Chapter IV

Wen I'm dead don' you griebe atter me
(This line repeated three times)
By'm by don' you griebe atter me."

The second song is sung by a "mighty clevah woman" to her lover. The negro woman is at home rocking her baby, her husband is sitting not far away. A weird little whistle is heard. The negro woman sings to warn her lover of danger.

"Oh, de win's in de wes',
An' de cuckoo's in de nes',
No lodgin' hyar foah you,
By you baby by yoo.

Oh, de devil's in de man,
Cain't you unnerstan',
No lodgin' hyar foah you,
By you baby by yoo.

(Repetition of the first verse.)"

Edward Taylor

*Interview with Edward Taylor,*
*St. Louis, Missouri.*
*(Written by Grace E. White,*
*St. Louis, Mo.)*

_Born "Around 1812"_

The subject of this sketch is Edward Taylor, exact age not known, but he is positive he is over 115 years old. He lives in a two room frame cottage in the rear of 8013 Dale Avenue, St. Louis County, Missouri, with his wife of less than twelve months and says she is in her 50's.

Taylor is a tall, slender, almost erect old man, looks well for his age, very hard of hearing, his hair well mingled with gray. He believes God has called him to preach holiness to the world, and it is a hard matter to keep his mind on an interview for his ex-slave experiences instead of preaching to his interviewer. His story follows:

"I was born in Cheneyville, Louisiana. I guess around 1812. But I don't know. I do know, I was owned by Marse William Chaney. He was a rich old slave owner. I thought in dem days white folks was God, didn't know no better.

"I 'member well when de stars fell, I saw 'em twixt midnight and day and tried to ketch some of 'em. I was grown, too, most. I wasn't scared 'cause I thought long as I staid where de white folks was, dey would protect me from all harm, even de stars in de elements, storms, or what not, just stay near de white folks and I had nothing to worry about. I thought white folks made de stars, sun and everything on de earth. I knowed nothing but to be driven and beat all de time. I seed em take de bottom rail out of de rail fences and stick de nigger's head in de hole den jam de balance of de fence down on his neck, and beat him till he's stiff. Den I seed 'em put 40 or 50 slaves in stock and as high as 300 at a time and punish 'em, till some of 'em died. It was terrible. Chaney done his slaves so bad when he taken down sick, he just suffered till de skin dropped off his bones. Nobody do any thing for him but me, everybody, even his own folks was scared of him, didn't want to touch him he looked and smelt so bad. But I just stuck hard by him till he died. I took care of Jeff Davis for years, long fore he ever got president of des United States. Yes sir, I did. When de stars fell people all runnin' and hollerin' judgment done come. I didn't see no need in all dat 'citement, as long as de white folks livin' I thought they could keep us niggers livin'.

"I used to hear de white folks readin' de paper 'bout de war, and readin' de Yankees beaten 'em, and I wondered what de world is Yankees. I thought dey talking 'bout birds of de air or sumpin'. After while Essex Gun Boat got all de South to Vicksburg. I found out den what Yankees was. Yes, sir, I did. My slave owners would make de blacksmith make buck horns and fasten 'em like a crown on de slave women's heads and brad 'em on dere so dey would know 'em by dat mark. Dey was so tight and heavy for dem women to carry around dey often times swell up dere head so dey couldn't hardly see out dere eyes.

"I worked naked most my time I didn't know nothing 'bout pride. Dey had looms some places to make hemp coats and jackets. I had to make rails, drive wagons, and make cross tires in a blacksmith shop. We had to have a pass to go any place. De patrollers would git us and make us show our pass, and we got to be in our cabin by 9 o'clock. I got one pound of fat meat a week. If you got sick de doctor tell you to not lie to the old Marse or old Miss and you git all right. After de war was over I had to cut two cords of wood at night and work all day for one penny, and we could buy a ginger cake long as I was tall nearly and it last us all week. You could git it for a penny and we called it a stage plank. It was long and thin. I never kin forgit when old Marse William Chaney died. We fell to his brother Marse George Chaney. De wife I married belonged to de same people owned me. Marse George chained a host of dem niggers together and sold 'em, and bought some more. He bought four wid my wife at one time but he sold 'em in droves. Marse William owned us by de hundreds. I 'member I was 30 years old when I married. My wife had two chillin but dey dead long ago. I don't know how old my wife was when I married her though. I know dis here wife I got now since she was a baby. We jes' been married less dan a year. I am de first colored man to own a piece a ground in Lincoln Terrace, and de oldest man, white or black, to ever apply for a marriage license in the State of Missouri. I owns dis whole block from Dale to Harter Avenue and am taking care of four families living on my property, dat don't pay me a penny, and haven't for years. I never been to school a day in my life. Just trustin' God for my gittin along, and my understandin'. An automobile run over me two years ago and I had another accident in Jefferson City, Missouri one year ago, but am still able to go and preach the word of God.

Tishey Taylor

*Interview with Mrs. Tishey Taylor,*
*age 77, Poplar Bluff, Missouri.*

"I wusn't very old during slave time but I worked, yes sir, I did, and my por 'mammy chile', it wus from daylight ta' dark, and on good light nights it wus way up in the night. Mah mammy's name was 'Katie', Katie-Cherry, an ma father wus William Walturf, or somethin' like 'at, never did know good 'cause he never stayed wif us in our cabin no how and we never knowed him much.

"Shap Phillips wus our marster and he brought my parents 'fore I wus bawn, frum Frank Parker, (we jus said 'Ol Parker',) and brought us from Woofalton to New Madrid County. 'Ol Man Shap', (that what we call him,) had two sons, one name 'Amos' and one name 'Little Murry'. I took care 'Little Murry' fer ma, 'Task' and I warn't much biggner him but did I let him git hurt? Not me chile!

"'Ole Man Shap' owned 'bout two, three hundred us slaves and he had cabins built all over and around his plantation. This house is por nuf' but then we jes had one little room and 'irt floos and no windas, sometime jus holes out.

"Some them slaves cooks in their cabin, not what they wanted but what 'Marse' gibd 'em, most times wus beans an' 'tators and corn bred and milk, and some times 'round hog killin' time he pass out the 'jowl meat'.

"I jest don' 'member but it seems we did eat three times a day. I wus allays so glad to hear dat bell ring else a horn blow. Youse seed that kind of shell like calded 'Konk horn'--and could that 'nigger' blow lowd!

"Mammy cooked in the big house for 'Marse', and then som' time when her work was done in there she was took to the fields and lef' me and my brother and sister by our selves 'till she come and som' time when she did com' she would run in scared-like and lock de door and motion us quiet and say, 'Dey will think I'se sleep'. I didn't understand all that stuff den but fore long I did understan' what I'se tellin yu.

"'Nother thing our beds wus poor stuff, but mammy said she wus allays 'dog tired' and could 'a slep on the ground. They wus straw ticks and hard. Law no, chile, we didn't known what springs wus.

"One day I 'member bad, 'Ol Man Shap' sol' granma, she was mammy's mammy and all we ever hear, she was sol' down souf. We knowed not to do no takin' on for if'n we did the hide would got tooken off us.

"Mammy used to card wool and cotton and spin, then she would weave goods. I 'member one time, I wus little, I played 'rat under de loom'. I would crawl up and grab mammy and say 'e-e-e-k', and pinch her. She say, 'I'll puts a stop to that "rat" bothering me when I got work to do!' That didn' stop me but she sho' make me wish it had the nex' time I do it.

"I never knowed Sunday from Monday, 'cept on Sunday the white man come and we are called out under the brush arbor, didn' have no work in the fiel' at day, and he stand up 'fore us and preach out a little green-back book; I didn't know what it was then, but I knows now it was a Bible. I 'member every 'preach day' he say, 'Mind you not to steal from Missis or Marster'. He was plenty strong on that part.

"Well do I 'member dat 'nigger' overseer, big, 'smart aleck'; he wus called de 'nigger driver'. He say 'hurry up there, you get the hide split on you lazy back'. I wusn't hardly big enouf but the bigger ones when they wus gib a task to do, they better do it in a hurry else they would get the 'hide split' and some time salt put on.

"I never had no book larnin' 'cept two, three times when Miss Fanny La Forge, she wus the white school teacher, and she tried to larn me, she didn' have much time and couldn' do much with it. But I allays says, 'Give me good ol' common horse sense', and not braggin, Miss, but I have got that; always did have. Mos' these educated ones are smarty, big head, smarty, and I never did want to be that way 'tall.

"If they wus jails then fo us slaves I never seed one, jes whippin' fo' punishin', some one wus gittin' it all the time.

"'Ole Parker' like mammy and all her people and he tol' 'Ol Man Shap' if'n he lashed my mammy and her family he would com' and take us back, 'cause we wus good and didn't need no punishment but that was the only reason that we wusn't lashed like the rest of them.

"I was tellin' you about Sunday meetin', none of us had a Bible 'cept the white man, and I don't know where he got it from. I never did have one 'cept once and it burned up in my house in Advance. I liked to look through it but I didn't know a word it said.

"Times it seems I can hear them sing, I didn't sing much at the meetin' 'cause I was too little, but the others sang, 'Hark From the Tomb', and 'I am a Soldier of the Cross'. When the preacher man shook he haid and stomp his feet and yell, I say to mammy: 'What that man mammy? What he doin?' And she say: 'Hush', and put her hand over my mouf. I knowed plenty well to stay hushed too. Any babtising went on I never seed any of it, never knowed nothin' 'bout anything lak that then.

"The older ones had some fun too about that time, maybe once week or more some one get 'mission' from his Marster and gib a 'hoe down!' (calls dance now.) Any one that went from all the close plantations got 'mission' from the Marster or overseer to go but they had to be home at a certain time or they would wish they hadn't went and some time they would slip off and go out mission', if ever they wus caught they got 'it', and plenty of it. I heard sister say, 'Mammy I would like to go to the hoedown tonight'. Mammy say: 'Think you can come back in time?' Sister say, 'Don' know mammy,' then mammy say, 'Better save your sef chile'. Then sister say, 'Well, I better go to bed then'. But you could hear the fiddle and the hollerin' all over, and 'twas hard to stay 'way.

"At Christmas time we knowd 'bout that and both of mammy's owners gib her a good time. 'Ol Man Shap' alluys gib us a pair of stockings and some candy and apples. For the men folks they sometimes get whiskey. New Year's was 'bout the same and I don' 'member no other holidays.

"When we got sick they was a white doctor way off somewhere that would come, if he wus sent fo', but mos' de time 'Old Uncle Nee John' and 'Uncle Jake' would conjure us; they was called 'Voo-Doo's'. One time sister stepped up in the meat house do'r and hurt her foot, don' know how, Mammy tell Marster and he say, 'Tell Jake he come', an' I wus allus' 'fraid of him and he say to sister, 'Gal, get up and walk'. She say: 'I cain't.' He set back down and go 'M-m-m-m-m', for a longtime and than say: 'Gal, I say get up and walk'. She say: 'I can't'. I was so scared and mammy say to me, 'Set still there Gal, he ain't gwine to hurt you no how', but he look so wild and mean and the next time he mumble words over her foot she get up and walk. He have us wear a dime around our necks fo' somethin'; don' know what tho'. I was allus such a fool 'bout money. I just liked to wear it and didn' care.

"When some one died we didn't know what wus don' with 'em but sometime they wus took out in the night and I heard some wus hauled off in a little push-thing and throwed in the river and some wus put in a hole with their clothes on.

"'Bout that time we begin to hear stories of bein' set free. The slaves sang at their work all day.

"'Thank God Almity, I'll be free some day', (there are 'bout all the words I can 'member). They sang this over and over and made a pretty song too. Nearer time for us to be freed, the owners get meaner all the time. Some took their slaves down in the cane brakes and hid them; others wus kept working. 'Ol Man Shap' tell some, 'When you get free I give you home and pay you for your work'. I guess he would too if'n he had stayed there.

"Them 'Blue Coats' (Northern Soldiers), wus lots meaner than the 'Brown Coats (Gray), in the South. Them 'Blue Coats' come in and steal your chickens and cook them over your fireplace and eat them right 'fore your eyes. I 'member one time the 'Brown Coats' come and wanted sister. I squalled like a panther. During and after the war, them 'Guerillas' was a sight, dey steal, kill, and tear up, everywhere. The 'K.K.K.' was a powerful, mean, bunch and dey would com' ater night and take people out and whip them; ah didn't know what for.

"I well 'member the day we wus freed, every one sang, 'Thank God Almity, I'm free at last, free at last, free at last, thank God _Almity_, I'm free at last, I'm free at last.'

"'Ol Man Shap' was mad and he whipped some of his slaves and de took him to de town jail, last I seed of him he wus sittin' in the town jail winder, maybe died there, I don' know. After we wus free there wus plenty of work, they couldn't whip nobody and had to pay us for the work. Mammy cooked for Mr. Hunter and 'Riley' and 'Dalton'. She kept me with her 'till I got 'old 'nouf to cook and then I lef' and got a job away from der somewhere.

"I got married 'bout 40-50 years ago to 'Baltimore' here. He is 105 years old now. He tells me his old Miz' thought he was an '_Angle_' and he wus almost 36 years old when the war broke out. He wus from Lotterville County, Tennessee. He tell me people just thought bountiful of him and they seemed to be a welcome all over the world for him.

"He says he was called one of the finest barbers in the world, all was a natural gift and 'man out of sight'; he barbered thousands and thousands. His mother wus from Georgia and her name was 'Liza' and she married Jim Taylor. Me and 'Baltimore' had eleven children since we been married. They was Charlie, he dead, Martha, living, and not got any kids, and Tony, dead, and Louisa and Gussie, dead. How many that--five? Rosie dead, and left six children, part of them are here, 'Little Baltimore' and Henry are dead, Roosevelt is living and here at home and Robert is in a C.C. Camp, but David works in a fine hotel in St. Louis, don' know what one the name is.

"'Ol Man Abe Lincoln' was a fine ol' man, and I liked him, he never freed us; but tol' us how. But 'Booker', and Jefferson Davis wusn't no friend to the colored man that I knowed anything 'bout.

"It is best to be free if you carry your self right you'll be free all you days. I belongs to the Saints Church, t'aint the 'Holy Roller' and I allys wus 'ligious but I don' know much 'bout stuff, never put no study on it.

"Ise just a poor old 'nigger' slave that is waitin' for the Good Lord to come and take me home and it won't be long chile; no, 'Granny' ain't got long."

Louis Thomas

*Interview with Louis Thomas,*
*St. Louis, Missouri.*

_Slave Hitched To Plow_

The subject of this sketch is Louis Thomas, 93 years of age who lives at 3007 Clark Avenue with his oldest daughter, Laura Richardson and family.

In the middle room of a 3-room brick apartment laid Louis Thomas, confined to his bed, with a severe cold, but kind enough to be interviewed by the writer. The old man was clean and quite composed and said he had been interviewed so often it was a common thing to him. He was 6 feet tall and weighed 174 when taken sick. The home was very poorly furnished but clean. He is of dark complexion with white hair. He said:

"I was born in Pickens County, Alabama, May 9, 1844. My mother's name was Tama and my father's was Thomas Windom. Our owner was Levy Windom. I had 2 sisters and 2 brothers. I married Caroline Windom. She was owned by the same folks I was, we had 11 children but only 2 is living. The oldest one, Laura Richardson, I am living with. The other daughter's name is Evergreen Richardson, living at 3100 Clark Avenue. Dey are both Richardson's but dere husbands are not related.

"I been living in St. Louis since 1923. When I was a slave, I had to plow barefooted, hooked to a double horse plow. For 8 or 10 years of dat time we had a white overseer in de summer. I did not only plow barefooted but naked as well. In de winter dey allowed me a few clothes but not many. I worked from daylight until dark, I didn't know nothing 'bout time.

"Making and gathering crop was my biggest task. We made 500 bales of cotton a year, besides growing wheat, potatoes and other vegetables for the hands. I stayed on de plantation till way after de Civil War was fought. If de slaves could get as near as East St. Louis and Ohio with out getting caught, dey would join de Yankees and help fight for freedom. But the Rebs wouldn't think of giving slaves any guns, as mean as they had been to us.

"Dey knew too well, we would shoot dem first thing. I remember well I was in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and dere was a speech made dere by General Forest on a Sunday. He said, 'Dere ain't a Yankee in 500 miles of Tuscaloosa, Alabama.' So de Rebs was so happy 'bout dat, dey started early de very next morning putting de flooring back in de bridge dey done took out so de Yankees couldn't cross and get to them.

"The following Tuesday night, de very next day I mean, don't you know, dem Yankees come in our town cross dat very bridge. That same night old Marse made us hitch up all his horses and git up all de flour, meat and everything we done raised, and carry it up Tom Bilby River. It was a swamp, to hide it from de Yankees. But, honey, dat didn't do a bit of good, dem Yankees got all our stuff and us, too, and destroyed everything he had. Us slaves was so mad at Old Marse, we helped 'em git rid of everything, den went on back home, we had no where else to go, and de war wasn't over and we hadn't nary a penny of money, child. No we didn't.

"I made my last crop in 1867 on dat very plantation where I lived all my days. Of course we was free den or supposed to be free. Dey promised to pay us, but we never got nothin', least not yet, Marse ain't paid me, and he's dead now. In March 1868 dey sent to de field for all us hands to come up to de house to sign a contract. We all went. We was so used to minding old Marse when he sent for us we just mind right on like it was still slavery. So I had always been mighty handy 'bout most things so he wanted me 'bove de others, so he took my hand, put it on his pen and held it right dere and signed my name hisself. I got mad as a wet hen 'bout dat agreement he read to me. So he tried to make me feel good saying he was goin' to give me half. I knowed better.

"I felt dere was going to be some trouble up to de house, so I had a pistol in my pocket, that had been dropped by the Yankees on purpose to help us slaves shoot our way out. So I just told my old boss I ain't goin' to do it, and when he raised up at me I just whipped out dat pistol and everything in sight got out of my way. I was mad a plenty, and I already always had plenty of temper. So while I had everybody scared and excited I left and never did go back. I went to Columbus, Mississippi, and stayed until 1923. All dat time I done share cropping farming and made good. When I left dere I came to St. Louis and have not worked since. I was too old for a job, but sister, I worked many a day for two bits a day and churned all day to get milk to drink 'cause I couldn't get no other food. I cut grass--mowed after share cropping days were over.

"I never had any schooling. What learning I got I picked up hearing the children. I have 22 grandchildren, 9 great grandchildren. The first 3 years in St. Louis I lived with my daughter Evergreen Richardson at 3100 Clark Avenue. I am a member of The Church of God in Christ, on Leffingwell and Bernard Street."

Jane Thompson

*Interview with Mrs. Jane Thompson,*
*Fredericktown, Missouri.*

"I gets a pension from de Civil War. Wilson Thompson, my husband, fought for seven years. He fought de Indians in de west. I gets $40.00 a month. I have 21 grandchildren and 6 great grandchildren. I was de mother of 6.

"My first boss sold my mother and I can remember her climbin' upon de stile block made from de trunk of a gum tree. Dis was down in Zuca, Mississippi, and de trees grew big down there. My boss was my father, they claim. De boss was purty cruel. Our second boss did not believe in slavery but his wife did. One of de daughters of de boss married and I went with her as a slave. Then my boss, Burgess, was a Baptist preacher and he would travel 'round. I would pick cotton, den I did de house work.

"I had two uncles dat ran off and nebber came back. Dey joined de war. De Ku Klux Klan would come and claim dey could drink a bucket of water. That was done so dey could get us to come out to dem. They would be four or five in a gang. I 'member de soldiers comin' and killing chickens and throwing them in de kitchen an having us to cook dem.

"I 'member how de freedom come but we were taught fer a long time not to know anything 'bout slavery. De only thing I knew 'bout it was bad times. Even de boss would not let me stay in de house when he had family prayers. At night before bedtime I would have to seed cotton and I would nod from getting sleepy and den de boss would knock me over de head. But I'm so glad de good Lord let me stay here to do something. I've raised about 30 children. Most of my work as a slave was spent helping de mistress, picking up her hankerchief, cleaning up de house, etc. Sometimes I think slavery was a test dat de lord has us to go through. It was through God dat Lincoln was given de brains and de talent. I would find different friends to take me in after de war. Sometimes I would have only two dresses.

"I tell de old folks dat we is having slavery again. But de depression is not as hard as slavery 'cause de government is helping de people now. After de war we had parched wheat for coffee and corn meal with de husks in it. Old Burgess' children helped me to learn to spell. De Boss would make me spell words backwards. I remember a song, "Let's go down to de water an be baptized", and 'Bound fer de promised land'. My Uncle would play his guitar in his cabin at night. At Christmas dey would have a dance on de plantation. We used to hang up our stockings and get a little candy at Christmas time."

Sarah Waggoner

*Interview with Aunt Sarah Waggoner,*
*Savannah, Missouri.*
*(Written by G.K. Bartlett of Kansas City Office*
*from FC by Dovie Rose.)*

A familiar figure in Savannah, Missouri is that of an aged, bent and withered Negro woman with a little patch of white whiskers on her chin, a cap on her head winter and summer; who is seen almost daily pulling a little red wagon along the streets.

"Aunt Sarah Waggoner", as she is called, lives alone in a small unpainted house, almost a hut, near the right-of-way of the Chicago Great Western Railroad; about three blocks southeast of the courthouse.

The yard as well as the house is cluttered with all kinds of junk, odds and ends which Aunt Sarah has picked up as she meanders through the town. She has been a fixture in Savannah for many years and has the friendship of the white people, who commend her faithfulness and religious fervor.

"How be you?" she asked pleasantly when answering my knock at her door. When it was explained that her recollections about slave life before the war were wanted, she beamed delightedly.

"Yes'm. Come on in an' set, an' soon's I fix the fire I'll tell you everything about slave times. Everything I kin remember."

She wiped off a chair for her visitor, then busied herself at the old wood and coal cook stove, where some vegetables were simmering in an antiquated iron kettle, and "fat meat" was frying in the skillet.

"I was a slave," she stated. "I was born in Kentucky. In Grayson or Hardin County. I don't know which 'zactly, 'cause we lived in both counties; an' I never did think to ask ole Miss Howard who raised me; and I forgot to ask my mother if she knowed, and I don't think she knowed." Sarah paused for a moment, then continued plaintively, "I wish I knowed for sure."

"Who was old Miss Howard?"

"She was white folks. I was raised by de Howards. Mr. and Mrs. Jim Howard. They owned me. We called him Pap, and her Old Miss. My mother's name was Waggoner. She belonged to Mr. Howard too. My father he belonged to another man and lived on a farm near us. No mam, no'm, we was never sold. I'll tell you how 'twas. You see, Mr. Howard's father--he came over from England. He called all his sons to his bedside at de last and gave each of them some of de colored people and told them to take good care of them and never to let them be sold. I had a cousin, June, who was sold here at de courthouse door in Savannah. Him and another boy was sold down South.

"The Howards brought me from Kentucky to Missouri. That was befo' de war. I've been here a long time. I'm 93 years old.

"Sure I know how old I is", she remonstrated.

"I's 93 years old right now (1937). And I knows my birthday too. I knows it for sure. It come on February 17th. I'se sure about dat, for it comes so close to dat of Abe Lincoln. His birthday is February 12th."

Memories of the past surged through Aunt Sarah's mind and awakened emotions. She rose to her feet, and speaking with the enraptured ecstasy of her race when roused by religious fervor, testified.

"I knowed about Abe Lincoln, 'cause his cousin Cap Lincoln; Yes, Cap Lincoln, lived right nigh us in Kentucky. And he sure was a fine man!

"I knowed about Abe Lincoln befo' he ever run for president. Long befo' he was 'sasinated. You see, I lived neighbor to some of his kin folks. Yes ma'am! Oh, yes, ma'am! Long befo' de war!"

"Yes, Oh Lord! Yes, ma'am!

"Abe Lincoln was jes' next to Jesus Christ.

"Yes, Oh Lord! Yes! Dat he was!

"Jes' next to Jesus Christ!

"I remember when I was freed!"

The exaltation of Aunt Sarah dimmed and faded, and with a quavering subdued voice she whispered:

"I wish I knowed. I wish I knowed. Abe Lincoln was born in Hardin County;[3] in the same month I was; almost the same day. I wish I knowed was I born in the same county he was, but I ain't never goin' to know. Yes ma'am, I was moved with the Howards from Kentucky," she continued, "right up to the Nodaway River, about ten miles from Savannah. It took us about six weeks to come with oxen. I saw the emigrant trains goin' through to Californy.

[3] Abraham Lincoln was born in Larue County, Kentucky, February 12,
1809.

"That was befo' de war. I'se been here a long time. I'm 93 years old. I'se been here since de woods burned, and I'm goin' to be here a long time yet, 'cause my mother was a hundred and fifteen 'fore she died.

"My, but the Indians was thick when I fust come here. And there was buffalo; and there was deer; and there was quail jes' thick. I wasn't skeered none of de Indians, and I ain't skeered of nothin' now. No, ma'am. 'Cause why? 'Cause de white folks put de fust clothes on me, and fed me; and they been doin' it ever since.

"You wants to know what kind of clothes did we wear in them days? I'm gwine to tell yer. I jes' had two dresses. De best one was made out of plain, white muslin. I went out in de woods and got walnut bark to color it brown.

"I allus had to wash it on Saturday, 'cause we all had to go to church on Sunday. Yes'm, I went to de white folks' church, and part of de time I was de only nigger gal there. Then I had another dress and a shirt. I made them jes' like Old Miss taught me. Dat was my work dress. It was made with a cord 'round de bottom, a cord as big as my little finger, so's I couldn't tear it; 'cause I went over fences like a deer.

"De shirt was made like a long petticoat. In de winter old Miss made us stockings out of yarn, and we had brogan shoes. Didn't you never see any brogan shoes?" queried Aunt Sarah. "Don't you know what dey looked like? Huh. Dey was neither lined or bound; and we used a peggin' awl to make holes for the laces. Some of 'em had copper toes."

"Didn't they hurt your feet?"

"Yes'm, but if dey did hurt, we had to wear 'em anyway. Dem old brogans; I'm sure glad they're gone.

"Durin' de war, old Miss keep tellin' me I had to help her put new cloth in de loom and when little Jane, tha's her little girl, wanted me to play, her mother would say, 'Sarey has to work fast now, 'cause she goin' to be free'.

"Oh Lord, Miss, Sarey will never be free. But I was freed. Now I am goin' to tell you about de home life.

"I worked in de house for old Miss, and we had plenty to do and plenty to eat. When de white folks was through eatin', I got a pan and got de grub, and set on de floor and et it. Oh Lordee, but I worked hard since I was twelve years old. But not in de fields. Old Miss she say dere was plenty for me to do in de house, and dere was, sure 'nough.

"I washed and cooked for all of us. And ironed too. I het de irons, great big old irons, in de fireplace. I ironed on a quilt spread out on de floor, and I ironed jes' as nice as anybody. I lived right in de house with de white folks. In summer we slept, my brother Henry and me, in a trundle bed in the kitchen; and in de winter made a pallet beside de fireplace.

"Old Pap was good to us. He kept up a fire all night when it was cold. I never saw a cookin' stove or a lace shoe until I was freed. We jes' had to burn our faces cookin' over de fireplace. I milked eight cows and den put de milk away. Dat took a long time. They didn't have no horses then, much. They had a yoke of oxen. Sometimes some of us was hired out to work but we didn't get no money for dat ourselves. Dey drawed de wages.

"No ma'am, dey didn't have no beauty parlors den. Huh. Old Miss never had her hair curled, or anything like that. We didn't know nothin' about face powder and primpin' up in dem days. Huh. Old Miss never used anything on her face 'ceptin' soap and water.

"Yes indeed. We sure did have good times, too. There was dances, and I liked to dance. Uh-huh. I was a regular king ruler at de dances. Many a time I danced till broad daylight, and den when I worked I was so sleepy I'd nod, and nod. Then old Pap he say: 'Go out dere and make Sarey go to bed'. Yes, indeedy, we had good times, too.

"Did I ever get whopped? I never was whopped--much. Old Miss never whopped me, 'cause Pap did all de whopping. He said if dere was any whopping to be done he'd do it. Anyway dey never whopped me--very often,--'cause I done my work de bes' I could.

"I remember once, when Old Pap started off for St. Joseph, he rode back into de yard and said to old Miss. 'Don't whop Sarey, or let anybody else whop her, or I'll cut the hide off their backs when I gets back.'

"Yes'm, we allus called 'em Pap and Old Miss. Pap wouldn't let me take his name 'cause he was a Republican and believed dat de colored people ought to have their own laws and doctors and all. He was afraid folks would think he was a rebel and de soldiers might kill him. We didn't dare take his name so I took my father's name of Waggoner. He belonged to one of the neighbors in Kentucky and didn't come to Missouri when we did. Yes'm, I had two chilun during de war, a boy, Bob, and a girl, Mary; and later a girl, Minnie. Married? No'm, I never married. I never was married.

"Well, no'm, I didn't have a very hard time after I was freed. Slaves wasn't hardly ever allowed to look in de door of de school house, so we couldn't learn to read and write. When I was freed Pap tried to learn me evenin's to count my fingers. He made me sit by the fireplace and learn to count and learn about money so's de white folks couldn't cheat me after I was free. After I was free one of Mr. Howard's boys taught me my letters and helped me learn to read some.

"After I was freed I went to St. Joseph and did housework. Den I was a chambermaid. After while I came back to Savannah to work for de Price family. Dey was mighty rich and had a big home. Place is still here. I had a fine time there. I remember Mr. Ed. V. Price. He was just a boy when I went there to work, and he did plague me terrible some times. He'd run into the kitchen, grab a handful of cake dough and run outside laughin'.

"Then I got so I couldn't work no more, and he was a rich man, and he always helped me. And he left me in his will ten dollars every month for de res' of my life. Oh yes'm I'm to get my state pension every month. It's goin' to be twelve dollars. I ain't got it yet, but I will fore long. I ain't skeared. 'Cause de white folks put de fust clothes on me, and fed me; and dey been doin' it ever since."

With a weary, dimming of her eyes, old Sarah settled back in her chair, sighed and murmured:

"I been here a long time. I'm 93 years old."

Minksie (Minksy) Walker

*Interview with Minksie (Minksy) Walker,*
*Poplar Bluff, Missouri.*

The following interview pertaining to former slaves and the conditions under which they lived was obtained from Minksie (or Minksy) Walker, seventy-eight years old who lives at the end of Davis Street in a subdivision called New World, Poplar Bluff, Missouri.

"I was one year old when de war broke out and six years old when it closed. I don't remember the day or month I was born, but you can figure out how old I am. My mammy's name was Blanch Walker, de name Walker come from her belonging to Cannon Walker. He had two brothers, Sam and Jimmie, and all their ground run together. I well remembers dem boys and so does every one else. Dey was de best masters in all de south. Put all their slaves together, dey owned about two or three hundred. I don't know how much land dey had but it took a lot to keep all dat many niggers busy.

"I don't know where my parents was born, Old Virginia, I guess, but I was born in seven miles of Dyersburg, Tennessee. My father was Nat Parker and his master was 'Little Dan' Parker. He was kept on de Parker place but mammy got to see him every Sunday morning. Dey lived about five miles from us. Dey didn't get to talk in de evening 'cause de white folks preached for us then. We was called together in de brush arbor by a big bell dey rung. De arbor was as big as a square block here in town, but dey was so many of us dat we filled it up pretty quick. De meeting was about like it is now 'cept we didn't know half de time what dey was talking about, we couldn't read and learn; had to listen to learn.

"I well remember after meeting mammy would stop and talk with women and she said, 'Minksy, dis is your aunt, my sister. You can walk along home with her'. I was little and I would catch hold her dress tail to keep up. She would meet other women and dey would start talking about de meetin'. First thing I would know dey would be jumpin' up and dancin' around and pattin' their hands until all de grass was wore off slick.

"I didn't have no chance to go to school, but I was a little tad and did not have to work very hard either. I wasn't big enough to hitch up de team of oxen but some big person would and then I sure could drive them, drove all day, and I can remember hauling tobacco to de barns all day. We had several barns tall as dat tree, yonder (tree about 75 feet high.) About all we raised was tobacco. Dat sure 'nough was tobacco country, a little corn for de stock and we raised what we eat.

"De only fighting I remember of during the war was on de farm of Dan Parker. De soldiers met right in de middle of his corn and tobacco field and when dey got through de tobacco was tramped in de ground and you couldn't find a double handful of de corn.

"I have always said I was like a shingle, not like a barrel of snakes. You never saw a crooked shingle and you will never see a straight snake. I have always practiced one thing and dat is telling de truth about all things. Dat is why I can say I don't know much about de slavery times, I wasn't old enough. I was just a slave and dat is all. I said when I was a small boy, 'Lord, just give me de power to read de Bible, old blue back speller and the hymn book'. He done dis and I know de Bible by heart. I could preach for six years, and never tell all I know. I can't write a word or read anything but dese books. For a while I did preach. I traveled by mission. Didn't own a church of my own and didn't belong to any special one. I guess I must have preached about five years.

"I have been married twice, both my wives are dead. I don't know how old I was when I first married but I had been free many a day. I went to Dyersburg and bought de license. I got drunk and didn' get to Newbern, Tennessee, where my girl lived until de next day. We had two children, a boy and a girl. Dere names was George Earl and George Ella. Dere mother lived nine years and when she died I give them to their grandmother. I told her she could have dem and I would never bother around and I have never seen dem since. Guess they are grown by dis time if dey lived and are still alive, dey are the only kinfolks I have.

"I went to Clinton, Kentucky, and married again. Dat wife just lived a short time and then I moved to Arkansas and lived until thirty years ago when I moved to Butler County and Poplar Bluff. I have lived on dis hill all dat time and sometimes it gets lonesome but when it does I just gets my Bible and reads. I spend lots of time since my mule died, under the shade of dis tree, because I haven't anything to do anymore. I was just thinking de other day in slave times you never seed an old nigger man or woman allowed to rest in the shade. There was some work for dem. De old women took care of de kids and de old men kept clean around the master's door and barn yard.

"Where I was we fared extra fine during slave times. Our master, Cannon Walker, was a Union man. We had plenty pork meat to eat and fared fine. He bought us good clothes and paid all the doctor bills when we got sick. We had good houses too. We had to get up preety soon in de morning but we didn't know nothing then. Our old mistress wanted me to call her boy dat was de same age as me, Marster Tillie. I said, 'No, Mam, when he call me Marster Minksy then I call him Marster Tillie'. Master Cannon Walker did not allow any patrollers to boss his slaves when any of dem was stopped on de pike and ask who dey belonged to all dey had to say was Cannon, Sam or Jim Walker and dey never bothered them.

"My father and oldest brother run away with de Yankees during de war and we never heard of dem anymore. Our master give all de older men a place to raise chickens. He give others poplar trees to make charcoal and dey was allowed to make a little money on de side dis way. I remember hearing mammy tell dat one year he give all his men twenty bushels of corn a piece and dey took it to de still and had whiskey made out of it. They put de barrel in de field and she said there wasn't very much raised that year.

"De slaves did not have to fight in de war but sometimes one would go in to look after his young master. After de war and we was free, mammy hired out to our old master and we stayed on there two years. Den she married and we started moving from place to place. My step-father was a mean man. I couldn't have been more den ten years old when he started hiring me out by de day. I was hungry all de time because I had been used to plenty of pork meat and all he would let me eat was parched corn. One day I was working for Archie Dickerson, I was sick and he ask me what the matter with me. I told him I had been used to meat and my step-father would not let me have any. He called his wife and told her to feed me meat every day, I never will forget him.

"I didn't get any education but I don't care. Lawsy, dis is a free country now, you can either wear shoes or go barefooted. Slave times was alright before de war because we didn't know nothin' better, but I sho' wouldn't like it now. I am an old man now and I get de old age pension, so all I have to do is rest here under the tree and read my Bible."

James Wilson

*Interview with James Wilson,*
*St. Louis, Missouri.*

_James Lives Alone At 87_

Living alone at the age of 87 probably is not a mode of existence that would appeal to many. However, James Wilson, a former slave living in a single room in the rear of 917 O'Fallon Street seemingly takes this little matter of a lonely existence in his stride. James stands quite erect, considering his years and his eyesight is good. His hair is white and he is about six feet tall.

When the writer called to interview him, both he and his room were spotlessly clean. Sitting outside the door of his quarters James' mind wandered back and forth through the years he has lived since he was born on Christmas day, 1850, and, piecing together the bits of information that he could recall, he told the following story:

"I was born in Charleston, South Carolina, December 25, 1850. John Wilson was my owner. He owned more than 700 slaves and a terrible big plantation where he raised cotton, rice, corn, and cattle. Bless your soul, daughter, he was a hard task master, yes he was. He owned big ships, both kinds, for freight and passengers. He kept me running on dem boats from de time I was 10 years old till I was 16. We sailed everywhere. From New York to Rome, Jerusalem, Sweden, France and everywhere under de sun transporting passengers, clothing, cotton, and everything from one country to another. I handled de sails. It certainly was hard work for me because I was so young, but I was an expert wid dem sails just de same. Yes, I was.

"But old President Abraham Lincoln taken me off dat boat, and I fought in de Civil War. I lacked two months of fighting five years. I never even married until 15 years ago, I married a woman 45 years old. After we was married, she decided I was too old for her, so she just went on off with a younger man. I never been de father of a child in my whole life. I git a $13 a month old age pension to live on. Since I been free, I made my living railroading, brakesman and steamboating.

"I voted many times in my life and just can't feel right to vote nothin' but a Republican ticket whether they ever get back in power again. I never did have a political job nor had no friends had any that I know of. I just can't explain how I feel 'bout this generation. Dey jes' ain't doing right, dat's all. Dey jes' doing everything dey is big enough to do. Don't regard nobody, don't care what dey say nor how dey act to their own parents nor nobody else's folks. Dey just sets me to worrying terrible sometimes, wonderin' what on dis earth gonna become of dis here sin-racked generation.

"Dem old Ku Klux was a bad lot of mongrels. Dey catch you out widout a pass dey cut you 100 lashes, and you feel like you ain't able to go nowhere again wid a pass or widout one. After de war was fought, I do know some of dem old slave owners to be nice enough to start der slaves off in freedom wid somethin' to live on till dey get on der feet, but dey wasn't in droves, I tell you dat now, just a mighty precious few. Den der was some others dat kept der slaves in bondage after de war, just like before de war and de slaves, never know till der dying day dat dey was free folks. Far as dat goes, down dere just below Sunflower, Mississippi, and lots of other countryside places in de deep South, dey got slavery right now. De only song I can think of we use to sing so much was: 'O, Lord Remember Me'.

"I can't remember none de other songs. I been all over de world, seen how different races are in dere own lands, and I often sits and wonder if maybe dese little fellows here now running about will see de equal rights dat gits talked about now and den. But, daughter, you and me will never see it. No we won't. I am a member of the Paradise Baptist Church."

Mintie Gilbert Wood

*Interview with Mintie Wood,*
*St. Louis, Missouri.*

_Ex-slave Blind But Happy_

The subject of this sketch is Mintie Gilbert Wood, 90 years old. She lives at 4321 West Belle Avenue, St. Louis, Missouri, with her widowed daughter, Emma Swift, 69 years old.

In the living room of a 10 room brick residence located in the better class section of the Negro district of the city, Mintie lives with her oldest daughter and two granddaughters. The old woman has been blind for 8 years. She is quite bent and shows the burden of her years. She is hard of hearing and her mind is no longer keen and alert. Her daughter claims a recent illness has caused the latter trouble. However, the ex-slave very feebly tells the following story.

"I was born down in Bethel, Giles County, Tennessee, September 9, 1847. Marse Carey Gilbert was my owner and I lived on his farm until 1892, when I moved to little Rock, Arkansas. Marse Carey was mighty nice to his slaves and he had a host of 'em. Can't begin to say how many. My old uncle was de overseer of us younguns, about 50 young darkies, and he trained us up till we get a certain age, then they turn us over to the grown up lot, where the white overseer took charge of us. I don't 'member every thing so good, but I do de best I can. I 'member when Marse Gilbert's daughter Miss Rebecca married Marse Maples, they lived 'bout 8 or 10 miles from her daddy's farm, and she use to come home ever so often to visit. She looked so fine de slaves working in de field see her coming dey all stop and rest on der hoe to look at her pass by on her way to see her mamma, and she would tell 'em, you niggers better pray my father never die. Cause if he died, I wouldn't 'low none you niggers to lift your heads from de time you go to work till you quit. My niggers work and never stop. Marse Gilbert gave her 4 slaves as a wedding present, and they had a hard time, but her parents was mighty fine.

"Dey owned so much land, cattle, corn, sorghum, tobacco, millet, barley and everything the very finest kind and the wealth was handed down from one generation of the Gilberts to the other. Dey was so rich dey didn't know how much dey was worth themselves, but dey was altogether different than most of dem slave owners. Dey was prosperous 'cause dey was better folks. When peace was declared everyone of Marse Gilbert's slaves dat had sense enough and did stay wid him, got half of everything they earned turned in on land and stock to be independent right der on de same spot where we had been a slave. And he had so many of his family and darkies, too, he has his own graveyard where everyone of us black or white dat ever been in de Gilbert family can be buried without costing us a penny.

"He owned so much I can't begin to tell it, and nobody else I don't expect. Right now a gang of his old slaves' children is livin' right there owning and working property their parents slaved on, de old Gilbert estate and his folks der wid' em, yes mam. None of us never cared for Miss Rebecca. She made her slaves eat wid de hogs, even poured der milk in the hog trough and de hogs and slaves ate and drink together. She was worse dan de whole family of Gilberts. I get a blind pension.

"I never did learn to read or write, but my husband was a school teacher and he never was a slave. He was a soldier in the Rebel army. I had 6 children, 6 grandchildren, 3 great grand children and 3 great, great grandchildren. I liked to sew, knit and make quilts fore I was blind. I never used snuff or tobacco in my whole life. I have 2 sisters living, one 82 years old, one 84 years old and a brother 87 years old. Dey all live in Prospect Tennessee, where they were born and raised. My husband died in 1914. Den I went back to Tennessee to live with my father until 1916 when I came to St. Louis to live with my younger daughter Lydia King Davidson until 1920.

"Den I was called back home on account of the death of my father. After the funeral I went to Lonoke, Arkansas, to live with my oldest daughter, Emma Swift and been with her often and on ever since. I only eat 2 meals a day, that's breakfast around 7 o'clock and dinner between 1 and 2 o'clock, the rest of the time I drink plenty water all day and all through the night.

"We moved to St. Louis in the year 1922. I just can't get used to this younger generation. Dey sure is a reckless lot. Cause my life had plenty work 'tached to it. When I was coming along I split rails, hauled wood, raised de white folks family den turned right around and raised my own family.

"I believe in regular hours doing things, work, rest and everything else it takes to make up life. I worked as hard after freedom as I did in slavery. After all we got to work for a livin'. I don't believe in all dis gallivantin' around at night. You ain't fit for no work in de day when you don't rest at night. And I always believe in helping de fellow who needs help and can't help hisself, much as I can. I even ask my neighbors to save me all the old rags and bottles, anything they don't want no more so as I can sell it and git hol' of a little somethin' to help somebody, what ain't got some help like I got. I don't lose nothin' for that, and I get joy out of it. I always keeps my little old pocket book pinned in my pocket to put that little extra change in, and I got it here right now and some change in it, too. I never did vote, and never lived in Virginia nor know nothing about it. I do know de slaves 'spected a salary for der work when dey got free. Some of 'em got part of de promise, but most of 'em got nothin' but de promise. My owners was exceptions. Dere might of been some more like 'em but not many. At least I never heard of em. All my old favorite songs us slaves use to sing, I can't separate 'em anymore. I try to think of 'em, so I can sing 'em, but I jest find myself mixin' 'em up, and can't tell one from the other. Just singing. But the songs I like best dis day and time is 'Life Is Like A Mountain Railroad', 'God Will Take Care Of You', and 'I maybe blind, and I can not see, I may be crippled and I can not walk, But I'll meet you at the Station when the train comes along."

Ellaine Wright

*Interview with Ellaine Wright,*
*Springfield, Missouri.*

Ellaine Wright was born March 1, 1840 and is 97 years of age. Was born of slave parents just outside of Springfield, Missouri, and lived there at the beginning of the Civil War.

Her father and mother's name was Evanson taken after "Marse Tom" Evanson who owned both Ellaine's mother and father and sixty other slaves. Tom Evanson was a wealthy farmer and ran a big hog and cattle stock ranch.

Ellaine Wright, whose name was Evanson in slavery was married after the war in 1866 to Pete Wright. She remembers the "Wilson's Creek" fight between the Union and Confederacy and only a short time after that she, with all the other Evanson slaves, was hurriedly taken south. The Evanson slaves with many other of the district were shipped as far south as possible to hide them from the Unionists. Ellaine Wright told of a heartbreaking meeting between she and her slave mother when Ellaine was just four years of age. Her mother had been sold to a slave trader and was to be taken to another state.

They permitted the slaves to say good-bye to their children and Ellaine said she would never forget the few words her mother spoke to her just before they were separated. "Ellaine, honey mamma's gwan way off and ain't never goin to see her baby agin". "An I can see myself holdin onto my mamma and both of us crying--and then, she was gone and I never seed her since. I hopes I goin to see my good mamma some day, I do. Yes' I'se goin to do it son, I sure is, yes indeed."

Ellaine doesn't seem to remember anything concerning the Civil War. Just this one important thing clings to her memory--her parting with her mammy.

Sim Younger

*Interview with Sim Younger,*
*Sedalia, Missouri.*
*Geo. K. Bartlett, Kansas City, Mo.*
*Reference: FC by Kathleen Williams.*

The two-story frame house, very plain in appearance, almost square in shape, located at 400 North Moniteau Street, Sedalia, is the home of Sim Younger, an interesting product of Negro slavery. He was born May 17, 1850, at Independence, Missouri; at the dawn of the "Golden Age of Steamboating on the Missouri River" and is a pensioned soldier of the Civil War.

Traditions and customs of the Old South have stamped their influence on the modest home. A porch extends across the front of the house and steps lead to the front door, but neither the porch nor front door are used much. They are for formal occasions.

However, home life begins with the smaller porch on the south side where bright flowered morning glory vines climb twine strings, their large green leaves bringing sheltering shadows to Sim's favorite resting place. Here is placed an old-fashioned hickory chair with woven cane seat which is his haven of peace and comfort.

The yard on this side of the house affords plenty of space for exercise and a large catalpa tree spreads grateful shade. It was here, under the catalpa tree that Sim Younger wanted his picture taken while seated in his favorite chair. There is a quiet, soldierly dignity about the old Negro that is striking and impressive. He is well preserved for all of his 87 years and his keen eyes require no glasses. The impress of his college education and soldierly training are evidenced by his conversation, bearing and the lack of Negro dialect in his speech.

He courteously expressed pleasure at the request for an interview on slavery and invited me into the house. The living room where we talked is large, the floor is covered with linoleum and a leather covered couch stands against the wall. In the center of the room is a large oak table. Other furniture consists of two plain oak chairs, but no rocking chairs.

Sim lives alone, and while we were talking a Negro brought in his breakfast; a pint of milk, an egg and two slices of toast. Although urged, Sim would not violate his code by eating in my presence.

"My father," he replied in answer to my question, "was Charles Younger, the originator of the Younger family in Missouri, and grand father of Cole, Bob, and Jim Younger. My father was my mother's master. She was a Simpson. I knew Cole Younger well."

Cole, Bob, and Jim Younger, known as "The Younger Brothers", were notorious outlaws. It is recorded that Sim's father was the Younger who operated a canoe ferry across the Missouri River from Randolph Bluffs, in 1821, to what is now Kansas City, then known as Chouteau's Landing.

"My father died when I was five years old, and left mother a farm on which my brothers and sisters are still living. Father arranged for my education and by the terms of his will I was sent to Oberlin, Ohio, where I was reared by Delia Sheppard, in whose care I was placed."

Sim Younger related that he attended Oberlin College, and graduated from there in 1870. He did not see his mother from the time he was five years old until he was the age of 21. When comment was made that he did not use Negro dialect, Sim explained, saying:

"That is due to my early training. Delia Sheppard gave me excellent training, and I remember everything she told me, even when I was a very little boy.

"I will always remember one thing she told me," he continued, fondly reminiscent. "I was just a little boy and she said, 'Sim, if, when visiting, you find a pin on the floor, put it up and call attention to it. It does not belong to you.'

"Yes, ma'am," he continued, "I was born in slavery and I enlisted in the Union Army, January 1, 1864, at Oberlin, Ohio, and according to the National Tribune, I was one of the youngest soldiers in the ranks.

"I was present at the battle of Petersburg, Virginia, July 30, 1864; one of the disasters to the Northern forces of the war, and present on June 15, 1864, at the initiatory battle of Deep Bottom, and also at Cold Harbor.

"I was in the Ninth Army Corps, under Burnside, and was transferred around, in front of Richmond, Virginia.

"General Butler went down to Fort Fisher and failed, which was the last open port of the Confederacy. Another expedition was organized and General Terry given command. We embarked on the night of December 31, 1864; landed the morning of January 13, 1865, on the peninsula. On the night of January 15, 1865, we captured Fort Fisher.

"We had a terrible, terrible time landing! There was an awful storm! I was told to jump overboard, and oh my! I swallowed a good deal of the Atlantic!"

He sat still a moment, living over in memory the thrilling events of that night at Fort Fisher, then, saddened by the pageant of the past evoked from memory's storehouse, he said:

"I want to tell you of one of the tragic things that happened during the war, and I was there and saw it.

"It was at the Southside railroad, at Petersburg, on September 27, 1865. I was put on picket duty. The 'Rebs' had built a fire and the wind was driving it toward us. They began to holler and cheer, very happy over the fact.

"All at once we could hear someone coming toward us. The pickets opened fire on what they thought were 'Rebs', and found out to their distress that it was a bunch of recruits from our own lines. Many were killed."

The shadow of this past grief faded from his countenance and in a brighter mood he exclaimed:

"If I could choose my weapons for the next war, I would choose doughnuts, to be thrown at each other across the Atlantic."[4]

[4] Bibliography: E. Miller, W.H., "History of Jackson County, Mo.",
Kansas City, Mo., Union Hist. Co., 1881. 1006 pp., illus., map.
Consultant: Pearly Smith English, Service Officer, American Legion,
(colored), Nineteenth and Missouri Street, Sedalia, Mo.]

Transcriber's Note

Original spelling has been maintained; e.g. "_stob_--a short straight piece of wood, such as a stake" (American Heritage Dictionary).--The Works Progress Administration was renamed during 1939 as the Work Projects Administration (WPA).

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