Chapter IX: Part 9

"Us chilluns had to pick peas; two baskets full 'fo' dinner an' two 'fo' night, an' dey was big baskets too. I 'member dere was a white widow 'oman what lived near our place, an' she had two boys. Mistus let dem boys pick 'em some peas w'en us would be pickin', an' us would run 'em off, cause us diden' lak' po' white trash. But Mistus made us let 'em pick all dey wannid.

"I was 'bout twelve years old w'en freedom come, an' was big 'nough to wait on Mistus good den. I 'member how I used to run to de spring wid a little tin bucket w'en she wannid a fresh drink of water.

"Mos' of de slaves stayed with Mistus atter freedom come, 'cause dey all loved her, an' dey diden' have no place to go. Mistus fed 'em jes' lak' she had allus done and paid 'em a little money too. Us diden' never have no fussin' an' fightin' on our place, an' de Ku Klux Klan never come 'roun' dar, but de niggers had to have a ticket if dey lef' de place on Sunday. Dat was so de paddyrollers woulden' whip 'em if dey cotch 'em.

"All de niggers on de udder places, called us free niggers long 'fo' freedom come, 'cause we diden' have no whippin' post, an' if any of us jes' had to be whipped, Mistus would see dat dey warn't beat bad 'nough to leave no stripes.

"My pappy left de old Smith plantation, soon atter he got 'is freedom, an' went to Augusta, Georgia whar he died in jes' 'bout two years.

"I waked up one mornin' an' heered Mistus makin' a funny fuss. She was tryin' to git up an' pullin' at her gown. I was plum skeert an' I runned atter some of de udder folkses. Dey come a runnin' but she never did speak no mo', an' diden' live but jes' a few hours longer. De white folkses made me go to 'er funeral. Dere sho' was a big crowd of folkses dar, 'cause evvybody loved Mistus; she was so good to evvybody. Dey diden' preach long, mos'ly jes' prayed an' sung Mistus' favorite songs: 'All God's Chillun are a Gatherin' Home,' and', 'We'll Understand Bye an' Bye.'

"I lef' de old place not long atter Mistus died, 'cause hit was too lonesome dar an' I missed her so much, I come to town an' jes' wukked for white folkses. I doan' 'member all of 'em. But I cain' wuk no mo' now, an' hit woan' be so long 'til I see my old Mistus again, an' den I can still wait on her, an' we woan' have to part no mo'."

[HW: Dist. 2 Ex Slave 101]

EX-SLAVE INTERVIEW: MARY SMITH 910 Spruce Street Augusta, Georgia (Richmond County)

BY: (Mrs.) Margaret Johnson Editor Fed. Writer's Proj. Augusta, Georgia [Date Stamp: MAY 8 1937]

Such a hovel, such squalor it would be hard to imagine. Only first hand observation could be a reliable witness to such conditions.

Into a tiny room was squeezed a double and a single bed with a passage-way barely wide enough to walk between the two beds. The door from the small porch could be opened only enough to allow one to enter, as the head on the single bed was against it. A small fire burned in the open fire place. An old man, ragged but respectful, and two old women were sitting in the room, one on a broken chair, the other on an empty nail keg. As we entered the room one of the old women got up, took a badly clipped and handleless teacup from the hearth and offered it to a girl lying in the single bed, in a smother of dirty quilts.

Mary was a squat figure, her head tied up in a dirty towel, her dress ragged and dirty, and much too small for her abundant figure. She welcomed us telling us the "po chile was bad sick" but she would talk to us. As the door of the lean-to kitchen was open, it offered a breath of outside air, even though polluted with the garbage scattered on the ground, and the odors from chickens, cats and dogs meandering about.

Mary's round face was unwrinkled, but the wisps of wool showing beneath her "head rag" were grey, and her eyes were rheumy with age. She was entirely toothless and her large tongue rolled ceaselessly in her mouth, chewing nothing.

Her articulation necessarily was very poor. "I wus seven yeres old when Freedum cum. My ma and pa belonged to Mr. McNorrell of Burke County. Miss Sally was a good lady and kind to evebody. My marster was a good man cuz he was a preacher, I never member him whuppin' anybody. I 'members slavry, yes mam, I 'members all the slaves' meals wus cooked in de yard, in big pots hung up on hooks on a iron bar. The fust wurk I ever done wus to push fire wood under dem pots. Mostly I stayed home and minded de baby. My ma uster pin a piece of fat back on my dres' before she went to de fiel' and when de baby cry I tek him up and let 'em suck 'em. My brudder you see sittin' in dere, he de baby I uster mine. My pa wuz the blacksmith on the plantashun, and he mek all de plows and tings like dat. My ma tek me to de fiel when I wuz 'bout sever yeres ole and teach me to chop cotton, I don't member what happen when freedom come, tings wuz 'bout de same, fur as we chillun knowed."

Elizabeth Watson M.G. 7/15/37

MELVIN SMITH, Ex-Slave, 96 Years [Date Stamp: JUL 28 1937]

"Yes'm, I show does 'member all 'about my white folks an' th' war 'cause I was twenty-four year ole when th' war was over. I was born in 1841 an' that makes me 'bout eighty-seven now, don't it?"

Old Melvin Smith sat back in his chair with a smile of satisfaction on his face. He was seated on the narrow porch of his little cabin with the bright sunshine beaming down upon him. But his blind eyes could not notice the glare from the sun. His wife and daughter appeared from around the corner of the house and took their places near him to hear again the story that they had heard many times before.

"My white folks lived in Beaufort, South Ca'lina, an' that's whar I was born," Melvin continued. "My old Miss, I called her Miss Mary, took care of me 'till I was eight year old. Then she give me back to my ma. You see, it was this a-way. My ma an' pa was sold in Beaufort; I don't know whar they come from before that. When I was born Miss Mary took me in th' big house with her an' thar I stayed, jest like I told you, 'till I was eight. Old Miss jest wanted me to be in th' room with her an' I slep' on a pallet right near her bed. In the daytime I played in th' yard an' I pick up chips for old Miss. Then when I got most big enuff to work she give me back to my ma.

"Then I live in a cabin like the rest of th' niggers. Th' quarters was stretched out in a line behind Marse Jim's house. Ever' nigger fam'ly had a house to theyselves. Me an' my pa an' ma, they names was Nancy an' Henry Smith, live in a cabin with my sisters. They names was Saphronia an' Annie. We had beds in them cabins made out of cypress. They looked jest like they do now. Ever'body cooked on th' fire place. They had pots an' boilers that hung over th' fire an' we put th' vittles in thar an' they cooked an' we et 'em. 'Course we never et so much in th' cabin 'cause ever mornin' th' folks all went to th' field. Ma an' Pa was field hands an' I worked thar too when I got big enuff. Saphronia an' Annie, they worked to th' big house. All th' nigger chillun stayed all day with a woman that was hired to take care of them."

When asked about the kind of food they ate, Melvin replied:

"We had enuff for anybody. Th' vittles was cooked in great big pots over th' fire jest like they was cookin' for stock. Peas in this pot, greens in that one. Corn-bread was made up an' put back in th' husks an' cooked in th' ashes. They called that a ash cake. Well, when ever'thing was done th' vittles was poured in a trough an' we all et. We had spoons cut out of wood that we et with. Thar was a big lake on th' plantation whar we could fish an' they show was good when we had 'em for supper. Sometimes we go huntin' an' then we had possum an' squirrel to eat. Th' possums was best of all."

Melvin was asked to tell something about his master's family.

"Old Marster was name Jim Farrell an' his wife was Miss Mary. They had three chillun name Mary, Jim an' Martha. They live in a big white house sot off from th' road 'bout two an' a half mile from Beaufort. Marster was rich I reckon 'cause he had 'bout a sixteen horse farm an' a whole hoodle of niggers. If you measured 'em it would a-been several cowpens full. Heap of them niggers worked in Marster's house to wait on th' white folks. They had a heap of comp'ny so they had to have a heap of niggers. Marster was good to his niggers but he had a overseer that was a mean man. He beat th' niggers so bad that Marster showed him th' road an' told him to git. Then th' Boss an' his son looked after th' hands theyselves 'till they could git another one. That overseer's name was Jimmy.

"Ever' mornin' at four clock th' overseer blowed a conchshell an' all us niggers knowed it was time to git up an' go to work. Sometimes he blowed a bugle that'd wake up the nation. Ever'body worked from sunup 'till sundown. If we didn't git up when we was s'posed to we got a beatin'. Marster'd make 'em beat the part that couldn't be bought." Melvin chuckled at his own sly way of saying that the slaves were whipped through their clothes.

"In the summertime," he continued, "We wore shirts that come down to here." Melvin measured to his ankle. "In the wintertime we wore heavy jeans over them shirts an' brogan shoes. They made shoes on the plantation but mine was store-bought. Marster give us all the vittles an' clothes we needed. He was good to ever'body. I 'member all the po' white trash that lived near us. Marster all time send 'em meat an' bread an' help 'em with they crop. Some of 'em come from Goldsboro, North Ca'lina to git a crop whar we lived. They was so sorry they couldn't git no crop whar they come frum, so they moved near us. Sometimes they even come to see the niggers an' et with us. We went to see them, too, but we had more to eat than them. They was sorry folks."

After a pause, Melvin asked:

"Did you ever hear how the niggers was sold? They was put on a stage on the courthouse square an' sold kinder like they was stock. The prettiest one got the biggest bid. They said that they was a market in North Ca'lina but I never see'd it. The ones I saw was jest sold like I told you. Then they went home with they marsters. If they tried to run away they sont the hounds after them. Them dogs would sniff around an' first news you knowed they caught them niggers. Marster's niggers run away some but they always come back. They'd hear that they could have a better time up north so they think they try it. But they found out that they wasn't no easy way to live away from Marster. He always took 'em back, didn't beat 'em nor nothin'. I run away once myself but I never went nowhere." Melvin's long body shook with laughter as he thought of his prank. He shifted in his chair and then began:

"I was 'bout sixteen an' I took a notion I was grown. So I got under the house right under Marster's dinin' room an' thar I stayed for three months. Nobody but the cook knowed whar I was. They was a hole cut in the floor so ever' day she lifted the lid an' give me something to eat. Ever' day I sneaked out an' got some water an' walked about a bit but I never let nobody see me. I jest got biggety like chillun does now. When I got ready to come out for good I went 'way round by the barn an' come up so nobody know whar I been. Ol' Miss was standin' in the yard an' she spy me an' say, 'Jim," she always call all us niggers Jim 'cause that was Marster's name. She say, "Jim, whar you been so long?' I say, 'I been to Mr. Jones's workin' but I don't like the way they treat me. You all treats me better over here so I come back home.' I say, 'You ain't gonna whip me is you, Miss?' Ol' Miss say, 'No, I ain't gonna whip you this time but if you do such a thing again I'm gonna use all the leather on this place on you." So I went on 'bout my business an' they never bothered me."

Melvin was asked about the church he attended. To this he replied:

"The niggers had a church in the bush arbor right thar on the place. Preacher Sam Bell come ever' Sunday mornin' at ten clock an' we sot thar an' listened to him 'till 'leven thirty. Then we tear home an' eat our dinner an' lie round till four-thirty. We'd go back to church an' stay 'bout hour an' come home for supper. The preacher was the onliest one that could read the Bible. When a nigger joined the church he was baptized in the creek near the bush arbor." And in a low tone he began to speak the words of the old song though he became somewhat confused.

"Lord, remember all Thy dying groans,
And then remember me.
While others fought to win the prize
And sailed through bloody sea.

"Through many dangers, toils an' snares,
I have already come.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind but now I see."

"I've knowed that song for a long time. I been a member of the church for sixty year."

When asked about the war, Melvin became somewhat excited. He rose feebly to his feet and clasped his walking stick as if it were a gun.

"I see'd the Yankee soldiers drill right thar in front of our house," he said. "They'd be marchin' 'long this way (Melvin stumblingly took a few steps across the porch) an' the cap'n say, 'Right' an' they turn back this here way." Melvin retraced his steps to illustrate his words. "Cap'n say, 'Aim' an' they aim." He lifted his stick and aimed. "Cap'n say, 'Fire' an' they fire. I see'd 'em most ever' day. Ol' Marster was a cap'n in our army. I hear big guns a-boomin' all a-time an' the sights I did see! Streets jest runnin' with blood jest like it was water. Here lay a man on this side with his legs shot off; on that thar side they was a man with his arms shot off. Some of them never had no head. It was a terrible sight. I wasn't scared 'cause I knowed they wouldn't hurt me. Them Yankees never bothered nothin' we had. I hear some folks say that they stole they vittles but they never bothered ours 'cause they had plenty of they own. After the war Marster called us together an' say, 'You is free an' can go if you want to' an' I left, so that's all I know."

A few days later a second visit was made to Melvin. This time he was on the inside of his little cabin and was all alone. He came forward, a broad smile on his face, when he heard familiar voices.

"I been thinkin' 'bout what I told you an' I b'lieve that's 'bout all I 'member," he said.

Then he was asked if he remembered any days when the slaves did not have to work.

"Yes'm," was the reply. "We never worked on Christmas or the Fourth of July. Marster always give us big sacks of fruit an' candy on Christmas an' a barbecue the Fourth of July. We never worked none New Year's Day, neither. We jest sot around an' et chicken, fish an' biscuit. Durin' the week on Wednesday an' Thursday night we had dances an' then they was a lot of fiddlin' an' banjo playin'. We was glad to see days when we never had to work 'cause then we could sleep. It seem like the niggers had to git up soon's they lay down. Marster was good to us but the overseer was mean. He wan't no po' white trash; he was up-to-date but he like to beat on niggers."

When asked if he has been happier since he was freed, he replied:

"In a sense the niggers is better off since freedom come. Ol' Marster was good an' kind but I like to be free to go whar I please. Back then we couldn't go nowhar 'less we had a pass. We don't have no overseer to bother us now. It ain't that I didn't love my Marster but I jest likes to be free. Jest as soon as Marster said I didn't b'long to nobody no more I left an' went to Tallahassee. Mr. Charlie Pearce come an' wanted some hands to work in orange groves an' fish for him so that's what I done. He took a whole crew. While we was down thar Miss Carrie Standard, a white lady, had a school for the colored folks. 'Course, my ol' Miss had done taught me to read an' write out of the old blue back Webster but I had done forgot how. Miss Carrie had 'bout fifteen in her class.

"I stayed in Tallahassee three years an' that's whar I married the first time. I was jest romancin' about an' happened to see Ca'line Harris so I married her. That was a year after the war. We never had no preacher but after we been goin' together for such a long time folks say we married. We married jest like the colored folks does now. When I left Tallahassee I moved to another place in Florida, thirteen mile from Thomasville, Ga. I stay thar 'bout thirty-seven year. My first wife died an' I married another. The second one lived twenty-one year an' I married again. The one what's livin' now is my third one. In 1905 she had a baby that was born with two lower teeth. It never lived but a year. In all, I've had twenty-three chillun. They most all lives in Florida an' I don't know what they doin' or how many chillun they got. I got four gran'-chillun livin' here."

Melvin was asked to tell what he knew of the Ku Klux Klan. He answered:

"I don't know nothin' 'bout that, I hear somethin' 'bout it but I never b'lieved in it. I b'lieve in h'ants, though. I ain't never see'd one but I'se heard 'em. When you walkin' 'long an' a twig snaps an' you feel like you want to run an' your legs won't move an' your hair feels like it's goin' to rise off your head, that's a ha'nt after you. That sho is the evil sperrit. An' if you ain't good somethin' bad'll happen to you."

When asked why he joined the church, he replied:

"So many people is tryin' to live on flowery beds of ease that the world is in a gamblin' position an' if it wasn't for the Christian part, the world would be destroyed. They ask God for mercy an' He grants it. When they git in trouble they can send a telegram wire an' git relief from on high."

PLANTATION LIFE as viewed by Ex-Slave

NANCY SMITH, Age about 80 129 Plum Street Athens, Georgia

Written by: Grace McCune Athens

Edited by: Sarah H. Hall Athens

and John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7

Nancy Smith was in bed when the interviewer called. The aged Negress appeared to be quite feeble but, even though she was alone in the house, her head was tied up in a snowy white cloth and the sickroom was neat and clean. The bowl of fresh flowers on her bedside table was no gayer than Nancy's cheerful chuckle as she repeated the doctor's instructions that she must stay in bed because of a weak heart. "Lawsy Chile," she said, "I ain't dead yit." Nancy stated that the grandson who lives with her has been preparing breakfast and cleaning the room since she has been bedridden, and that a niece who lives nearby comes in occasionally during the day to look after her.

Asked if she felt strong enough to talk about the old plantation days, she answered: "I jus' loves to talk 'bout old times, and I spends a lot of dis lonesome time here by myself jus' a-studyin' 'bout dem days. But now listen, Chile, and understand dis. I warn't no plantation Negro. Our white folks was town folks, dey was. My Mammy and Daddy was Julia and Jack Carlton. Dey belonged to old Marster, Dr. Joe Carlton, and us lived right here in town in a big white house dat had a upstairs and a downstairs in it. Our house stood right whar de courthouse is now. Marster had all dat square and his mother, Mist'ess Bessie Carlton, lived on de square de other side of Marse Joe's. His office was on de corner whar de Georgia (Georgian) Hotel is now, and his hoss stable was right whar da Cain's boardin' house is. Honey, you jus' ought to have seed Marse Joe's hoss stable for it sho' was a big one.

"No Mam, I don't know 'zactly how old I is. I was born 'fore de war, and Marse Joe kept de records of all of us and evvything, but somehow dem books got lost. Folks said I was 'bout de age of Marse Joe's son, Dr. Willie. Marster had three boys: Dr. Joe, Jr., Dr. Willie, and Dr. Jimmie, and dere was one little Mist'ess. She was Miss Julia. Us all played 'round in de yard together.

"Daddy, he was de car'iage driver. He driv Marse Joe 'round, 'cept when Mist'ess wanted to go somewhar. Den Daddy driv de coach for her, and Marse Joe let another boy go wid him.

"De biggest, bestest fireplace up at de big house was in de kitchen whar Mammy done de cookin'. It had a great wide hearth wid four big swingin' racks and four big old pots. Two of de ovens was big and two was little. Dat was better cookin' 'rangements and fixin's dan most of de other white folks in dis town had den. When dat fire got good and hot and dere was plenty of ashes, den Mammy started cookin' ash cakes and 'taters. One of Mammy's good ash-roasted 'taters would be awful good right now wid some of dat good old home-made butter to go wid it. Marster allus kept jus' barrels and barrels of good old home-made 'lasses sirup, 'cause he said dat was what made slave chilluns grow fast and be strong. Folks don't know how to have plenty of good things to eat lak us had den. Jus' think of Marse Joe's big old plantation down nigh de Georgia Railroad whar he raised our somepin' t'eat: vegetables sich as green corn, 'taters, cabbages, onions, collards, turnip greens, beans, peas--more than I could think up all day--and dere was plenty of wheat, rye, and corn for our bread.

"Out dar de pastur's was full of cows, hogs and sheep, and dey raised lots of chickens and turkeys on dat farm. Dey clipped wool from dem sheep to weave wid de cotton when dey made cloth for our winter clothes.

"Marster had a overseer to look atter his plantation, but us chillun in town sho'ly did love to be 'lowed to go wid him or whoever went out dar when dey needed somepin' at de big house from de farm. Dey needed us to open and shut gates and run errands, and whilest dey was gittin' up what was to be took back to town, us would run 'round seein' evvything us could.

"Honey, de clothes us wore den warn' t lak what folks has now. Little gals jus' wore slips cut all in one piece, and boys didn't wear nothin' but long shirts 'til dey was big enough to wuk in de fields. Dat was summertime clothes. In winter, dey give us plenty of warm clothes wid flannel petticoats and brass-toed shoes. Grown-up Negroes had dresses what was made wid waisties and skirts sewed together. Dey had a few gathers in de skirts, but not many. De men wore homespun britches wid galluses to hold 'em up. White folks had lots better clothes. Mist'ess' dresses had full, ruffled skirts and, no foolin', her clothes was sho'ly pretty. De white menfolks wore plain britches, but dey had bright colored coats and silk vests dat warn't lak de vests de men wears now. Dem vests was more lak fancy coats dat didn't have no sleeves. Some folks called 'em 'wescoats.' White chillun never had no special clothes for Sunday.

"Miss Julia used to make me sweep de yard wid a little brushbroom and I had to wear a bonnet den to keep dust out of my hair. Dat bonnet was ruffled 'round de front and had staves to hold de brim stiff, but in de back it didn't have no ruffle; jus' de bottom of de crown what us called de bonnet tail. Dem bonnets looked good enough in front but mighty bob-tailed in de back.

"Dey used to have big 'tracted meetin's in Pierce's Chapel nigh Foundry Street and Hancock Avenue, and us was allus glad for dem meetin' times to come. Through de week dey preached at night, but when Sunday come it was all day long and dinner on de ground. Pierce's Chapel was a old fashioned place, but you forgot all 'bout dat when Brother Thomas got in de pulpit and preached dem old time sermons 'bout how de devil gwine to git you if you don't repent and be washed in de blood of de Lamb. De call to come up to de mourner's bench brought dem Negroes jus' rollin' over one another in de 'citement. Soon dey got happy and dere was shoutin' all over de place. Some of 'em jus' fell out. When de 'tracted meetin' closed and de baptizin' dey come, dat was de happiest time of all. Most of de time dere was a big crowd for Brother Thomas to lead down into de river, and dem Negroes riz up out of de water a-singin': _Lord, I'm comin' Home_, _Whar de Healin' Waters Flow_, _Roll, Jordan Roll_, _All God's Chillun Got Wings_, and sich lak. You jus' knowed dey was happy.

"No Mam, I don't 'member much 'bout folks dyin' in dem days 'cause I never did love to go 'round dead folks. De first corpse I ever seed was Marse Joe's boy, young Marse Jimmy. I was skeered to go in dat room 'til I had done seed him so peaceful lak and still in dat pretty white casket. It was a sho' 'nough casket, a mighty nice one; not lak dem old home-made coffins most folks was buried in. Hamp Thomas, a colored man dat lived right below us, made coffins for white folks and slaves too. Some of dem coffins was right nice. Dey was made out of pine mostly, and sometimes he painted 'em and put a nice linin' over cotton paddin'. Dat made 'em look better dan de rough boxes de porest folks was buried in. Mammy said dat when slaves died out on de plantation day wropped de 'omans in windin' sheets and laid 'em on coolin' boards 'til de coffins was made, Dey put a suit of homespun clothes on de mens when dey laid 'em out. Dey jus' had a prayer when dey buried plantation slaves, but when de crops was laid by, maybe a long time atter de burial, dey would have a white man come preach a fun'ral sermon and de folks would all sing: _Harps (Hark) From De Tomb_ and _Callin' God's Chillun Home_.

"Dere warn't no patterollers in town, but slaves had to have passes if dey was out atter 9:00 o'clock at night or de town marshal would put a fine on 'em if dey couldn't show no pass.

"De fust I knowed 'bout de war was when Marse Joe's brother, Marse Bennie Carlton, left wid de other sojers and pretty soon he got kilt. I was little den, and it was de fust time I had ever seed our Mist'ess cry. She jus' walked up and down in de yard a-wringin' her hands and cryin'. 'Poor Benny's been killed,' she would say over and over.

"When dem yankee sojers come, us warn't much skeered 'cause Marse Joe had done told us all 'bout 'em and said to spect 'em 'fore long. Sho' 'nough, one day dey come a-lopin' up in Marse Joe's yard. Dey had dem old blue uniforms on and evvy one of 'em had a tin can and a sack tied to his saddle. Marster told us dey kept drinkin' water in dem cans and dey called 'em canteens. De sacks was to carry deir victuals in. Dem fellows went all through out big house and stole whatever dey wanted. Dey got all of Mist'ess' best silver 'cause us didn't have no time to hide it atter us knowed dey was nigh 'round de place. Dey tuk all de somepin' t'eat dere was in de big house. When dey had done et all dey wanted and tuk evvything else dey could carry off, dey called us Negroes up 'fore deir captain, and he said all of us was free and could go any time and anywhar us wanted to go. Dey left, and us never seed 'em in dat yard no more. Marse Joe said all of us dat wanted to could stay on wid him. None of us had nowhar else to go and 'sides nobody wanted to go nowhar else, so evvy one of Marse Joe's Negroes stayed right on wid him dat next year. Us warn't skeered of dem Kluxers (Ku Klux Klan) here in town, but dey was right bad out on de plantations.

"'Bout de time I was old enough to go to school, Daddy moved away from Marse Joe's. Us went over to de other side of de river nigh whar de old check mill is. Dey had made guns dar durin' de war, and us chillun used to go and look all through dat old mill house. Us played 'long de river banks and went swimmin' in de river. Dem was de good old days, but us never realized it den.

"I never went to school much, 'cause I jus' couldn't seem to larn nothin'. Our teachers said I didn't have no talent for book larnin'. School was taught in Pierce's Chapel by a Negro man named Randolph, and he sho'ly did make kids toe da mark. You had better know dem lessons or you was gwine to git fanned out and have to stay in atter school. Us got out of school evvy day at 2:00 o'clock. Dat was 'cause us was town chillun. I was glad I didn't live in de country 'cause country schools kept de chillun all day long.

"It was sort of funny to be able to walk out and go in town whenever us wanted to widout gittin' Marster's consent, but dere warn't nothin' much to go to town for 'less you wanted to buy somepin. A few stores, mostly on Broad Street, de Town Hall, and de Fire Hall was de places us headed for. Us did love to hang 'round whar dat fire engine was, 'cause when a fire broke out evvybody went, jus' evvybody. Folks would form lines from de nearest cisterns and wells and pass dem buckets of water on from one to another 'til dey got to de man nighest de fire.

"Soon as I was big enough, I went to wuk for white folks. Dey never paid me much in cash money, but things was so much cheaper dan now dat you could take a little cash and buy lots of things. I wukked a long time for a yankee fambly named Palmer dat lived on Oconee Street right below de old Michael house, jus' 'fore you go down de hill. Dey had two or three chillun and I ain't never gwine to forgit de day dat little Miss Eunice was runnin' and playin' in de kitchen and fell 'gainst de hot stove. All of us was skeered most to death 'cause it did seem den lak her face was plumb ruint, and for days folks was 'most sho' she was gwine to die. Atter a long, long time Miss Eunice got well and growed up to be a fine school teacher. Some of dem scars still shows on her face.

"Me and Sam Smith got married when I was 17. No Chile, us didn't waste no money on a big weddin' but I did have a right pretty weddin' dress. It was nice and new and was made out of white silk. My sister was a-cookin' for Mrs. White at dat time, and dey had a fine two-room kitchen in de back yard set off from de big house. My sister lived in one of dem rooms and cooked for de Whites in de other one. Mrs. White let us git married in her nice big kitchen and all de white folks come out from de big house to see Brother Thomas tie de knot for us. Den me and Sam built dis very same house whar you is a-settin', and I done been livin' here ever since.

"Us was livin' right here when dey put on dem fust new streetcars. Little bitty mules pulled 'em 'long and sometimes dey had a right hard time draggin' dem big old cars through mud and bad weather. Now and den day got too frisky and run away; dat was when dem cars would rock and roll and you wished you could git off and walk. Most of de time dem little mules done good and us was jus' crazy 'bout ridin' on de streetcars."

When Nancy tired of talking she tactfully remarked: "I spects I better git quiet and rest now lak de doctor ordered, but I'm mighty glad you come, and I hopes you'll be back again 'fore long. Most folks don't take up no time wid old wore-out Negroes. Good-bye, Missy."

PLANTATION LIFE AS VIEWED BY EX-SLAVE

NELLIE SMITH, Age 78 660 W. Hancock Avenue Athens, Georgia

Written by: Miss Grace McCune Athens

Edited by: Mrs. Sarah H. Hall Athens

and John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7 Augusta Georgia

September 2, 1938

Large pecan trees shaded the small, well-kept yard that led to Nellie Smith's five-room frame house. The front porch of her white cottage was almost obscured by a white cloud of fragrant clematis in full blossom, and the yard was filled with roses and other flowers.

A small mulatto woman sat in the porch swing, a walking stick across her lap. Her straight, white hair was done in a prim coil low on the neck, and her print dress and white apron were clean and neat. In answer to the visitor's inquiry, she smiled and said: "This is Nellie Smith. Won't you come in out of the hot sun? I just knows you is plumb tuckered out. Walkin' around in this hot weather is goin' to make you sick if you don't be mighty careful.

"'Scuse me for not gittin' up. I can't hardly make it by myself since I fell and got hurt so bad. My arm was broke and it looks lak my old back never will stop hurtin' no more. Our doctor says I'll have to stay bandaged up this way two or three weeks longer, but I 'spects that's on account of my age. You know old folks' bones don't knit and heal quick lak young folks' and, jus' let me tell you, I've done been around here a mighty long time. Are you comfortable, Child? Wouldn't you lak to have a glass of water? I'll call my daughter; she's back in the kitchen."

Nellie rapped heavily on the floor with her walking stick, and a tall, stout, mulatto in a freshly laundered house frock made her appearance. "This is my daughter, Amanda," said Nellie, and, addressing her off-spring, she continued: "Bring this lady a drink of water. She needs it after walkin' 'way out here in this hot sun." Ice tinkled in the glass that the smiling Amanda offered as she inquired solicitously if there was anything else she could do. Amanda soon went back to her work and Nellie began her narrative.

"Lordy, Honey, them days when I was a child, is so far back that I don't s'pect I can 'member much 'bout 'em. I does love to talk about them times, but there ain't many folks what keers anything 'bout listening to us old folks these days. If you don't mind we'll go to my room where it'll be more comfortable." Amanda appeared again, helped Nellie to her room, and placed her in a large chair with pillows to support the broken arm. Amanda laughed happily when she noticed her mother's enthusiasm for the opportunity to relate her life story. "Mother likes that," she said, "and I'm so glad you asked her to talk about those old times she thinks so much about. I'll be right back in the kitchen ironing; if you want anything, just call me."

Nellie now began again: "I was born right near where the Coordinate College is now; it was the old Weir place then. I don't know nothin' 'bout my Daddy, but my Mother's name was Harriet Weir, and she was owned by Marster Jack Weir. He had a great big old plantation then and the homeplace is still standin', but it has been improved and changed so much that it don't look lak the same house. As Marse Jack's sons married off he give each one of 'em a home and two slaves, but he never did sell none of his slaves, and he told them boys they better not never sell none neither.

"Slaves slept in log cabins what had rock chimblies at the end. The rocks was put together with red clay. All the slaves was fed at the big house kitchen. The fireplace, where they done the cookin', was so big it went 'most across one end of that big old kitchen. It had long swingin' cranes to hang the pots on, and there was so many folks to cook for at one time that often there was five or six pots over the fire at the same time. Them pots was large too--not lak the little cookin' vessels we use these days. For the bakin', they had all sizes of ovens. Now Child, let me tell you, that was good eatin'. Folks don't take time enough to cook right now; They are always in too big a hurry to be doin' something else and don't cook things long enough. Back in dem days they put the vegetables on to cook early in the mornin' and biled 'em 'til they was good and done. The biggest diffunce I see is that folks didn't git sick and stay sick with stomach troubles then half as much as they does now. When my grandma took a roast out of one of them old ovens it would be brown and juicy, with lots of rich, brown gravy. Sweet potatoes baked and browned in the pan with it would taste mighty fine too. With some of her good biscuits, that roast meat, brown gravy, and potatoes, you had food good enough for anybody. I just wish I could taste some more of it one more time before I die.

"Why, Child, two of the best cake-makers I ever knew used them old ovens for bakin' the finest kinds of pound cakes and fruit cakes, and evvybody knows them cakes was the hardest kinds to bake we had in them days. Aunt Betsey Cole was a great cake-baker then. She belonged to the Hulls, what lived off down below here somewhere but, when there was to be a big weddin' or some 'specially important dinner in Athens, folks 'most always sent for Aunt Betsey to bake the cakes. Aunt Laura McCrary was a great cake-maker too; she baked the cake for President Taft when he was entertained at Mrs. Maggie Welch's home here.

"In them days you didn't have to be runnin' to the store evvy time you wanted to cook a extra good meal; folks raised evvything they needed right there at home. They had all the kinds of vegetables they knowed about then in their own gardens, and there was big fields of corn, rye, and wheat. Evvy big plantation raised its own cows for plenty of milk and butter, as well as lots of beef cattle, hogs, goats, and sheep. 'Most all of 'em had droves of chickens, geese, and turkeys, and on our place there were lots of peafowls. When it was goin' to rain them old peafowls set up a big holler. I never knew rain to fail after them peafowls started their racket.

"All our clothes and shoes was home-made, and I mean by that they growed the cotton, wool, and cattle and made the cloth and leather on the plantation. Summer clothes was made of cotton homespun, and cotton and wool was wove together for winter clothin'. Marse Jack owned a man what he kept there to do nothin' but make shoes. He had another slave to do all the carpenterin' and to make all the coffins for the folks that died on the plantation. That same carpenter made 'most all the beds the white folks and us slaves slept on. Them old beds--they called 'em teesters--had cords for springs; nobody never heard of no metal springs them days. They jus' wove them cords criss-cross, from one side to the other and from head to foot. When they stretched and sagged they was tightened up with keys what was made for that purpose.

"Jus' look at my room," Nellie laughed. "I saw you lookin' at my bed. It was made at Wood's Furniture Shop, right here in Athens, and I've had it ever since I got married the first time. Take a good look at it, for there ain't many lak it left." Nellie's pride in her attractively furnished room was evident as she told of many offers she has had for this furniture, but she added: "I want to keep it all here to use myself jus' as long as I live. Shucks, I done got plumb off from what I was tellin' you jus' ravin' 'bout my old furniture and things.

"My Mother died when I was jus' a little girl and she's buried in the old family graveyard on the Weir place, but there are several other slaves buried there and I don't know which grave is hers. Grandma raised me, and I was jus' gittin' big enough to handle that old peafowl-tail fly brush they used to keep the flies off the table when we were set free.

"It wasn't long after the War when the Yankees come to Athens. Folks had to bury or hide evvything they could, for them Yankees jus' took anything they could git their hands on, 'specially good food. They would catch up other folks' chickens and take hams from the smokehouses, and they jus' laughed in folks' faces if they said anything 'bout it. They camped in the woods here on Hancock Avenue, but of course it wasn't settled then lak it is now. I was mighty scared of them Yankees and they didn't lak me neither. One of 'em called me a little white-headed devil.

"One of my aunts worked for a northern lady that they called Mrs. Meeker, who lived where the old Barrow home is now. Evvy summer when she went back up North she would leave my aunt and uncle to take care of her place. It was right close to the Yankees' camp, and the soldiers made my aunt cook for them sometimes. I was livin' with her then, and I was so scared of 'em that I stayed right by her. She never had to worry 'bout where I was them days, for I was right by her side as long as the Yankees was hangin' 'round Athens. My uncle used to say that he had seen them Yankees ride to places and shoot down turkeys, then make the folks that owned them turkeys cook and serve 'em. Folks used to talk lots 'bout the Yankees stoppin' a white 'oman on the street and takin' her earrings right out of her ears to put 'em on a Negro 'oman; I never saw that, I jus' heard it.

"After the war was over Grandpa bought one of the old slave cabins from Marse Jack and we lived there for a long time; then we moved out to Rock Spring. I was about eight or nine years old then, and they found out I was a regular tomboy. The woods was all 'round Rock Spring then, and I did have a big time climbin' them trees. I jus' fairly lived in 'em durin' the daytime, but when dark come I wanted to be as close to Grandpa as I could git.

"One time, durin' those days at Rock Spring, I wanted to go to a Fourth of July celebration. Those celebrations was mighty rough them days and Grandpa didn't think that would be a good place for a decent little girl, so he didn't want me to go. I cried and hollered and cut up something awful. Grandma told him to give me a good thrashin' but Grandpa didn't lak to do that, so he promised me I could go to ride if I wouldn't go to that celebration. That jus' tickled me to death, for I did lak to ride. Grandpa had two young mules what was still wild, and when he said I could ride one of 'em Grandma tried hard to keep me off of it, for she said that critter would be sure to kill me, but I was so crazy to go that nobody couldn't tell me nothin'. Auntie lent me her domino coat to wear for a ridin' habit and I sneaked and slipped a pair of spurs, then Grandpa put a saddle on the critter and helped me to git up on him. I used them spurs, and then I really went to ride. That mule showed his heels straight through them woods and way on out in the country. I couldn't stop him, so I jus' kept on kickin' him with them spurs and didn't have sense to know that was what was makin' him run. I thought them spurs was to make him mind me, and all the time I was I lammin' him with the spurs I was hollerin': 'Stop! Oh, Stop!' When I got to where I was too scared to kick him with the spurs or do nothin' 'cept hang on to that saddle, that young mule quit his runnin' and trotted home as nice and peaceable as you please. I never did have no more use for spurs.

"Grandpa used to send me to Phinizy's mill to have corn and wheat ground. It would take all day long, so they let me take a lunch with me, and I always had the best sort of time when I went to mill. Uncle Isham run the mill then and he would let me think I was helpin' him. Then, while he helped me eat my lunch, he would call me his little 'tomboy gal' and would tell me about the things he used to do when he was 'bout my age.

"My first schoolin' was in old Pierce's Chapel that set right spang in the middle of Hancock Avenue at Foundry Street. Our teacher was a Yankee man, and we were mighty surprised to find out that he wasn't very hard on us. We had to do something real bad to git a whippin', but when we talked or was late gittin' to school we had to stand up in the back of the schoolroom and hold up one hand. Pierce's chapel was where the colored folks had preachin' then--preachin' on Sunday and teachin' on week days, all in the same buildin'. A long time before then it had been the white folks' church, and Preacher Pierce was the first one to preach there after it was built, so they named it for him. When the white folks built them a new church they gave the old chapel to the colored folks, and, Honey, there was some real preachin' done in that old place. Me, I was a Methodist, but I was baptized just lak the Baptists was down there in the Oconee River.

"Me and my first husband was too young to know what we was doin' when we got married, but our folks give us a grand big weddin'. I think my weddin' cake was 'bout the biggest one I ever saw baked in one of them old ovens in the open fireplace. They iced it in white and decorated it with grapes. A shoat was cooked whole and brought to the table with a big red apple in his mouth. You know a shoat ain't nothin' but a young hog that's done got bigger than a little pig. We had chicken and pies and just evvything good that went to make up a fine weddin' supper.

"Our weddin' took place at night, and I wore a white dress made with a tight-fittin' waist and a long, full skirt that was jus' covered with ruffles. My sleeves was tight at the wrists but puffed at the shoulders, and my long veil of white net was fastened to my head with pretty flowers. I was a mighty dressed up bride. The bridegroom wore a real dark-colored cutaway coat with a white vest. We did have a swell weddin' and supper, but there wasn't no dancin' 'cause we was all good church folks.

"We was so young we jus' started out havin' a good time and didn't miss nothin' that meant fun and frolic. We was mighty much in love with each other too. It didn't seem long before we had three children, and then one night he was taken sick all of a sudden and didn't live but a little while. Soon as he was taken sick I sent for the doctor, but my husband told me then he was dyin' fast and that he wasn't ready to die. He said: 'Nellie, here we is with these three little children and neither one of us had been fit to raise 'em. Now I've got to leave you and you will have to raise one of 'em, but the other two will come right on after me.'"

For several moments Nellie was still and quiet; then she raised her head and said: "Honey, it was jus' lak he said it would be. He was gone in jus' a little while and it wasn't two weeks 'fore the two youngest children was gone lak their daddy. I worried lots after my husband and babies was taken. I wanted to be saved to raise my little girl right, and I was too proud to let anybody know how troubled I was or what it was all about, so I kept it to myself. I lost weight, I couldn't sleep, and was jus' dyin' away with sin. I would go to church but that didn't git me no relief.