Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States From Interviews with Former Slaves by Work Projects Administration
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Work Projects Administration >> Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States From Interviews with Former Slaves
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"De slave cabins, 'cross a valley from de Big House, was built in rows.
Us was 'lowed to sing, play de fiddles, an' have a good time. Us had
plenty t' eat and warm clo'es an' shoes in de winter time. De cabins was
kep' in good shape. Us aint never min' workin' for old Marster, cause us
got good returns. Dat meant good livin' an' bein' took care of right.
Marster always fed his slaves in de Big House.
"De slaves would go early to de fiel's an work in de cotton an' corn.
Dey had different jobs.
"De overseers was made to un'erstan' to be 'siderate of us. Work went on
all de week lak dat. Dey got off from de fiel's early on Satu'd'y
evenin's, washed up an' done what dey wanted to. Some went huntin' or
fishin', some fiddled an' danced an' sung, while de others jus' lazed
roun' de cabins. Marse had two of de slaves jus' to be fiddlers. Dey
played for us an' kep' things perked up. How us could swing, an'
step-'bout by dat old fiddle music always a-goin' on. Den old Marster
come 'roun' wid his kin'ly smile an' jov'al sp'rits. When things went
wrong he always knowed a way. He knowed how to comfort you in trouble.
"Now, I was a gardner or yard boy. Dat was my part as a slave. I he'ped
keep de yard pretty an' clean, de grass cut, an' de flowers' tended to
an' cut. I taken dat work' cause I lak's pretty flowers. I laks to buil'
frames for 'em to run on an' to train 'em to win' 'roun'. I could monkey
wid 'em all de time.
"When folks started a-comin' through talkin' 'bout a-freein' us an'
a-givin' us lan' an' stuff, it didn' take wid Marster's slaves. Us didn'
want nothin' to come 'long to take us away from him. Dem a tellin' de
Niggers dey'd git lan' an' cattle an' de lak of dat was all foolis'ness,
nohow. Us was a-livin' in plenty an' peace.
"De war broke out spite o' how Marster's Niggers felt. When I seen my
white folks leave for war, I cried myself sick, an' all de res' did too.
Den de Yankees come through a-takin' de country. Old Marster refugeed us
to Virginny. I can't say if de lan' was his'n, but he had a place for us
to stay at. I know us raised 'nough food stuff for all de slaves.
Marster took care o' us dere 'til de war ended.
"Den he come to camp late one evenin' an tol' us dat us was free as he
was; dat us could stay in Virginny an work or us could come to
Mississippi wid him. Might nigh de whole passel bun'led up an' come
back, an' glad to do it, too. Dar us all stayed 'til de family all died.
De las' one died a few years ago an' lef' us few old darkies to grieve
over 'em.
"I don' know much 'bout de Klu Klux Klan an' all dat. Dey rode 'bout at
night an' wore long white ghos'-lak robes. Dey whup folks an' had
meetin's way off in de woods at midnight. Dey done all kinds o' curious
things. None never did bother 'bout Marster's place, so I don' know much
'bout 'em.
"After de War it took a mighty long time to git things a-goin' smooth.
Folks an' de Gov'ment, too, seem lak dey was all up-set an' threatened
lak. For a long time it look lak things gwine bus' loose ag'in. Mos'
ever'thing was tore up an' burned down to de groun'. It took a long time
to build back dout no money. Den twant de gran' old place it was de
firs' time.
"I married when I was a young man. I was lucky 'nough to git de nex'
bes' woman in de worl'. (Old Mis' was de bes'.) Dat gal was so good 'til
I had to court 'er mos' two years 'fore she'd say she'd have me.
"Us had six chillun. Three of 'em's still livin'. I can't say much for
my chillun. I don' lak to feel hard, but I tried to raise my chillun de
bes' I could. I educated 'em; even bought 'em a piano an' give em'
music. One of 'em is in Memphis, 'nother'n in Detroit, an' de other'n in
Chicago. I writes to 'em to he'p me, but don' never hear from 'em. I's
old an' dey is forgot me, I guess.
"Dat seems to be de way of de worl' now. Ever'thing an' ever'body is too
fas' an' too frivoless[FN: frivilous] dese here times. I tell you, folks
ought to be more lak old Marster was.
"I's a Christian an' loves de Lawd. I expects to go to him 'fore long.
Den I know I's gwine see my old Marstar an' Mistis ag'in."
BIBLIOGRAPHY
John Cameron: Jackson, Mississippi.
Mississippi Federal Writers
Slave Autobiographies
[GUS CLARK
Howison, Mississippi]
Uncle Gus Clark and his aged wife live in a poverty-stricken deserted
village about an eighth of a mile east of Howison.
Their old mill cabin, a relic of a forgotten lumber industry, is
tumbling down. They received direct relief from the ERA until May, 1934,
when the ERA changed the dole to work relief. Uncle Gus, determined to
have a work card, worked on the road with the others until he broke down
a few days later and was forced to accept direct relief. Now, neither
Gus nor Liza is able to work, and the only help available for them is
the meager State Old Age Assistance. Gus still manages to tend their
tiny garden.
He gives his story:
"I'se gwine on 'bout eighty-five. 'At's my age now. I was born at
Richmond, Virginny, but lef' dare right afte' de War. Dey had done
surrendered den, an' my old marster doan have no mo' power over us. We
was all free an' Boss turned us loose.
"My mammy's name was Judy, an' my pappy was Bob. Clark was de Boss's
name. I doan 'member my mammy, but pappy was workin' on de railroad
afte' freedom an' got killed.
"A man come to Richmond an' carried me an' pappy an' a lot of other
niggers ter Loos'anna ter work in de sugar cane. I was little but he
said I could be a water boy. It sho' was a rough place. Dem niggers
quar'l an' fight an' kills one 'nother. Big Boss, he rich, an' doan 'low
no sheriff ter come on his place. He hol' cou't an' settle all 'sputes
hisself. He done bury de dead niggers an' put de one what killed him
back to work.
"A heap of big rattlesnakes lay in dem canebrakes, an' dem niggers shoot
dey heads off an' eat 'em. It didn' kill de niggers. Dem snakes was fat
an' tender, an' fried jes lak chicken.
"Dere in Loos'anna we doan get no pay 'til de work is laid by. Den we'se
paid big money, no nickels. Mos' of de cullud mens go back to where dey
was raised.
"Dat was afte' freedom, but my daddy say dat de niggers earn money on
Old Boss' place even durin' slav'ry. He give 'em every other Sat'dy fer
deyse'ves. Dey cut cordwood fer Boss, wimmens an' all. Mos' of de mens
cut two cords a day an' de wimmens one. Boss paid 'em a dollar a cord.
Dey save dat money, fer dey doan have to pay it out fer nothin'. Big
Boss didn' fail to feed us good an' give us our work clo'es. An' he paid
de doctor bills. Some cullud men saved enough to buy deyse'ves frum
Boss, as free as I is now.
"Slav'ry was better in some ways 'an things is now. We allus got plen'y
ter eat, which we doan now. We can't make but fo' bits a day workin' out
now, an' 'at doan buy nothin' at de sto'. Co'se Boss only give us work
clo'es. When I was a kid I got two os'berg[FN: Osnaberg: the cheapest
grade of cotton cloth] shirts a year. I never wo' no shoes. I didn' know
whut a shoe was made fer, 'til I'se twelve or thirteen. We'd go rabbit
huntin' barefoot in de snow.
"Didn' wear no Sunday clo'es. Dey wa'nt made fer me, 'cause I had
nowhere ter go. You better not let Boss ketch you off'n de place, less'n
he give you a pass to go. My Boss didn' 'low us to go to church, er to
pray er sing. Iffen he ketched us prayin' er singin' he whupped us. He
better not ketch you with a book in yo' han'. Didn' 'low it. I doan know
whut de reason was. Jess meanness, I reckin. I doan b'lieve my marster
ever went to church in his life, but he wa'nt mean to his niggers, 'cept
fer doin' things he doan 'low us to. He didn' care fer nothin' 'cept
farmin'.
"Dere wa'nt no schools fer cullud people den. We didn' know whut a
school was. I never did learn to read.
"We didn' have no mattresses on our beds like we has now. De chullun
slep' under de big high beds, on sacks. We was put under dem beds 'bout
eight o'clock, an' we'd jes better not say nothin' er make no noise
afte' den. All de cullud folks slep' on croker sacks full of hay er
straw.
"Did I ever see any niggers punished? Yessum, I sho' has. Whupped an'
chained too. Day was whupped 'til de blood come, 'til dey back split all
to pieces. Den it was washed off wid salt, an' de nigger was put right
back in de fiel'. Dey was whupped fer runnin' away. Sometimes dey run
afte' 'em fer days an nights with dem big old blood houn's. Heap o'
people doan b'lieve dis. But I does, 'cause I seed it myse'f.
"I'se lived here forty-five years, an' chipped turpentine mos' all my
life since I was free.
"I'se had three wives. I didn' have no weddin's, but I mar'ied 'em
'cordin to law. I woan stay with one no other way. My fust two wives is
dead. Liza an' me has been mar'ied 'bout 'leven years. I never had but
one chile, an' 'at by my fust wife, an' he's dead. But my other two
wives had been mar'ied befo', an' had chullun. 'Simon here,' pointing to
a big buck of fifty-five sitting on the front porch, 'is Liza's oldest
boy.'"
Mississippi Federal Writers
Slave Autobiographies
[JAMES CORNELIUS
Magnolia, Mississippi]
James Cornelius lives in Magnolia in the northwestern part of the town,
in the Negro settlement. He draws a Confederate pension of four dollars
per month. He relates events of his life readily.
"I does not know de year I was borned but dey said I was 15 years old
when de War broke out an' dey tell me I'se past 90 now. Dey call me
James Cornelius an' all de white folks says I'se a good 'spectable
darkey.
"I was borned in Franklin, Loos'anna. My mammy was named Chlo an' dey
said my pappy was named Henry. Dey b'longed to Mr. Alex Johnson an'
whil'st I was a baby my mammy, my brudder Henry, an' me was sol' to
Marse Sam Murry Sandell an' we has brung to Magnolia to live an' I niver
remember seein' my pappy ag'in.
"Marse Murry didn' have many slaves. His place was right whar young
Mister Lampton Reid is buildin' his fine house jes east of de town. My
mammy had to work in da house an' in de fiel' wid all de other niggers
an' I played in de yard wid de little chulluns, bofe white an' black.
Sometimes we played 'tossin' de ball' an' sometimes we played
'rap-jacket' an' sometimes 'ketcher.' An' when it rained we had to go in
de house an' Old Mistess made us behave.
"I was taught how to work 'round de house, how to sweep an' draw water
frum de well an' how to kin'le fires an' keep de wood box filled wid
wood, but I was crazy to larn how to plow an' when I could I would slip
off an' get a old black man to let me walk by his side an' hold de lines
an' I thought I was big 'nouf to plow.
"Marse Murry didn' have no overseer. He made de slaves work, an' he was
good an' kind to 'em, but when dey didn' do right he would whip 'em, but
he didn' beat 'em. He niver stripped 'em to whip 'em. Yes ma'm, he
whipped me but I needed it. One day I tol' him I was not goin' to do
whut he tol' me to do--feed de mule--but when he got through wid me I
_wanted_ to feed dat mule.
"I come to live wid Marse Murry 'fo dar was a town here. Dar was only
fo' houses in dis place when I was a boy. I seed de fust train dat come
to dis here town an' it made so much noise dat I run frum it. Dat smoke
puffed out'n de top an' de bell was ringin' an' all de racket it did
make made me skeered.
"I heered dem talkin' 'bout de war but I didn' know whut dey meant an'
one day Marse Murry said he had jined de Quitman Guards an' was goin' to
de war an' I had to go wid him. Old Missus cried an' my mammy cried but
I thought it would be fun. He tuk me 'long an' I waited on him. I kept
his boots shinin' so yer could see yer face in 'em. I brung him water
an' fed an' cur'ied his hoss an' put his saddle on de hoss fer him. Old
Missus tol' me to be good to him an' I was.
"One day I was standin' by de hoss an' a ball kilt[FN: killed] de hoss
an' he fell over dead an' den I cried like it mout[FN: might] be my
brudder. I went way up in Tennessee an' den I was at Port Hudson. I seed
men fall dawn an' die; dey was kilt like pigs. Marse Murry was shot an'
I stayed wid him 'til dey could git him home. Dey lef' me behin' an'
Col. Stockdale an' Mr. Sam Matthews brung me home.
"Marse Murry died an' Old Missus run de place. She was good an' kind to
us all an' den she mar'ied afte' while to Mr. Gatlin. Dat was afte' de
war was over.
"Whil'st I was in de war I seed Mr. Jeff Davis. He was ridin' a big hoss
an' he looked mighty fine. I niver seed him 'ceptin he was on de hoss.
"Dey said old man Abe Lincoln was de nigger's friend, but frum de way
old Marse an' de sojers talk 'bout him I thought he was a mighty mean
man.
"I doan recollec' when dey tol' us we was freed but I do know Mr. Gatlin
would promise to pay us fer our work an' when de time would come fer to
pay he said he didn' have it an' kep' puttin us off, an' we would work
some more an' git nothin' fer it. Old Missus would cry an' she was good
to us but dey had no money.
"'Fo de war Marse Murry would wake all de niggers by blowin' a big
'konk' an' den when dinner time would come Old Missus would blow de
'konk' an' call dem to dinner. I got so I could blow dat 'konk' fer Old
Missus but oh! it tuk my wind.
"Marse Murry would 'low me to drive his team when he would go to market.
I could haul de cotton to Covin'ton an' bring back whut was to eat, an'
all de oxen could pull was put on dat wagon. We allus had good eatin
afte' we had been to market.
"Every Chris'mus would come I got a apple an' some candy an' mammy would
cook cake an' pies fer Old Missus an' stack dem on de shelf in de big
kitchen an' we had every thing good to eat. Dem people sho' was good an'
kind to all niggers.
"Afte de war de times was hard an' de white an' black people was
fightin' over who was to git de big office, an' den dere was mighty
leetle to eat. Dar was plen'y whiskey, but I'se kep' 'way frum all dat.
I was raised right. Old Missus taught me ter 'spect white folks an' some
of dem promised me land but I niver got it. All de land I'se ever got I
work mighty hard fer it an' I'se got it yit.
"One day afte' Mr. Gatlin said he couldn' pay me I run 'way an' went to
New Orleans an' got a job haulin' cotton, an' made my 50 cents an'
dinner every day. I sho' had me plen'y money den. I stayed dere mighty
close on to fo' years an' den I went to Tylertown an' hauled cotton to
de railroad fer Mr. Ben Lampton. Mr. Lampton said I was de bes' driver
of his team he ever had caze I kep' his team fat.
"Afte I come back to Miss'ssippi I mar'ied a woman named Maggie Ransom.
We stayed together 51 years. I niver hit her but one time. When we was
gittin' mar'ied I stopped de preacher right in de ceremony an' said to
her, 'Maggie, iffen you niver call me a liar I will niver call you one'
an' she said, 'Jim, I won't call you a liar.' I said, 'That's a bargain'
an' den de preacher went on wid de weddin'. Well, one day afte' we had
been mar'ied' bout fo' years, she ast[FN: asked] me how come I was so
late comin' to supper, an' I said I found some work to do fer a white
lady, an' she said, that's a lie,' an' right den I raised my han' an'
let her have it right by de side of de head, an' she niver called me a
liar ag'in. No ma'm, dat is somethin' I won't stand fer.
"My old lady had seven chulluns dat lived to git grown. Two of 'em lived
here in Magnolia an' de others gone North. Maggie is daid an' I live wid
my boy Walter an' his wife Lena. Dey is mighty good to me. I owns dis
here house an' fo' acres but day live wid me an' I gits a Confed'rate
pension of fo' dollars a month. Dat gives me my coffee an' 'bacco. I'se
proud I'se a old sojer, I seed de men fall when dey was shot but I was
not skeered. We et bread when we could git it an' if we couldn' git it
we done widout.
"Afte' I lef' Mr. Lampton I'se come here an' went to work fer Mr. Enoch
at Fernwood when his mill was jes a old rattletrap of a mill. I work fer
him 45 years. At fust I hauled timber out'n de woods an' afte' whil'st I
hauled lumber to town to build houses. I sometimes collec' fer de lumber
but I niver lost one nickle, an' dem white folks says I sho' was a
honest nigger.
"I lived here on dis spot an' rode a wheel to Fernwood every day, an'
fed de teams an' hitched 'em to de wagons an' I was niver late an' niver
stopped fer anything, an' my wheel niver was in de shop. I niver 'lowed
anybody to prank wid it, an' dat wheel was broke up by my gran'chulluns.
"Afte I quit work at de mill I'se come home an' plow gardens fer de
white folks an' make some more money. I sho' could plow.
"I jined de New Zion Baptist Church here in Magnolia an' was baptized in
de Tanghipoa River one Sunday evenin'. I was so happy dat I shouted, me
an' my wife bofe. I'se still a member of dat church but I do not preach
an' I'm not no deacon; I'se jes a bench member an' a mighty po' one at
dat. My wife was buried frum dat church.
"Doan know why I was not called Jim Sandell, but mammy said my pappy was
named Henry Cornelius an' I reckin I was give my pappy's name.
"When I was a young man de white folks' Baptist Church was called Salem
an' it was on de hill whar de graveyard now is. It burnt down an' den
dey brung it to town, an' as I was goin' to tell yer I went possum
huntin' in dat graveyard one night. I tuk my ax an' dog 'long wid me an'
de dog, he treed a possum right in de graveyard. I cut down dat tree an'
started home, when all to once somethin' run by me an' went down dat big
road lak light'ning an' my dog was afte' it. Den de dog come back an'
lay down at my feet an' rolled on his back an' howled an' howled, an'
right den I knowed it was a sperit an' I throwed down my 'possum an' ax
an' beat de dog home. I tell you dat was a sperit--I'se seed plen'y of
'em. Dat ain't de only sperit I ever seed. I'se seen 'em a heap of
times. Well, dat taught me niver to hunt in a grave yard ag'in.
"No ma'm, I niver seed a ghost but I tell yer I know dere is sperits.
Let me tell yer, anudder time I was goin' by de graveyard an' I seed a
man's head. He had no feet, but he kep' lookin' afte' me an' every way I
turned he wouldn' take his eye offen me, an' I walked fast an' he got
faster an' den I run an' den he run, an' when I got home I jes fell on
de bed an' hollered an' hollered an' tol' my old lady, an' she said I
was jes' skeered, but I'se sho' seed dat sperit an' I ain't goin' by de
grave yard at night by myse'f ag'in.
"An' let me tell yer dis. Right in front of dis house--yer see dat
white house?--Well, last Febr'ary a good old cullud lady died in dat
house, an' afte' she was buried de rest of de fambly moved away, an'
every night I kin look over to dat house an' see a light in de window.
Dat light comes an' goes, an' nobody lives dar. Doan I know dat is de
sperit of dat woman comin' back here to tell some of her fambly a
message? Yes ma'm, dat is her sperit an' dat house is hanted an' nobody
will live dar ag'in.
"No ma'm, I can't read nor write."
Charlie Davenport, Ex-slave, Adams County
FEC
Edith Wyatt Moore
Rewrite, Pauline Loveless
Edited, Clara E. Stokes
[CHARLIE DAVENPORT
Natchez, Mississippi]
"I was named Charlie Davenport an' encordin'[FN: according] to de way I
figgers I ought to be nearly a hund'ed years old. Nobody knows my
birthday, 'cause all my white folks is gone.
"I was born one night an' de very nex' mornin' my po' little mammy died.
Her name was Lucindy. My pa was William Davenport.
"When I was a little mite dey turnt me over to de granny nurse on de
plantation. She was de one dat 'tended to de little pickaninnies. She
got a woman to nurse me what had a young baby, so I didn' know no
dif'ence. Any woman what had a baby 'bout my age would wet nurse me, so
I growed up in de quarters an' was as well an' as happy as any other
chil'.
"When I could _tote taters_[FN: sweet potatoes] dey'd let me pick' em up
in de fiel'. Us always hid a pile away where us could git' em an' roast'
em at night.
"Old mammy nearly always made a heap o' dewberry an' 'simmon[FN:
persimmon]. wine.
"Us little tykes would gather black walnuts in de woods an' store 'em
under de cabins to dry.
"At night when de work was all done an' de can'les was out us'd set
'roun' de fire an' eat cracked nuts an' taters. Us picked out de nuts
wid horse-shoe nails an' baked de taters in ashes. Den Mammy would pour
herse'f an' her old man a cup o' wine. Us never got none o' dat
less'n[FN: unless] us be's sick. Den she'd mess it up wid wild cherry
bark. It was bad den, but us gulped it down, anyhow.
"Old Granny used to sing a song to us what went lak dis:
'Kinky head, whar-fore you skeered?
Old snake crawled off, 'cause he's afeared.
Pappy will smite 'im on de back
Wid a great big club--ker whack! Ker whack!'
"Aventine, where I was born an' bred, was acrost Secon' Creek. It was a
big plantation wid 'bout a hund'ed head o' folks a-livin' on it. It was
only one o' de marster's places, 'cause he was one o' de riches' an'
highes' quality gent'men in de whole country. I's tellin' you de trufe,
us didn' b'long to no white trash. De marster was de Honorable Mister
Gabriel Shields hisse'f. Ever'body knowed 'bout him. He married a
Surget.
"Dem Surgets was pretty devilish; for all dey was de riches' fam'ly in
de lan'. Dey was de out-fightin'es', out-cussin'es', fastes' ridin',
hardes' drinkin', out-spendin'es' folks I ever seen. But Lawd! Lawd! Dey
was gent'men even in dey cups. De ladies was beautiful wid big black
eyes an' sof' white han's, but dey was high strung, too.
"De marster had a town mansion what's pictured in a lot o' books. It was
called 'Montebella.' De big columns still stan' at de end o' Shields
Lane. It burnt 'bout thirty years ago (1937).
"I's part Injun. I aint got no Nigger nose an' my hair is so long I has
to keep it wropped[FN: wrapped]. I'se often heard my mammy was
redish-lookin' wid long, straight, black hair. Her pa was a full blooded
Choctaw an' mighty nigh as young as she was. I'se been tol' dat nobody
dast[FN: dared] meddle wid her. She didn' do much talkin', but she sho'
was a good worker. My pappy had Injun blood, too, but his hair was
kinky.
"De Choctaws lived all 'roun' Secon' Creek. Some of 'em had cabins lak
settled folks. I can 'member dey las' chief. He was a tall pow'ful built
man named 'Big Sam.' What he said was de law, 'cause he was de boss o'
de whole tribe. One rainy night he was kilt in a saloon down in 'Natchez
Under de Hill.' De Injuns went wild wid rage an' grief. Dey sung an'
wailed an' done a heap o' low mutterin'. De sheriff kep' a steady watch
on' em, 'cause he was afeared dey would do somethin' rash. After a long
time he kinda let up in his vig'lance. Den one night some o' de Choctaw
mens slipped in town an' stobbed[FN: stabbed] de man dey b'lieved had
kilt Big Sam. I 'members dat well.
"As I said b'fore, I growed up in de quarters. De houses was clean an'
snug. Us was better fed den dan I is now, an' warmer, too. Us had
blankets an' quilts filled wid home raised wool an' I jus' loved layin'
in de big fat feather bed a-hearin' de rain patter on de roof.
"All de little darkeys he'ped bring in wood. Den us swept de yards wid
brush brooms. Den sometimes us played together in de street what run de
length o' de quarters. Us th'owed horse-shoes, jumped poles, walked on
stilts, an' played marbles. Sometimes us made bows an' arrows. Us could
shoot 'em, too, jus lak de little Injuns.
"A heap of times old Granny would brush us hide wid a peach tree limb,
but us need it. Us stole aigs[FN: eggs] an' roasted 'em. She sho'
wouldn' stan' for no stealin' if she knowed it.
"Us wore lowell-cloth shirts. It was a coarse tow-sackin'. In winter us
had linsey-woolsey pants an' heavy cow-hide shoes. Dey was made in three
sizes--big, little, an' mejum[FN: medium]. Twant no right or lef'. Dey
was sorta club-shaped so us could wear 'em on either foot.
"I was a teasin', mis-che-vious chil' an' de overseer's little gal got
it in for me. He was a big, hard fisted Dutchman bent on gittin' riches.
He trained his pasty-faced gal to tattle on us Niggers. She got a heap
o' folks whipped. I knowed it, but I was hasty: One day she hit me wid a
stick an' I th'owed it back at her. 'Bout dat time up walked her pa. He
seen what I done, but he didn' see what she done to me. But it wouldn'
a-made no dif'ence, if he had.
"He snatched me in de air an' toted me to a stump an' laid me 'crost it.
I didn' have but one thickness 'twixt me an' daylight. Gent'men! He laid
it on me wid dat stick. I thought I'd die. All de time his mean little
gal was a-gloatin' in my misery. I yelled an' prayed to de Lawd 'til he
quit.
"Den he say to me,
'From now on you works in de fiel'. I aint gwine a-have no vicious boy
lak you 'roun de lady folks.' I was too little for fiel' work, but de
nex' mornin' I went to choppin' cotton. After dat I made a reg'lar fiel'
han'. When I growed up I was a ploughman. I could sho' lay off a pretty
cotton row, too.
"Us slaves was fed good plain grub. 'Fore us went to de fiel' us had a
big breakfas' o' hot bread, 'lasses, fried salt meat dipped in corn
meal, an' fried taters[FN: sweet potatoes]. Sometimes us had fish an'
rabbit meat. When us was in de fiel', two women 'ud come at dinner-time
wid baskets filled wid hot pone, baked taters, corn roasted in de
shucks, onion, fried squash, an' b'iled pork. Sometimes dey brought
buckets o' cold buttermilk. It sho' was good to a hongry man. At
supper-time us had hoecake an' cold vi'tals. Sometimes dey was sweetmilk
an' collards.
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