Chapter IV: Part 4

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

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

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

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

House and Furniture

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

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

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

Work of Family in Slave Time

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

Good Master

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

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

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

Work

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

Share cropping

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

How Freedom Came

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

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

Ku Klux Klan

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

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

Occupations Followed and Life Since Freedom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

William Guess

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

Charlotte Guess

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

INTERVIEWER'S NOTE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOLKLORE SUBJECTS

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

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

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

Parch meal or corn and make coffee.

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

Beat up charcoal and take for gas on the stomach.

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

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

Comb hair after dark makes you forgetful.

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

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

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

_FOLKLORE SUBJECTS_

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

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

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

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