after his master died and the

property was divided. He was sold away from his family. He had a large

family--about nine children. My mother was sold away from her mother

too. She was little and couldn't help herself. My grandma didn't want to

come. And she managed not to; I don't know how she managed it.

"Before freedom my father was a farmer. My mother was a farmer too. My

mother wasn't so badly treated. She was a slave but she worked right

along with the white children. She had two brothers. The other sister

stayed with her mother. She was sold--my mother's mother. But I don't

know to whom.

"My father was a preacher. He could word any hymn. How could he do it, I

don't know. On his Sunday, when the circuit rider wasn't there, he would

have me read the Bible to him and then he could get up and tell it to

the people. I don't know how he managed it. He didn't know how to read.

But he had a wonderful memory. He always had his exhorting license

renewed and he exhorted the people both Methodists and Baptists. After

freedom, when I went to school I knew and always helped him.

"My father voted on the election days all the time. Be was a Republican,

and he rallied to them all the time. Before the war, my father farmed.

He commenced in the early fall hauling the cotton from Abbeville, South

Carolina to Augusta, Georgia. That was his business--teamster, hauling

cotton. He never did talk like his owners were so mean to him. Of

course, they weren't mean. When her master died and the property had to

be sold, his master bought her and her babies.

"My father met my mother before the war started. Colored people were

scarce in the locality where she lived. These white people saw my father

and liked him. And they encouraged her to marry him. She was only

seventeen. My father was much older. He remembered the dark day in May

and when the stars fell.

"He didn't show his age much though till he came to Little Rock. He had

been used to farming and city life didn't agree with him. He left about

seven years after coming here.

"My father and mother met and married in Mississippi. He came from South

Carolina and she came from Alabama. They had nine children. All of them

were born after the war. I am the oldest. Lee McCoy is my youngest

brother. You know him, I'm sure. He is the president of Rust College. I

was born right after the war. Don't put me down as no ex-slave. I was

born right after the war.

"Right after the war, my father farmed in Mississippi. He took a notion

to come to Arkansas in 1891. He brought his whole family with him. And I

have been out here ever since.

"I never saw any slave houses. I wasn't a slave. I have been to the

place where my mother was raised. I was teaching school near there and

just wanted to see. After her master died, Sam McCallister, his cousin,

took the slave children and was their guardian. Years later it come up

in court and they took all his land. Bill Mitchell was her first master.

He died during slave time. McCallister was made administrator of the

estate. He was made guardian of all the children too. He was made

guardian of the white children and of the colored children. He raised

them all. There was Ma and her auntie and three or four children of her

auntie's. Later on, way after the war, there was a lawsuit. I was grown

then. The courts made him pay the white children their share as far as

he was able. Of course, the colored children got nothing because they

were slaves when he took them.

"I don't know nothing about the Ku Klux Klan bothering my family. I

don't remember anything except that I hear them talking about the Ku

Klux and the Pateroles. I wasn't here.

"Don't put me down as an ex-slave. I am not an ex-slave. I was born

after the war. I don't know nothing about slavery except what I heard

others say. I expect I have talked too much anyway."

Extra Comment

The constant reiteration of the phrase, "I'm not an ex-slave" roused my

curiosity and drove me to a superficial investigation. Persons who are

acquainted with her and her family estimate that Mary Watson is nearer

eighty than seventy. She started her story pleasantly enough. But when

she got the obsession that she would be put down as an ex-slave, she

refused to tell more.

There is one thing not to be overlooked. Mary Watson has a mind that is

still keen. She tells what she wants to tell, and she doesn't state a

thing that she does not want to state. The hidden facts are to be

discerned only by subtle inference. This trait interested me, for her

younger brother, mentioned in the story, is a distinguished character,

President of Rust College, Holly Springs, Mississippi, and known to be

experienced and efficient in his work. Whatever she may have reserved or

stated, in reading her story, we are reading at least a sidelight on a

family of which some of the members have done some fine work within the

race.

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Bart Wayne, Helena, Arkansas

Age: 72

"I was born at Holly Springs in 1866. It was in the springtime. Ma said

I was born two years after the surrender. Ma was named Mary and pa

Dan--Dan Wayne. They never was sold. In 1912 Dr. Leard was living in a

big fine house at Sardia, Mississippi. He was our last owner. Mallard

Jones owned them too. Pa didn't have no name. He was called for his

owners. I don't know if he named hisself Dan Wayne or not. The way I

think it was, Mr. Jones give Dr. Leard's wife them. He give her a big

plantation. I knowed Dr. Leard my own self all my life. I'd go to see

him.

"The present times is hard. I get ten dollars a month. I don't know what

to say about folks now--none of them."

Interviewer: Pernella Anderson

Person Interviewed: Annie Mae Weathers

East Bone Street

El Dorado, Ark.

Age: ?

"I was born bout the second year after surrender right down here at

Caledonia. Now the white folks that ma and pa and me belonged to was

named Fords. We farmed all the time. The reason we farmed all the time

was because that was all for us to do. You see there wasn't nothin' else

for us to do. There wasn't no schools in my young days to do no good,

and this time of year we was plowin' to beat the band and us always

planted corn in February and in April our corn was.

"We fixed our ground early and planted early and we had good crops of

everything. We went to bed early and rose early. We had a little song

that went like this:

Early to bed and early to rise

Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.

and

The early bird catches the worm.

Cooked breakfast every morning by a pine torch.

"I member hearin' my pa say that when somebody come and hollowed: 'Yer

niggers is free at last' say he just dropped his hoe and said in a queer

voice: 'Thank God for that.' It made old miss and old moss so sick till

they stopped eating a week. Pa said old moss and old miss looked like

their stomach and guts had a law suit and their navel was called in for

a witness, they was so sorry we was free.

"After I got a good big girl I was hired out for my clothes and

something to eat. My dresses was made out of cotton stripes and my

chemise was made out of flannelette and my under pants was made out of

homespun.

"Our games was 'Honey, honey Bee,' 'Ball I can't Yall,' and a nother one

of our games was 'Old Lady Hypocrit.'"

Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor

Person interviewed: Cora Weathers

818 Chester Street, Little Rock, Arkansas

Age: 79

"I have been right on this spot for sixty-three years. I married when I

was sixteen and he brought me here and put me down and I have been here

ever since. No, I don't mean he deserted me; I mean he put me on this

spot of ground. Of course, I have been away on a visit but I haven't

been nowheres else to live.

"When I came here, there was only three houses--George Winstead lived on

Chester and Eighth Street; Dave Davis lived on Ninth and Ringo; and

George Gray lived on Chester and Eighth. Rena Lee lived next to where

old man Paterson stays now, 906 Chester. Rena Thompson lived on Chester

and Tenth. The old people that used to live here is mostly dead or moved

up North.

"On Seventh and Ringo there was a little store. It was the only store

this side of Main Street. There was a little old house where Coffin's

Drug Store is now. The branch ran across there. Old man John Peyton had

a nursery in a little log house. You couldn't see it for the trees. He

kept a nursery for flowers. On the next corner, old man Sinclair lived.

That is the southeast corner of Ninth and Broadway. Next to him was the

Hall of the Sons of Ham.

"That was the first place I went to school. Lottie Stephens, Robert

Lacy, and Gus Richmond were the teacher. Hollins was the principal. That

was in the Sons of Ham's Hall.

"I was born in Dallas County, Arkansas. It must have been 'long 'bout in

eighty-fifty-nine, 'cause I was sixteen years old when I come here and I

been here sixty-three years.

"During the War, I was quite small. My mother brought me here after the

War and I went to school for a while. Mother had a large family. So I

never got to go to school but three months at a time and only got one

dollar and twenty-five cents a week wages when I was working. My father

drove a wagon and hoed cotton. Mother kept house. She had--lemme

see--one, two, three, four--eight of us, but the youngest brother was

born here.

"My mother's name was Millie Stokes. My mother's name before she was

married was--I don't know what. My father's name was William Stokes. My

father said he was born in Maryland. I met Richard Weathers here and

married him sixty-three years ago. I had six children, three girls and

three boys. Children make you smart and industrious--make you think and

make you get about.

"I've heard talk of the pateroles; they used to whip the slaves that was

out without passes, but none of them never bothered us. I don't remember

anything myself, because I was too small. I heard of the Ku Klux too;

they never bothered my people none. They scared the niggers at night. I

never saw none of them. I can't remember how freedom came. First I

knowed, I was free.

"People in them days didn't know as much as the young people do now. But

they thought more. Young people nowadays don't think. Some of them will

do pretty well, but some of them ain't goin' to do nothin'. They are

gittin' worse and worser. I don't know what is goin' to become of them.

They been dependin' on the white folks all along, but the white folks

ain't sayin' much now. My people don't seem to want nothin'. The

majority of them just want to dress and run up and down the streets and

play cards and policy and drink and dance. It is nice to have a good

time but there is something else to be thought of. But if one tries to

do somethin', the rest tries to pull him down. The more education they

get, the worse they are--that is, some of them."

Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor

Person interviewed: Ishe Webb

1610 Cross Street, Little Rock, Arkansas

Age: 78, or more

"I was born October 14. That was in slavery time. The record is burnt

up. I was born in Atlanta, Georgia. My father's master was a Webb. His

first name was Huel. My father was named after him. I came here in 1874,

and I was a boy eleven or twelve years old then.

"My father was sold to another man for seventeen hundred dollars. My

mother was sold for twenty hundred. I have heard them say that so much

that I never will forget it. Webb sold my father and bought him back. My

mother's folks were Calverts. The Calverts and the Webbs owned adjoining

plantations.

"My grandmother on my mother's side was a Calvert too. Her first name

was Joanna. I think my father's parents got beat to death in slavery.

Grandfather on my mother's side was tied to a stump and whipped to

death. He was double jointed and no two men could whip him. They wanted

to whip him because he wouldn't work. That was what they would whip any

one for. They would run off before they would work. Stay in the woods

all night.

"My Grandma Calvert was buried over here in Galloway on the Rock Island

road on the John Eynes plantation.

"My folks' masters were all right. But them nigger drivers were bad,

just like the county farm. A man sitting in the house and putting you

over a lot of men, you gwinter go up high as you want to.

"My father was a blacksmith and my mother was a weaver. There was a lot

of those slavery folks 'round the house, and they tell me they didn't

work them till they were twenty-one, they put them in the field when

they were twenty-two. If you didn't work they would beat you to death.

My father killed his overseer and went on off to the War.

"The pateroles used to drive and whip them. They would catch the slaves

off without a pass and whip them and then make the boss pay for them

when they took them back. I never seen the pateroles but I have seen the

Ku Klux and they were the same thing.

"The jayhawkers would catch you when the pateroles didn't. They would

carry you to the pateroles and get pay for you, and the pateroles would

turn you over to the owners. You had to have a pass. If you didn't the

pateroles would catch you and wear you out, keep you till the next

morning, and then send you home by the jayhawkers. They didn't call them

that though, they called them bushwhackers.

"The Ku Klux came after the War. They was the same thing as the

pateroles--they come out from them. I know where the Ku Klux home is

over here on Eighteenth and Broadway. That is where they broke up. It

ain't never been open since. (Not correct--ed.)

"I saw the Yankees come in the yard on the Webb place. That was in the

time of the War. The old man got on his horse and flew. The Yankees went

in the smokehouse, broke it open, got all the meat they wanted. They

didn't pay you nothing in slavery time. But what meat the Yankees didn't

take for themselves, they give to the niggers.

"My folks never got anything for their work that I know of. I heard my

mother say that nobody got paid for their work. I don't know whether

they had a chance to make anything on the side or not.

"The Yankees, when they come in the yard that morning, told my father he

was free. I remember that myself. They come up riding horses and

carryin' long old guns with bayonets on them, and told him. They rode

all over the country from one place to another telling the niggers they

were free. Master didn't get a chance to tell us because he left when he

saw them comin'.

"When my mother and father were living on the plantation, they lived in

an old frame building. A portion of it was log. My father stayed with

the Calverts--his wife's white folks. At first old man Webb sold him to

them; then he bought him back and bought my mother too. They were

together when freedom came. You know they auctioned you off in slavery

time. Every year, they would, they put you up on the auction block and

buy and sell. That was down in Georgia. We was in Georgia when we was

freed--in Atlanta. My father and mother had fourteen children

altogether. My mother died the year after we came out here. That would

be about 1875. I never had but three children because my wife died

early. Two of them are dead.

"Right after freedom, my father plaited baskets and mats. He shucked

mops, put handles on rakes and did things like that in addition to his

farming. He was a blacksmith all the time too. He used to plait collars

for mules. He farmed and got his harvests in season. The other things

would be a help to him between times.

"My father came here because he thought that there was a better

situation here than in Georgia. Of course, the living was better there

because they had plenty of fruit. Then he worked on a third and fourth.

He got one bale of cotton out of every three he made. The slaves left

many a plantation and they would grow up in weeds. When a man would

clear up the ground like this and plant it down in something, he would

get all he planted on it. That was in addition to the ground that he

would contract to plant. He used to plant rice, peas, potatoes, corn,

and anything else he wanted too. It was all his'n so long as it was on

extra ground he cleared up.

"But they said, 'Cotton grows as high as a man in Arkansas.' Then they

paid a man two dollars fifty cents for picking cotton here in Arkansas

while they just paid about forty cents in Georgia. So my father came

here. Times was good when we come here. The old man cleared five bales

of cotton for himself his first year, and he raised his own corn. He

bought a pony and a cow and a breeding hog out of the first year's

money. He died about thirty-five years ago.

"When I was coming along I did public work after I became a grown man.

First year I made crops with him and cleared two bales for myself at

twelve and a half cents a pound. The second year I hired out by the

month at forty-five dollars per month and board. I had to buy my clothes

of course. After seven years I went to doing work as a millwright here

in Arkansas. I stayed at that eighteen months. Then I steamboated.

"We had a captain on that steamboat that never called any man by his

name. We rolled cotton down the hill to the boat and loaded it on, and

if you weren't a good man, that cotton got wet. I never wetted my

cotton. But jus' the same, I heard what the others heard. One day after

we had finished loading, I thought I'd tell him something. The men

advised me not to. He was a rough man, and he carried a gun in his

pocket and a gun in his shirt. I walked up to him and said, 'Captain, I

don't know what your name is, but I know you's a white man. I'm a

nigger, but I got a name jus' like you have. My name's Webb. If you call

Webb, I'll come jus' as quick as I will for any other name and a lot

more willing. If you don't want to say Webb, you can jus' say "Let's

go," and you'll find me right there.' He looked at me a moment, and then

he said, 'Where you from?' I said, 'I'm from Georgia, but I came on this

boat from Little Hock.' He put his arm around my shoulder and said,

'Come on upstairs.' We had two or three drinks upstairs, and he said,

'You and your pardner are the only two men I have that is worth a damn.'

Then he said, 'But you are right; you have a name, and you have a right

to be called by it.' And from then on, he quit callin' us out of our

names.

"But I only stayed on the boat six months. It wasn't because of the

captain. Them niggers was bad. They gambled all the time, and I gambled

with them. But they wouldn't stop at that. They would argue and fight

and cut and shoot. A man would shoot a man down, and then kick him off

into the river. Then when there was roll call, nobody would know what

became of him. I didn't like that. I knew that I was goin' to kill

somebody if I stayed on that boat 'cause I didn't intend for nobody to

kill me. So I stopped.

"After that, I went back to the man that I worked for the month for and

stayed with him till I married. I took care of the stock. I was only

married once. My wife died the fourteenth of October. We had three

children, and I have one daughter living.

"I have voted often. I never had no trouble. I am a colored man and I

ain't got nothin' but my character, but I take care of that. I let them

know I am in Arkansas. I ain't been out of Arkansas but to Memphis and

Vicksburg, and I took them trips on the boat I was working on. I was a

good man then.

"I can't say nothing about these wild-headed young people. They ain't

got no sense. Take God to handle them.

"Some parts of politics are all right and some are all wrong. It is like

Grant. He was straddled the fence part of the time. I believe Roosevelt

wants eight more years. Of course, he did a great deal for the people

but the working man isn't getting enough money. Prices are so high and

wages so low that a man keeps up to the grindstone and never gets ahead.

They don't mean for a colored man to prosper by money. Senator Robinson

said a nigger wasn't worth but fifty cents a day. But the nigger is

coming anyhow. He is stinching hisself and doing without. The young

folks ain't doing it though. These young folks doing every devilishment

on earth they can. Look at that boy they caught the other day who had

robbed twenty houses. This young race ain't goin' to stan' what I stood

for. They goin' to school every day but they ain't learning nothin'.

What will take us through this tedious journey through the world is his

manners, his principle, and his behavior. Money ain't goin' to do it.

You can't get by without principles, manner, and good behavior. Niggers

can't do it. And white folks can't either."

Pine Bluff District

FOLKLORE SUBJECTS

Name of Interviewer: Martin - Barker

Subject: (Negro Lore)--Ex-Slave

Story:--information

This information given by: Alfred Wells

Place of residence:

Occupation:

Age 77

[TR: Information moved from bottom of first page.]

I has de eye of an eagle. One in my haid, de other in my chest.

Sometimes us slaves would stay out later at night than ole marster seid

we could and they send the patrols out for us.

And we started a song; "Run nigger run, the petlo' catch you, run nigger

run, its almost day."

My brother run off and hid in the pasture. I wuz a small boy, dey called

me nigger cowboy, cause I drive de cows up at night, and took em to de

paster in the mornings.

I knowed my brother runned off, but I wouldn't tell on him. He run off

to join the Yankees. They never found him, although, they used the

nigger dogs, who were taken out by men who were looking for runaway

nigger slaves.

Ef I had my choice, I'd ruther be a slave. But we cant always have our

ruthers. Them times I had good food, plenty to wear, and no more work

than was good for me.

Now I is kinder miliated, when I think of what a high stepper I used to

be. Having, to hang around with a sack on my back begging de government

to keep me fum starving.

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden

Person interviewed: Douglas Wells

1419 Alabama Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas

Age: 83

"I'se just a kid 'bout six or seven when the war started and 'bout ten

or twelve when it ceasted.

"I'se born in Mississippi on Miss Nancy Davis' plantation. Old Jeff

Davis was some relation.

"My brother Jeff jined the Yankees but I never seen none till peace was

declared.

"I heered the old folks talkin' and they said they was fightin' to keep

the people slaves.

"I 'member old mistress, Miss Nancy. She was old when I was a kid. She

had a big, large plantation. She had a lot of hands and big quarter

houses. Oh, I 'member you could go three miles this way and three miles

that way. Oh, she had a big plantation. I reckon it was mighty near big

as this town. I 'member they used to take the cotton and hide it in the

woods. I guess it was to keep the Yankees from gettin' it.

"I lived in the quarters with my father and mother and we stayed there

after the war--long time after the war. I stayed there till I got to be

grown. I continued there. I 'member her house and yard. Had a big yard.

"I can read some. Learned it at Miss Nancy Davis' plantation after the

war. They had a little place where they had school. I went to church

some a long time ago.

"Abraham Lincoln was a white man. He fought in the time of the war,

didn't he? Oh, yes, he issued freedom. The Yankees and the Rebels

fought.

"After the war I worked at farm work. I ain't did no real hard work for

over a year."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: John Wells, Edmondson, Arkansas

Age: 82

"I was born down here at Edmondson, Arkansas. My owner was a captain in

the Rebel War (Civil War). He run us off to Texas close to Greenville.

He was keeping us from the Yankees. In fact my father had planned to go

to the Yankees. My mother died on the way to Texas close to the Arkansas

line. She was confined and the child died too. We went in a wagon. Uncle

Tom and his wife and Uncle Granville went too. He left his wife. She

lived on another white man's farm. My master was Captain R. Campbell

Jones. He took us to Texas. He and my father come back in the same wagon

we went to Texas in. My father (Joe Jones Wells) told Captain R.

Campbell Jones if he didn't let him come back here that he would be here

when he got here--beat him back. That's what he told him. Captain

brought him on back with him.

"What didn't we do in Texas? Hooeee! I had five hundred head of sheep

belonging to J. Gardner, a Texan, to herd every day--twice a day. Carry

'em off in the morning early and watch 'em and fetch 'em back b'fore

dark. I was a shepherd boy is right. I liked the job till the snow

cracked my feet open. No, I didn't have no shoes. Little round cactuses

stuck in my feet.

"I had shoes to wear home. Captain Jones gave leather and everything

needed to Uncle Granville. He was a shoemaker. He made us all shoes jus'

before we was to start back. Captain Jones sent the wagon back for us.

My father come back right here at Edmondson and farmed cotton and corn.

Uncle Tom and Uncle Granville raised wheat out in Texas. They didn't

have no overseer but they said they worked harder 'an ever they done in

their lives, 'fore or since.

"My father went to war with his master. Captain Jones served 'bout three

years I judge. My father went as his waiter. He got enough of war, he

said.

"Captain R. Campbell Jones had a wife, Miss Anne, and no children. I

seen mighty near enough war in Texas. They fit there. Yes ma'am, they

did. I seen soldiers in Greenville, Texas. I seen the cavalry there.

They looked so fine. Prettiest horses I ever seen.

"Freedom! Master Campbell Jones come to us and said, 'You free this

morning. The war is over.' It been over then but travel was slow. 'You

all can go back home, I'll take you, or you can go root hog or die.' We

all got to gatherin' up our belongings to come back home. Tired of no

wood neither, besides that hard work. We all share cropped with Captain

R. Campbell Jones two years. I know that. We got plenty wood without

going five or six miles like in Texas. After freedom folks got to

changing 'bout to do better I reckon. I been farmin' right here all my

life. We didn't have a lot to eat out in Texas neither. Mother was a

farm woman too.

"I never seen a Ku Klux. Bad Ku Klux sound sorter like good Santa Claus.

I heard 'em say it was real. I never seen neither one.

"I did own ten acres of land. I own a home now.

"My father drove a grub wagon from Memphis to Lost Swamp Bottom--near

Edmondson--when they built this railroad through here.

"Father never voted. I have voted several times.

"Present times is tougher now than before it come on. Things not going

like it ought somehow. We wants more pension. Us old folks needs a good

living 'cause we ain't got much more time down here.

"Present generation--they are slack--I means they slack on their

parents, don't see after them. They can get farm work to do. They waste

their money more than they ought. Some folks purty nigh hungry. That is

for a fact the way it is going.

Edmondson, Arkansas

"Master Henry Edmondson owned all the land to the Chatfield place to

Lehi, Arkansas. He owned four or five thousand acres of land. It was

bottoms and not cleared. They had floods then, rode around in boats

sometimes. Colored folks could get land through Andy Flemming (colored

man). Mr. Henry Edmondson and whole family died with the yellow fever.

He had several children--Miss Emma, Henry, and Will I knowed. It is

probably his father buried at far side of this town. A rattlesnake bit

him. Lake Rest or Scantlin was a boat landing and that was where the

nearest white folks lived to the Edmondsons. I worked for Mr. Henry

Edmondson, the one died with yellow fever. He was easy to work for. Land

wasn't cleared out much. He was here before the Civil War. Good many

people, in fact all over there, died of yellow fever at Indian Mound. Me

and my brother waited on white folks all through that yellow fever

plague. Very few colored folks had it. None of 'em I heered tell of died

with it. White folks died in piles. Now when the smallpox raged the

colored folks had it seem like heap more and harder than white folks.

Smallpox used to rage every few years. It break out and spread. That is

the way so many colored folks come to own land and why it was named

Edmondson. Named for Master Henry--Edmondson, Arkansas.

"Mrs. Cynthia Ann Earle wrote a diary during the Civil War. It was

partly published in the Crittenden County Times--West Memphis

paper--Fridays, November 27 and December 4, 1936. She tells interesting

things happening. Mentions two books she is reading. She tells about a

flood, etc. She tells about visiting and spending over a thousand

dollars. Mrs. L.A. Stewart or Mrs. H.E. Weaver of Edmondson owns copies

if they cannot be obtained at the printing office at West Memphis."

Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor

Person interviewed: Sarah Wells

1012 W. Sixteenth Street, Little Rock, Arkansas

Age: 84

Occupation: Field hand

"I was born in Warren County, Mississippi, on Ben Watkins' plantation.

That was my master--Ben Worthington. I don't know nothin' about the year

but it was before the war--the Civil War. I was born on Christmas day.

"Isaac Irby was my father. I don't know how you spell it. I can't read

and write. I can tell you this. My mother's dead. She's been dead since

I was twelve years old. Her name was Jane Irby. My name is Wells because

I have been married. Willis was my husband's name. I have just been

married once. I was married to him fifty years. He has been dead

thirteen years the fifteenth of October. I don't know how old I was when

I was married. But I know I am eighty-four years old now. I must have

been about twenty or twenty-one when I married.

Slave Houses

"The slaves lived in log houses, dirt chimneys, plank floors. They had

beds made out of wood--that's all I know. I don't know where they kept

their food. They kept it in the house when they had any. The slaves

didn't have to cook much. Mars Ben had a slave to cook for them. They

all et breakfast together, and lunch in the fiel'.

Food and Cooking

"There was a great big shed. They'd all go up there and eat--the slaves

would all go up and eat. I don't know what the grown folks had. They

used to give us children milk and corn bread for breakfast. They'd give

us greens, peas, and all like that for dinner. Didn't know nothin' about

no lunch.

Work and Runaways; Day's Work

"My mother and father worked in the field hoeing, plowing and all like

that--doing whatever they told 'em to do. They raised corn and ground

meal. Some of the slaves would pick five hundred pounds of cotton in a

day; some of them would pick three hundred pounds; and some of them only

picked a hundred. IF YOU DIDN'T PICK TWO HUNDRED FIFTY POUNDS, THEY'D

PUNISH YOU, put you in the stocks. If you'd run off, they put the nigger

hounds behind you. I never run off, but my mother run off.

"She would go in the woods. I don't know where she'd go after she'd get

in the woods. She would go in the woods and hide somewheres. She'd take

somethin' to eat with her. I couldn't find her myself. She take

somethin' to eat with her. She didn't know what flour bread was. I don't

remember what she'd take--somethin' she could carry. Sometimes she would

stay in the woods two months, sometimes three months. They'd pay for the

nigger hounds and let them chase her back. She'd try to get away. She

never took me with her when she ran away.

Buying and Selling

"My mother and her sister were bought in old Virginny. Ben Watkins was

the one that bought her. He bought my father too. Then he sold my father

to the Leightons. Leighton bought my father from Ben Watkins for a

carriage driver. I was never bought nor sold. I was born on Ben Watkins'

plantation and freed on it.

Patrollers

"I've heered them say the pateroles is out. I don't know who they was. I

know they'd whip you. I was a child then. I would just know what I was

told mostly.

How Freedom Came

"The Yankees told my mother she was free. They had on blue clothes. They

said them was the Yankees. I don't know what they told her. I know they

said she was free. That's all I know.

"Sometimes the soldiers would do right smart damage. They set a lot of

houses on fire. They done right smart damage.

Jeff Davis

"I have seen Jeff Davis. I never seen Lincoln. They said it was Jeff

Davis I seen. I seen him in Vicksburg. That was after the war was over.

Ku Klux Klan

"I have heered about the Ku Klux, but I don't know what it was I heered.

They never bothered me.

Right after the War

"Right after the war, my mother and father hired out to work. They did

most any kind of work--whatever they could get to do. Mother cooked.

Father would generally do house cleaning. Mother didn't live long after

the war.

Blood Poisoning

"I lost my finger because of blood poisoning. I had a scratch on my

finger. Pulled a hangnail out of it. I went around a lady who had a high

fever and she asked me to sponge her off and I did it. I got the finger

in the water that I sponged with and it got blood poisoned. I like to

have died.

Father's Death

"I was married and had three children when my father died. I don't know

what he died with nor what year.

"My mother had had seven children--all girls. I had seven children. But

three of mine were boys and four were girls. Ain't none of them living

now.

Little Rock

"My son was living in Little Rock and he kept after me to come here and

I come. After I come, he left and went to Kansas City. He died there. I

used to do laundry work. I quit that. I commenced to do sellin' for

different companies. I sold for Mack Brady, Crawford & Reeves, and a lot

of 'em.

Opinions

"I don't know what I think about the young people. They ain't nothin'

like I was when I was a gal. Things have changed since I come along. I

better not say what I think."

Interviewer's Comment

The interviewee says she is eighty-four, and her story hangs together.

Her husband died thirteen years ago, and they had been married fifty

years when he died. She "recollects" being about twenty years old when

she married. She says she was about twelve years old when her mother

died, one year after the close of the Civil War. This data seems to be

rather conclusive on the age of eighty-four.

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Sarah Williams Wells, Biscoe, Arkansas

Age: Born 1866

"I jess can't tell much; my memory fails me. My white folks was John and

Mary Williams but I was born two years after the surrender. Soon after

the surrender they went to Lebanon, Tennessee. My folks stayed on wha I

was born round in Murry County. My father was killed after the war but I

was little. My mother died same year I married. I heard em say there was

John and Frank. They may be living over there now. I heard em talking

bout war times. They said my father was a blacksmith in the war. I come

here wid four little children on a ticket to Crocketts Bluff. We was

sick all that year. Made a fine crop. The man let another man have us to

work. He was a colored man. His wife she was mean to us. She never come

to see or do one thing when we all had fever. The babies nearly starved.

Took all for doctor bills and medicine. Had $12 when all bills settled

out of the whole crop. In all I had fifteen children. But two girls and

one boy all that livin now. I farmed and washed and ironed all my life.

My husband was born a slave. (He recently died.)

"The present generation ain't got no religion. They dances and cuts up a

heap. They don't care nothing bout settlin down. When they marry now,

that man say he got the law on her. She belongs to him. He thinks he can

make her do like he wants her all the time and they don't get along. Now

that's what I hear round. I sho got married and we got along good till

he died. We treated one another best we knowed how. The times is what

the folks making it. Time ain't no different, is like the folks make.

This depression is whut the folks is making. Some so scared they won't

get it all. They leave mighty little for the rest to get. They ain't

nothin matter with nothin but the greedy people want it all to split

through wid. I don't know what going to come of it all. Nothin I tell

you bout it ain't no good. Young folks done smarter than I is. They

don't listen to nobody."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: John Wesley, Helena, Arkansas

Age: ?

"I was full grown when the Civil War come on. I was a slave till

'mancipation. I was born close to Lexington, Kentucky. My master in

Kentucky was Master Griter. He was 'fraid er freedom. Father belong to

Averys in Tennessee. He was a farm hand. They wouldn't sell him. I was

sold to Master Boone close to Moscow. I was sold on a scaffold high as

that door (twelve feet). I seen a lot of children sold on that scaffold.

I fell in the hands of George Coggrith. We come to Helena in wagons. We

crossed the river out from Memphis to Hopefield. I lived at Wittsburg,

Arkansas during the war. They smuggled us about from the Yankees and

took us to Texas. Before the war come on we had to fight the Indians

back. They tried to sell us in Texas. George Coggrith's wife died.

Mother was the cook for all the hands and the white folks too. She

raised two boys and three girls for him. She went on raising his

children during the war and after the war. During the war we hid out and

raised cotton and corn. We hid in the woods. The Yankees couldn't make

much out in the woods and canebrakes. We stayed in Texas about a year.

Four years after freedom we didn't know we was free. We was on his farm

up at Wittsburg. That is near Madison, Arkansas. Mother wouldn't let the

children get far off from our house. She was afraid the Indians would

steal the children. They stole children or I heard they did. The wild

animals and snakes was one thing we had to look out for. Grown folks and

children all kept around home unless you had business and went on a

trip.

"My wife died three years ago. I stay with a grandchild. I got a boy but

I don't know where he is now.

"I had a acre and a home. I got in debt and they took my place.

"I voted. The last time for President Wilson. We got a good President

now. I voted both kinds of tickets some. I think they called me a

Democrat. I quit voting. I'm too old.

"I farmed in my young days. I oil milled. I saw milled. I still black

smithing (in Helena now). I make one or two dollars a week. Work is hard

to git. Times is tight. I don't get help 'ceptin' some friend bring us

some work. I stay up here all time nearly.

"I don't know about the young generation.

"Well, we had a gin. During of the war it got burnt and lots of bales of

cotton went 'long with it.

"The Ku Klux come about and drink water. They wanted folks to stay at

home and work. That what they said. We done that. We didn't know we was

free nohow. We wasn't scared."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Robert Wesley, Holly Grove, Arkansas

Age: 74

"I was born in Shelby County, Alabama. My parents was Mary and Thomas

Wesley. Their master was Mary and John Watts.

"John Watts tried to keep me. I stayed round him all time and rode up

behind him on his horse. He was a soldier.

"Both my parents was sold but I don't know how it was done. There was

thirteen children in our family. The white folks had a picnic and took

colored long to do round. Some heard bout freedom and went home tellin'

bout it. We stayed on and worked.

"The Ku Klux sure did run some of em. Seem like they didn't know what

freedom meant. Some of em run off and kept goin'. Never did get back. I

don't know a thing bout the Ku Klux. I heard em say they got whoopin's

for doin' too much visitin'. I was a baby so I don't know.

"I do not vote. I voted for McKinley in Mississippi.

"I been farmin' all my life. I got one hog and a garden, three little

grand babies. My daughter died and their papa went off and left em.

Course I took em--had to. I pay $1 house rent. I get $12 from the PWA.

"The times is mighty fast. I recken the young folks do fair. There has

been big changes since I come on."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Maggie Wesmoland, Brinkley, Arkansas

Age: 85

"I was born in Arkansas in slavery time beyond Des Arc. My parents was

sold in Mississippi. They was brought to Arkansas. I never seed my

father after the closing of the war. He had been refugeed to Texas and

come back here, then he went on back to Mississippi. Mama had seventeen

children. She had six by my stepfather. When my stepfather was mustered

out at De Valls Bluff he come to Miss (Mrs.) Holland's and got mama and

took her on wid him. I was give to Miss Holland's daughter. She married

a Cargo. The Hollands raised me and my sister. I never seen mama after

she left. My mother was Jane Holland and my father was Smith Woodson.

They lived on different places here in Arkansas. I had a hard time. I

was awfully abused by the old man that married Miss Betty. She was my

young mistress. He was poor and hated Negroes. He said they didn't have

no feeling. He drunk all the time. He never had been used to Negroes and

he didn't like em. He was a middle age man but Miss Betty Holland was in

her teens.

"No, mama didn't have as hard a time as I had. She was Miss Holland's

cook and wash woman. Miss Betty told her old husband, 'Papa don't beat

his Negroes. He is good to his Negroes.' He worked overseers in the

field. Nothing Miss Betty ever told him done a bit of good. He didn't

have no feeling. I had to go in a trot all the time. I was scared to

death of him--he beat me so. I'm scarred up all over now where he lashed

me. He would strip me start naked and tie my hands crossed and whoop me

till the blood ooze out and drip on the ground when I walked. The flies

blowed me time and again. Miss Betty catch him gone, would grease my

places and put turpentine on them to kill the places blowed. He kept a

bundle of hickory switches at the house all the time. Miss Betty was

good to me. She would cry and beg him to be good to me.

"One time the cow kicked over my milk. I was scared not to take some

milk to the house, so I went to the spring and put some water in the

milk. He was snooping round (spying) somewhere and seen me. He beat me

nearly to death. I never did know what suit him and what wouldn't.

Didn't nothing please him. He was a poor man, never been used to nothin'

and took spite on me everything happened. They didn't have no children

while I was there but he did have a boy before he died. He died fore I

left Dardanelle. When Miss Betty Holland married Mr. Cargo she lived

close to Dardanelle. That is where he was so mean to me. He lived in the

deer and bear hunting country.

"He went to town to buy them some things for Christmas good while after

freedom--a couple or three years. Two men come there deer hunting every

year. One time he had beat me before them and on their way home they

went to the Freemens bureau and told how he beat me and what he done it

for--biggetness. He was a biggity acting and braggy talking old man.

When he got to town they asked him if he wasn't hiding a little Negro

girl, ask if he sent me to school. He come home. I slept on a bed made

down at the foot of their bed. That night he told his wife what all he

said and what all they ask him. He said he would kill whoever come there

bothering about me. He been telling that about. He told Miss Betty they

would fix me up and let me go stay a week at my sister's Christmas. He

went back to town, bought me the first shoes I had had since they took

me. They was brogan shoes. They put a pair of his sock on me. Miss Betty

made the calico dress for me and made a body out of some of his pants

legs and quilted the skirt part, bound it at the bottom with red

flannel. She made my things nice--put my underskirt in a little frame

and quilted it so it would be warm. Christmas day was a bright warm day.

In the morning when Miss Betty dressed me up I was so proud. He started

me off and told me how to go.

"I got to the big creek. I got down in the ditch--couldn't get across. I

was running up and down it looking for a place to cross. A big old mill

was upon the hill. I could see it. I seen three men coming, a white man

with a gun and two Negro men on horses or mules. I heard one say,

'Yonder she is.' Another said, 'It don't look like her.' One said, 'Call

her.' One said, 'Margaret.' I answered. They come to me and said, 'Go to

the mill and cross on a foot log.' I went up there and crossed and got

upon a stump behind my brother-in-law on his horse. I didn't know him.

The white man was the man he was share croppin' with. They all lived in

a big yard like close together. I hadn't seen my sister before in about

four years. Mr. Cargo told me if I wasn't back at his house New Years

day he would come after me on his horse and run me every step of the way

home. It was nearly twenty-five miles. He said he would give me the

worst whooping I ever got in my life. I was going back, scared not to be

back. Had no other place to live.

"When New Year day come the white man locked me up in a room in his

house and I stayed in there two days. They brought me plenty to eat. I

slept in there with their children. Mr. Cargo never come after me till

March. He didn't see me when he come. It started in raining and cold and

the roads was bad. When he come in March I seen him. I knowed him. I lay

down and covered up in leaves. They was deep. I had been in the woods

getting sweet-gum when I seen him. He scared me. He never seen me. This

white man bound me to his wife's friend for a year to keep Mr. Cargo

from getting me back. The woman at the house and Mr. Cargo had war

nearly about me. I missed my whoopings. I never got none that whole

year. It was Mrs. Brown, twenty miles from Dardanelle, they bound me

over to. I never got no more than the common run of Negro children but

they wasn't mean to me.

"When I was at Cargo's, he wouldn't buy me shoes. Miss Betty would have

but in them days the man was head of his house. Miss Betty made me

moccasins to wear out in the snow--made them out of old rags and pieces

of his pants. I had risings on my feet and my feet frostbite till they

was solid sores. He would take his knife and stob my risings to see the

matter pop way out. The ice cut my feet. He cut my foot on the side with

a cowhide nearly to the bone. Miss Betty catch him outer sight would

doctor my feet. Seem like she was scared of him. He wasn't none too good

to her.

"He told his wife the Freemens Bureau said turn that Negro girl loose.

She didn't want me to leave her. He despised nasty Negroes he said. One

of them fellows what come for me had been to Cargo's and seen me. He was

the Negro man come to show Patsy's husband and his share cropper where I

was at. He whooped me twice before them deer hunters. They visited him

every spring and fall hunting deer but they reported him to the Freemens

Bureau. They knowed he was showing off. He overtook me on a horse one

day four or five years after I left there. I was on my way from school.

I was grown. He wanted me to come back live with them. Said Miss Betty

wanted to see me so bad. I was so scared I lied to him and said yes to

all he said. He wanted to come get me a certain day. I lied about where

I lived. He went to the wrong place to get me I heard. I was afraid to

meet him on the road. He died at Dardanelle before I come way from

there.

"After I got grown I hired out cooking at $1.25 a week and then $1.50 a

week. When I was a girl I ploughed some. I worked in the field a mighty

little but I have done a mountain of washing and ironing in my life. I

can't tell you to save my life what a hard time I had when I was growing

up. My daughter is a blessing to me. She is so good to me.

"I never knowed nor seen the Ku Klux. The Bushwhackers was awful after

the war. They went about stealing and they wouldn't work.

"Conditions is far better for young folks now than when I come on. They

can get chances I couldn't get they could do. My daughter is tied down

here with me. She could do washings and ironings if she could get them

and do it here at home. I think she got one give over to her for awhile.

The regular wash woman is sick. It is hard for me to get a living since

I been sick. I get commodities. But the diet I am on it is hard to get

it. The money is the trouble. I had two strokes and I been sick with

high blood pressure three years. We own our house. Times is all right if

I was able to work and enjoy things. I don't get the Old Age Pension. I

reckon because my daughter's husband has a job--I reckon that is it. I

can't hardly buy milk, that is the main thing. The doctor told me to eat

plenty milk.

"I never voted."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Calvin West, Widener, Arkansas

Age: 68

"Mother belong to Parson Renfro. He had a son named Jim Renfro. She was

a cook and farm hand too. I never heard her speak much of her owners.

Pa's owner was Dr. West and Miss Jensie West. He had a son Orz West and

his daughter was Miss Lillie West. I never was around their owners. Some

was dead before I come on. My pa was a cripple man. His leg was drawn

around with rheumatism. During slavery he would load up a small cart wid

cider and ginger cakes and go sell it out. He sold ginger cakes two for

a nickel and I never heard how he sold the cider. I heard him tell close

speriences he had with the patrollers. Some of the landowners didn't

want him trespassing on their places. He got a part of the money he sold

out for. I judge from what he said his owner got part for the wagon and

horse. He sold some at stores before freedom. He farmed too. His name

was Phillip West and mother's name was Lear West. He was a crack hand at

making ginger cakes. He sold wagon loads in town on Saturday till he

died. I was a boy nearly grown. They had ten children in all. I was born

in Tate County, Mississippi.

"Mr. Miller had land here. I didn't work for him but he wanted me to

come here and work his land. He give us tickets. He said this was new

land and we could do better. We work a lot and make big crops and don't

hardly get a living out of it. We come on the train here.

"We come in 1920. The way we got down here now it is bad. We make big

crops and don't get much for it. We have no place to raise things to

help out and pay big prices for everything. I work. But times is hard.

That is the very reason it is hard. We got no place to raise nothing.

(Hard road and ditch in front and cotton field all around it except a

few feet of padded dirt and a wood pile.) Times is good and if a fellow

could ever get a little ahead I believe he could stay ahead. Since my

wife been sick we jes' can make it.

"We never called for no help. She cooked and I worked. She signed up but

it will be a long time, they said, till they could get to her."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Mary Mays West, Widener, Arkansas

Age: 65

"My parents' names was Josie Vesey and Henry Mays. They had ten children

and five lived to be full grown. I was born in Tate County, Mississippi.

Mother died in childbirth when she was twenty-eight years old. I'm the

mother of twelve and got five living. I been cooking out for white

people since I was nine years old. I am a good cook they all tell me and

I tries to be clean with my cooking.

"Mother died before I can remember much about her. My father said he had

to work before day and all day and till after night in the spring and

fall of the year. They ploughed with oxen and mules and horses all. He

said how they would rest the teams and feed and still they would go on

doing something else. They tromped cotton at night by torchlight.

Tromped it in the wagons to get off to the gin early next morning.

"In the winter they built fences and houses and got up wood and cleared

new ground. They made pots of lye hominy and lye soap the same day. They

had a ashhopper set all time. In the summer is when they ditched if they

had any of that to do. Farming has been pretty much the same since I was

a child. I have worked in the field all my life. I cook in the morning

and go to the field all evening.

"We just had a hard time this winter. I had a stroke in October and had

to quit cooking. (Her eye is closed on her left side--ed.) I love farm

life. The flood last year got us behind too. We could do fine if I had

my health."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Sylvester Wethington

Holly Grove, Arkansas

Age: 77

"I recollect seeing the Malish (Malitia) pass up and down the road. I

can tell you two things happened at our house. The Yankee soldiers come

took all the stock we had all down to young mistress' mule. They come

fer it. Young mistress got a gun, went out there, put her side saddle on

the mule and climbed up. They let her an' that mule both be. Nother

thing they had a wall built in betwix er room and let hams and all kinds

provisions swing down in thor. It went unnoticed. I recken it muster

been 3 ft. wide and long as the room. Had to go up in the loft from de

front porch. The front porch wasn't ceiled but a place sawed out so you

could get up in the loft. They used a ladder and went up there bout once

a week. They swung hams and meal, flour and beef. They swung sacks er

corn down in that place. That all the place where they could keep us a

thing in de world to eat. They come an' got bout all we had. Look like

starvation ceptin' what we had stored way."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson

Person interviewed: Joe Whitaker, Madison, Arkansas

Age: 70 plus

"I'm a blacksmith; my pa was a fine blacksmith. He was a blacksmith in

the old war (Civil War). He never got a pension. He said he loss his

sheep skin. His owners was George and Bill Whitaker. Mother always said

her owners was pretty good. I never heard my pa speak of them in that

way. They was both born in Tennessee. She was never sold. I was born in

Murray County, Tennessee too. My mother was named Fronie Whitaker and pa

Ike Whitaker. Mother had eleven children. My wife is a full-blood

Cherokee Indian. We have ten children and twenty-three grandchildren.

"I don't have a word to say against the times; they are close at

present. Nor a word to say about the next generation. I think times is

progressing and I think the people are advancing some too."

[TR: The following is typed, but scratched out by hand:]

Interviewer's Comment

Some say his wife is a small part African.

Interviewer: Beulah Sherwood Hagg

Person interviewed: Mrs. Julia A. White, 3003 Cross St.,

Little Rock, Ark.

Age: 79

Idiom and dialect are lacking in this recorded interview. Mrs. White's

conversation was entirely free from either. On being questioned about

this she explained that she was reared in a home where fairly correct

English was used.

My cousin Emanuel Armstead could read and write, and he kept the records

of our family. At one time he was a school director. Of course, that was

back in the early days, soon after the war closed.

My father was named James Page Jackson because he was born on the old

Jackson plantation in Lancaster county, Virginia. He named one of his

daughters Lancaster for a middle name in memory of his old home. Clarice

Lancaster Jackson was her full name. A man named Galloway bought my

father and brought him to Arkansas. Some called him by the name of

Galloway, but my father always had all his children keep the name

Jackson. There were fourteen of us, but only ten lived to grow up. He

belonged to Mr. Galloway at the time of my birth, but even at that, I

did not take the name Galloway as it would seem like I should. My father

was a good carpenter; he was a fine cook, too; learned that back in

Virginia. I'll tell you something interesting. The first cook stove ever

brought to this town was one my father had his master to bring. He was

cook at the Anthony House. You know about that, don't you? It was the

first real fine hotel in Little Rock. When father went there to be head

cook, all they had to cook on was big fireplaces and the big old Dutch

ovens. Father just kept on telling about the stoves they had in

Virginia, and at last they sent and got him one; it had to come by boat

and took a long time. My father was proud that he was the one who set

the first table ever spread in the Anthony House.

You see, it was different with us, from lots of slave folks. Some

masters hired their slaves out. I remember a drug store on the corner of

Main and Markham; it was McAlmont's drug store. Once my father worked

there; the money he earned, it went to Mr. Galloway, of course. He said

it was to pay board for mother and us little children.

My mother came from a fine family,--the Beebe family. Angeline Beebe was

her name. You've heard of the Beebe family, of course. Roswell Beebe at

one time owned all the land that Little Rock now sets on. I was born in

a log cabin where Fifth and Spring streets meet. The Jewish Synagogue is

on the exact spot. Once we lived at Third and Cumberland, across from

that old hundred-year-old-building where they say the legislature once

met. What you call it? Yes, that's it; the Hinterlider building. It was

there then, too. My father and mother had the kind of wedding they had

for slaves, I guess. Yes, ma'am, they did call them "broom-stick

weddings". I've heard tell of them. Yes, ma'am, the master and mistress,

when they find a couple of young slave folks want to get married, they

call them before themselves and have them confess they want to marry.

Then they hold the broom, one at each end, and the young folks told to

jump over. Sometimes they have a new cabin fixed all for them to start

in. After Peace, a minister came and married my father and mother

according to the law of the church and of the land.

The master's family was thoughtful in keeping our records in their own

big family Bible. All the births and deaths of the children in my

father's family was in their Bible. After Peace, father got a big Bible

for our family, and--wait, I'll show you.... Here they are, all copied

down just like out of old master's Bible.... Here's where my father and

mother died, over on this page. Right here's my own children. This space

is for me and my husband.

No ma'am, it don't make me tired to talk. But I need a little time to

recall all the things you want to know 'bout. I was so little when

freedom came I just can't remember. I'll tell you, directly.

I remember that the first thing my father did was to go down to a

plantation where the bigger children was working, and bring them all

home, to live together as one family. That was a plantation where my

mother had been; a man name Moore--James Moore--owned it. I don't know

whether he had bought my mother from Beebe or not. I can remember two

things plain what happened there. I was little, but can still see them.

One of my mother's babies died and Master went to Little Rock on a horse

and carried back a little coffin under his arm. The mistress had brought

mother a big washing. She was working under the cover of the wellhouse

and tears was running down her face. When master came back, he said:

"How come you are working today, Angeline, when your baby is dead?" She

showed him the big pile of clothes she had to wash, as mistress said. He

said: "There is plenty of help on this place what can wash. You come on

in and sit by your little baby, and don't do no more work till after the

funeral." He took up the little dead body and laid it in the coffin with

his own hands. I'm telling you this for what happened later on.

A long time after peace, one evening mother heard a tapping at the door.

When she went, there was her old master, James Moore. "Angeline," he

said, "you remember me, don't you?" Course she did. Then he told her he

was hungry and homeless. A man hiding out. The Yankees had taken

everything he had. Mother took him in and fed him for two or three days

till he was rested. The other thing clear to my memory is when my uncle

Tom was sold. Another day when mother was washing at the wellhouse and I

was playing around, two white men came with a big, broad-shouldered

colored man between them. Mother put her arms around him and cried and

kissed him goodbye. A long time after, I was watching one of my brothers

walk down a path. I told mother that his shoulders and body look like

that man she kissed and cried over. "Why honey," she says to me, "can

you remember that?" Then she told me about my uncle Tom being sold away.

So you see, Miss, it's a good thing you are more interested in what I

know since slave days. I'll go on now.

The first thing after freedom my mother kept boarders and done fine

laundry work. She boarded officers of the colored Union soldiers; she

washed for the officers' families at the Arsenal. Sometimes they come

and ask her to cook them something special good to eat. Both my father

and mother were fine cooks. That's when we lived at Third and

Cumberland. I stayed home till I was sixteen and helped with the cooking

and washing and ironing. I never worked in a cottonfield. The boys did.

All us girls were reared about the house. We were trained to be lady's

maids and houseworkers. I married when I was sixteen. That husband died

four years later, and the next year I married this man, Joel Randolph

White. Married him in March, 1879. In those days you could put a house

on leased ground. Could lease it for five years at a time. My father put

up a house on Tenth and Scott. Old man Haynie owned the land and let us

live in the house for $25.00 a year until father's money was all gone;

then we had to move out. The first home my father really owned was at

1220 Spring street, what is now. Course then, it was away out in the

country. A white lawyer from the north--B.F. Rice was his name--got my

brother Jimmie to work in his office. Jimmie had been in school most all

his life and was right educated for colored boy then. Mr. Rice finally

asked him how would he like to study law. So he did; but all the time he

wanted to be a preacher. Mr. Rice tell Jimmie to go on studying law. It

is a good education; it would help him to be a preacher. Mr. Rice tell

my father he can own his own home by law. So he make out the papers and

take care of everything so some persons can't take it away. All that

time my family was working for Mr. Rice and finally got the home paid

for, all but the last payment, and Mr. Rice said Jimmie's services was

worth that. So we had a nice home all paid for at last. We lived there

till father died in 1879, and about ten years more. Then sold it.

My father had more money than many ex-slaves because he did what the

Union soldiers told him. They used to give him "greenbacks" money and

tell him to take good care of it. You see, miss, Union money was not any

good here. Everything was Confederate money. You couldn't pay for a

dime's worth even with a five dollar bill of Union money then. The

soldiers just keep on telling my father to take all the greenbacks he

could get and hide away. There wasn't any need to hide it, nobody wanted

it. Soldiers said just wait; someday the Confederate money wouldn't be

any good and greenbacks would be all the money we had. So that's how my

father got his money.

If you have time to listen, miss, I'd like to tell you about a wonderful

thing a young doctor done for my folks. It was when the gun powder

explosion wrecked my brother and sister. The soldiers at the Arsenal

used to get powder in tins called canteens. When there was a little

left--a tablespoon full or such like, they would give it to the little

boys and show them how to pour it in the palm of their hand, touch a

match to it and then blow. The burning powder would fly off their hand

without burning. We were living in a double house at Eighth and Main

then; another colored family in one side. They had lots of children,

just like us. One canteen had a lot more powder in. My brother was

afraid to pour it on his hand. He put a paper down on top of the stove

and poured it out. It was a big explosion. My little sister was standing

beside her brother and her scalp was plum blowed off and her face burnt

terribly. His hand was all gone, and his face and neck and head burnt

terribly, too. There was a young doctor live close by name Deuell.

Father ran for him. He tell my mother if she will do just exactly what

he say, their faces will come out fine. He told her to make up bread

dough real sort of stiff. He made a mask of it. Cut holes for their

eyes, nose holes and mouths, so you could feed them, you see. He told

mother to leave that on till it got hard as a rock. Then still leave it

on till it crack and come off by itself. Nobody what ever saw their

faces would believe how bad they had been burnt. Only 'round the edges

where the dough didn't cover was there any scars. Dr. Deuell only

charged my father $50.00 apiece for that grand work on my sister and

brother.

_Yes ma'am_, I'll tell you how I come to speak what you call good

English. First place, my mother and father was brought up in families

where they heard good speech. Slaves what lived in the family didn't

talk like cottonfield hands. My parents sure did believe in education.

The first free schools in Little Rock were opened by the Union for

colored children. They brought young white ladies for teachers. They had

Sunday School in the churches on Sunday. In a few years they had colored

teachers come. One is still living here in Little Rock. I wish you would

go see her. She is 90 years old now. She founded the Wesley Chapel here.

On her fiftieth anniversary my club presented her a gold medal and had

"Mother Wesley" engraved on it. Her name is Charlotte E. Stevens. She

has the first school report ever put out in Little Rock. It was in the

class of 1869. Two of my sisters were graduated from Philander Smith

College here in Little Rock and had post graduate work in Fisk

University in Nashville, Tennessee. My brothers and sisters all did well

in life. Allene married a minister and did missionary work. Cornelia was

a teacher in Dallas, Texas. Mary was a caterer in Hot Springs. Clarice

went to Colorado Springs, Colorado and was a nurse in a doctor's office.

Jimmie was the preacher, as I told you. Gus learned the drug business

and Willie got to be a painter. Our adopted sister, Molly, could do

anything, nurse, teach, manage a hotel. Yes, our parents always insisted

we had to go to school. It's been a help to me all my life. I'm the only

one now living of all my brothers and sisters.

Well ma'am, about how we lived all since freedom; it's been good till

these last years. After I married my present husband in 1879, he worked

in the Missouri Pacific railroad shops. He was boiler maker's helper.

They called it Iron Mountain shops then, though. 52 years, 6 months and

24 days he worked there. In 1922, on big strike, all men got laid off.

When they went back, they had to go as new men. Don't you see what that

done to my man? He was all ready for his pension. Yes ma'am, had worked

his full time to be pensioned by the railroad. But we have never been

able to get any retirement pension. He should have it. Urban League is

trying to help him get it. He is out on account of disability and old

age. He got his eye hurt pretty bad and had to be in the railroad

hospital a long time. I have the doctor's papers on that. Then he had a

bad fall what put him again in the hospital. That was in 1931. He has

never really been discharged, but just can't get any compensation. He

has put in his claim to the Railroad Retirement office in Washington.

I'm hoping they get to it before he dies. We're both mighty old and

feeble. He had a stroke in 1933, since he been off the railroad.

How we living now? It's mighty poorly, please believe that. In his good

years we bought this little home, but taxes so high, road assessments

and all make it more than we can keep up. My granddaughter lives with

us. She teaches, but only has school about half a year. I was trying to

educate her in the University of Wisconsin, but poor child had to quit.

In summer we try to make a garden. Some of the neighbors take in washing

and they give me ironing to do. Friends bring in fresh bread when they

bake. It takes all my granddaughter makes to keep up the mortgage and

pay all the rest. She don't have clothes decent to go.

I have about sold the last of the antiques. In old days the mistress

used to give my mother the dishes left from broken sets, odd vases and

such. I had some beautiful things, but one by one have sold them to

antique dealers to get something to help out with. My church gives me a

donation every fifth Sunday of a collection for benefit. Sometimes it is

as much as $2.50 and that sure helps on the groceries. Today I bought

four cents worth of beans and one cent worth of onions. I say you have

to cut the garment according to the cloth. You ain't even living from

hand to mouth, if the hand don't have something in it to put to the

mouth.

No ma'am, we couldn't get on relief, account of this child teaching. One

relief worker did come to see us. She was a case worker, she said. She

took down all I told her about our needs and was about ready to go when

she saw my seven hens in the yard. "Whose chickens out there?" she

asked. "I keep a few hens," I told her. "Well," she hollered, "anybody

that's able to keep chickens don't need to be on relief roll," and she

gathered up her gloves and bag and left.

Yes ma'am, I filed for old age pension, too. It was in April, 1935 I

filed. When a year passed without hearing, I took my husband down so

they could see just how he is not able to work. They told me not to

bring him any more. Said I would get $10.00 a month. Two years went, and

I never got any. I went by myself then, and they said yes, yes, they

have my name on file, but there is no money to pay. There must be

millions comes in for sales tax. I don't know where it all goes. Of

course the white folks get first consideration. Colored folks always has

to bear the brunt. They just do, and that's all there is to it.

What do I think of the younger generation? I wouldn't speak for all.

There are many types, just like older people. It has always been like

that, though. If all young folks were like my granddaughter--I guess

there is many, too. She does all the sewing, and gardening. She paints

the house, makes the draperies and bed clothing. She can cook and do all

our laundry work. She understands raising chickens for market but just

don't have time for that. She is honest and clean in her life.

Yes ma'am, I did vote once, a long time ago. You see, I wasn't old

enough at first, after freedom, when all the colored people could vote.

Then, for many years, women in Arkansas couldn't vote, anyhow. I can

remember when M.W. Gibbs was Police Judge and Asa Richards was a colored

alderman. No ma'am! The voting law is not fair. It's most unfair! We

colored folks have to pay just the same as the white. We pay our sales

tax, street improvement, school tax, property tax, personal property

tax, dog license, automobile license--they what have cars--; we pay

utility tax. And we should be allowed to vote. I can tell you about

three years ago a white lady come down here with her car on election day

and ask my old husband would he vote how she told him if she carried him

to the polls. He said yes and she carried him. When he got there they

told him no colored was allowed to vote in that election. Poor old man,

she didn't offer to get him home, but left him to stumble along best he

could.

I'm glad if I been able to give you some help. You've been patient with

an old woman. I can tell you that every word I have told you is true as

the gospel.

Circumstances of Interview

STATE--Arkansas

NAME OF WORKER--Samuel S. Taylor

ADDRESS--Little Rock, Arkansas

DATE--December, 1938

SUBJECT--Ex-slave

[TR: Repetitive information deleted from subsequent pages.]

1. Name and address of informant--Julia White, 3003 Cross Street, Little

Rock.

2. Date and time of interview--

3. Place of interview--3003 Cross Street, Little Rock, Arkansas

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with

informant--

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you--

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.--

Personal History of informant

1. Ancestry--

2. Place and date of birth--Little Rock, Arkansas, 1858

3. Family--Two children

4. Places lived in, with dates--Little Rock all her life.

5. Education, with dates--

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates--

7. Special skills and interests--

8. Community and religious activities--

9. Description of informant--

10. Other points gained in interview--She tells of accomplishments made

by the Negro race.

Text of Interview (Unedited)

"I was born right here in Little Rock, Arkansas, eighty years ago on the

corner of Fifth and Broadway. It was in a little log house. That used to

be out in the woods. At least, that is where they told me I was born. I

was there but I don't remember it. The first place I remember was a

house on Third and Cumberland, the southwest corner. That was before the

war.

"We were living there when peace was declared. You know, my father hired

my mother's time from James Moore. He used to belong to Dick Galloway. I

don't know how that was. But I know he put my mother in that house on

Third and Cumberland while she was still a slave. And we smaller

children stayed in the house with mother, and the larger children worked

on James Moore's plantation.

"My father was at that time, I guess, you would call it, a porter at

McAlmont's drug store. He was a slave at that time but he worked there.

He was working there the day this place was taken. I'll never forget

that. It was on September 10th. We were going across Third Street, and

there was a Union woman told mamma to bring us over there, because the

soldiers were about to attack the town and they were going to have a

battle.

"I had on a pair of these brogans with brass plates on them, and they

were flapping open and I tripped up just as the rebel soldiers were

running by. One of them said, "There's a like yeller nigger, les take

her." Mrs. Farmer, the Union woman ran out and said, "No you won't;

that's my nigger." And she took us in her house. And we stayed there

while there was danger. Then my father came back from the drug store,

she said she didn't see how he kept from being killed.

"At that time, there were about four houses to the block. On the place

where we lived there was the big house, with many rooms, and then there

was the barn and a lot of other buildings. My father rented that place

and turned the outbuildings into little houses and allowed the freed

slaves to live in them till they could find another place.

"My husband was an orphan child, and the people he was living with were

George Phelps and Ann Phelps. They were freed slaves. That was after the

war. They came here and had this little boy with them, that is how I

come to meet that gentlemen over there and get acquainted with him. When

they moved away from there Phelps was caretaker of the Oakland Cemetery.

We married on the twenty-seventh day of March, 1879. I still have the

marriage license. I married twice; my first husband was George W. Glenn

and my maiden name was Jackson. I married the first time June 10, 1875.

I had two children in my first marriage. Both of than are dead. Glenn

died shortly after the birth of the last child, February 15, 1878.

"Mr. White is a mighty good man. He is put up with me all these years.

And he took mighty good care of my children, them by my first husband as

well as his own. When I was a little girl, he used to tell me that he

wouldn't have me for a wife. After we were married, I used to say to

him, 'You said you wouldn't have me, but I see you're mighty glad to get

me.'

"I have the marriage license for my second marriage.

"There's quite a few of the old ones left. Have you seen Mrs. Gillam,

and Mrs. Stephen, and Mrs. Weathers? Cora Weathers? Her name is Cora not

Clora. She's about ninety years old. She's at least ninety years old.

You say she says that she is seventy-four. That must be her insurance

age. I guess she is seventy-four at that; she had to be seventy-four

before she was ninety. When I was a girl, she was a grown woman. She was

married when my husband went to school. That has been more than sixty

years ago, because we've been married nearly sixty years. My sister Mary

was ten years older than me, and Cora Weathers was right along with her.

She knew my mother. When these people knew my mother they've been here,

because she's been dead since '94 and she would have been 110 if she had

lived.

"My mother used to feed the white prisoners--the Federal soldiers who

were being held. They paid her and told her to keep the money because it

was Union Money. You know at that time they were using Confederate

money. My father kept it. He had a little box or chest of gold and

silver money. Whenever he got any paper money, he would change it into

gold or silver.

"Mother used to make these ginger cakes--they call 'em stage planks. My

brother Jimmie would sell them. The men used to take pleasure in trying

to cheat him. He was so clever they couldn't. They never did catch him

napping.

"Somebody burnt our house; it was on a Sunday evening. They tried to say

it caught from the chimney. We all like to uv burnt up.

"My father was a carpenter, whitewasher, anything. He was a common

laborer. We didn't have contractors then like we do now. Mother worked

out in service too. Jimmie was the oldest boy. He taught school too.

"My father set the first table that was ever set in the Anthony Hotel,

he was the cause of the first stove being brought here to cook on.

"Some of the children of the people that raised my mother are still

living. They are Beebes. Roswell Beebe was a little one. They had a

colored man named Peter and he was teaching Roswell to ride and the pony

ran away. Peter stepped out to stop him and Roswell said, 'Git out of

the way Peter, and let Billie Button come'.

"I get some commodities from the welfare. But I don't get nothing like a

pension. My husband worked at the Missouri Pacific shops for fifty-two

years, and he don't git nothing neither. It was the Iron Mountain when

he first went there on June 8, 1879. He was disabled in 1932 because of

injuries received on the job in March, 1931. But they hurried him out of

the hospital and never would give him anything. That Monday morning,

they had had a loving cup given them for not having had accidents in the

plant. And at three p.m., he was sent into the hospital. He had a fall

that injured his head. They only kept him there for two days and two

hours. He was hurt in the head. Dr. Elkins himself came after him and

let him set around in the tool room. He stayed there till he couldn't do

nothing at all.

"In 1881, he got his eye hurt on the job in the service of the Missouri

Pacific. It was the Iron Mountain then. He was off about three or four

months. They didn't pay his wages while he was off. They told him they

would give him a lifetime job, but they didn't. His eye gave him trouble

for the balance of his life. Sometimes it is worse than others. He had

to go to the St. Louis Hospital quite often for about three or four

years.

"When the house on Third and Cumberland was burnt, he rebuilded it, and

the owners charged him such rent he had to move. He rebuilt it for five

hundred dollars and was to get pay in rent. The owners jumped the rent

up to twenty-five dollars a month. That way it soon took up the five

hundred dollars. Then we moved to Eighth and Main. My brother Jimmie was

in an accident there.

"He was pouring powder on a fire from an old powder horn and the flames

jumped up in the horn and exploded and crippled his hand and burnt his

face. Dr. Duel, a right young doctor, said he could cure them if father

would pay him fifty dollars a piece. My sister was burnt at the same

time as my brother. He had them make a thin dough, and put it over their

faces and he cut pieces out for their eyes, and nose, and mouth. They

left that dough on their faces and chest till the dough got hard and

peeled off by itself. It left the white skin. Gradually the face got

back to itself and took its right color again, so you couldn't tell they

had ever been burnt. The only medicine the doctor gave them was Epsom

salts. Fifty dollars for each child. I used that remedy on a school boy

once and cured him, but I didn't charge him nothing.

"I have a program which was given in 1874. They don't give programs like

that now. People wouldn't listen that long. We each of us had two and

three, and some of us had six and seven parts to learn. We learnt them

and recited them and came back the next night to give a Christmas Eve

program. You can make a copy of it if you want.

"A.C. Richmond is Mrs. Childress' brother. Anna George is Bee Daniels'

mother (Bee Daniels is Mrs. Anthony, a colored public school teacher

here). Corinne Jordan is living on Gaines between Eighth and Ninth

streets. She is about seventy-five years old now. She was about Mollie's

age and I was about five years older than Molly. Mary Riley is C.C.

Riley's sister. C.C. Riley is Haven Riley's father. C.C. is dead now.

Haven Riley was a teacher, at Philander Smith, for a while. He's a

stenographer now. August Jackson and J.W. Jackson are my brothers. W.O.

Emory became one of our pastors at Wesley. John Bush, everybody's heard

of him. He had the Mosaic temple and got a big fortune together before

he died, but his children lost it all. Annie Richmond is Annie

Childress, the wife of Professor E.C. Childress, the State Supervisor.

Corinne Winfrey turned out to be John Bush's wife. Willie Lane married

W.O. Emery. Scipio Jordan became the big man in the Tabernacle. H.H.

Gilkey went to the post office. He married Lizzie Hull. She's living

still too."

Extra Comment

The marriage license which Mrs. White showed me, was issued March 27,

1879, by A.W. Worthen, County Clerk, per W.H.W. Booker to Julia Glen and

J.R. White. It carries the name of Reverend W.H. Crawford who was the

Pastor of Wesley Chapel Church at that time. The license was issued in

Pulaski County.

GRAND ENTERTAINMENT AT WESLEY CHAPEL

Wednesday Evening, Dec'r. 23, 1874

* * * * *

PROGRAMME

Part I

Address by the General Manager Mr. A.C. Richmond

Song--We Come Today By the School

Prayer Rev. William Henry Crawford

Declamation--My Mother's Bible Miss Annie George

Dialogue--Three Little Graves Miss M. Upshaw and

Miss M.A. Scruggs

Dialogue--About Heaven Miss Julia Jackson and

Miss Alice Richardson

Declamation--Mud Pie Miss Amelia Rose

Declamation--Ducklins and Miss Goren Jordan

Ducklins

Dialogue--The Beggar Mr. H.H. Gilkey and

Mr. W.A.M. Cypers

Declamation--Work While Master Albert Pryor

You Work

Dialogue--The Miser Mr. C.C. Riley and

Mr. Charles Hurtt, Jr.

Declamation--Pretty Pictures Miss Cally Sanders

Declamation--Into the Sunshine Miss Mollie Jackson

Song--Joy Bells By the School

Dialogue--Sharp Shooting Master Asa Richmond,

Scipio Jordan,

and Miss Laura A. Morgan

Declamation--What I Know Master Morton Hurtt

Declamation--The Side to Look On Miss Dora Frierson

Dialogue--The Tattler Miss Mary Alexander,

Miss M.A. Scrugg,

Miss Mary Rose

Declamation--Little Clara Miss Rebecca Ferguson

Dialogue--John Williams' Choice Scipio Jordan, H.H. Gilkey

and Julia Jackson

Declamation--A Good Rule

Miss Lilly Pryor

Declamation--Complaint of the Poor

Miss Riley

Dialogue--The Examination

L.H. Haney, Jackson Crawford

and John Richmond

THE END.