Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

The negro Mammy had her proper place in the scheme of things. She was no fiction of a later day novelist, but genuine, gentle, untiring, and faithful. The Negro mammy merits a prominent place in the picture an artist might paint, for on her broad shoulders was carried the generation which made the early history of Missouri fascinating and great.

When once a week came "Johnny Seldom"--as the hot biscuits made of wheat flour were called in Old Missouri--all other kinds of bread faded into nothingness. Two kinds of biscuits were typically Missourian--the large, fluffy, high biscuits--which looked like an undersized sofa pillow--and beaten biscuits, small, crisp, delicious--the grandfather of all afternoon tea refreshments. No "Po' white trash" can make beaten biscuits. Indeed, much of the finest flavor of all cookery belonged intuitively to the Negro. How the Negro cook managed to get biscuits steaming hot from the cookroom a quarter of a mile distant through the open yard to the dining room table has always been a mystery. She did it, however, and successfully.

Mr. Alex Bufford, an ex-slave, lives at 1823 Seneca street, St. Joseph, Missouri. Mr Bufford, (everyone calls him Uncle Alex) does not know how old he is, but says he does remember that he was a grown man at the time of the Civil War.

I heard about Uncle Alex from one of the ladies in the reference room at the Public Library in St. Joseph, Mo. She told me I would have to see Uncle Alex right at the noon hour or in the evening, as he would be at work during working hours. I didn't ask her what kind of work he did but I heeded her advice about seeing him at the noon hour. I arrived at his place about 11:50 A.M. As I got out of my car I happened to look up the alley. An old Negro driving a one-horse wagon was just entering it. I guessed in a minute that this was the old gentleman I wanted to see. When he approached I did not tell him at first what I wanted but started talking about the weather. I saw in a minute the old fellow was going to be interesting to talk to.

After we had commented about the weather, I told him what I wanted. Uncle Alex, "Ya sir, I'll be bery glad to tell you anything I kin recollect, but I don't remember like I used to." He said, "I don't know how ole I am, but I was a grown man at the time of de war and I guess I'se de oldest man in de city. I was born in Buchanan County and have libed here all my life. I only been out de state once in my life and dat wuz ober to Elwood seberal years ago. (Elwood, Kansas is only about 2 miles west of St. Joseph.) I'se just don't keer to go any place."

To my question about his family he replied. "Ya sir, I hab four daughters and one son libing, but da don't help dis ole man any. Until I got de ole age pension seberal months ago, I had a terbil time making a libing."

Uncle Alex and his brother who is younger than he, live together. The brother is an old man more feeble than Uncle Alex.

After the War Uncle Alex worked on the farm for the Conetts, near Faucett, Mo. in Buchanan County for several years. Then he moved to town and worked for the same people in their brickyard until just a few years ago.

The house Uncle Alex lives in now belongs to the people he worked for so long. He lives there rent free.

Harriet Casey

*Interview with Harriet Casey,*
*aged 75, Fredericktown, Missouri.*
*Interviewed by J. Tom Miles.*

"I've lived here 'bout 65 years. I was born in slavery on de Hill place in Farmington. My mother's name was Catherine. Father's name was George. A brother and sistah of mine was sold as slaves 'fore I was born. I nevah saw them. My father was sold away from my mother. Our home was not pleasant. The mistress was cruel. Her brother would go down in de orchard and cut de sprouts and pile 'em up under de house so as de mistress could use 'em on us. She also used a bed stick to whip with.

"One day we took de cows to pasture and on de way home I stopped to visit Mrs. Walker and she gave me a goose egg. And den when we got home de old mistress kicked me and stomped on us and broke my goose egg. Did'n mind de whipping but sure hated to break my egg.

"Our cabin was one room, one door and one fire place. Our mistress was a rich woman, and she had three husbands. She had a big square smoke house full of hog, beef, deer, all pickled away. She had 12 cows and lots of butter and a spring-house.

"To eat we had corn meal and fried meat dat had been eaten by bugs. We had some gravy and all ate 'round de pans like pigs eating slop. And we had a tin cup of sour milk to drink. Sometimes we would have gingerbread. Dis was 'bout twice a year.

"My brother dat was a slave ran off with four or five other boys and never come back. He went west and died in Honolulu. They had a 'niggerbreaker' in Farmington who would take care of de slaves who were hard to handle.

"Once it got so cold dat de chickens froze and fell out of the trees and de mistress gave each of us a chicken to eat. We had no shoes even in winter. I can't 'member having good clothes.

"One of our neighbors, Mr. McMullin, was a poor white but he had a heart and was our mistress' guardian. I was too little to do much but I would walk along de furrows and hit de oxen with a stick. My sistah come and got me after freedom and learned me de alphabet. De first thing I ever learned to read was, 'I see you Tom. Do you see me?' I worked for intelligent people and learned a great deal. After I married I wanted to learn a great deal and how to read. At de camp in Mine La Motte I went to school in a log house for 'bout two months.

"Dey would whip with a cat-o'-nine-tails and den mop de sores with salt water to make it sting. De traders would come through and buy up slaves in groups like stock. On de way south dey would have regular stopping places like pens and coops for de slaves to stay in; at each of these stoppin' places some of de slaves would be sold. My uncle's father was his master and de master sold my uncle who was his own son.

"When my mother died I did not know what a coffin was or what death was. So I went to my dead mother where she was on de cooling board and brushed my dress and said, 'Look at my pretty dress.'

"There was a tough gang called patrollers. Dey would scare de Negroes and would keep dem always afraid. De mistress would take a couple of us young ones to church but when we got home things were different.

"And I never seen so many soldiers in my life before or since than when Price come through on his raid. It was apple pickin' time and de mistress made us gather apples and pack 'em to the soldiers and we had to pack water from de spring to 'em. De mistress had pickets out in front of de house when de soldiers was in town.

"Once when de Union soldiers was in town a negro soldier come and got him a turkey off de fence. De next night a white soldier come to get a turkey and he looked all over de place and come up over de stile. Den de mistress goes out on de porch and called de dogs and said, 'Sic the rogue'. De soldier took out his pistol and laid it on de fence and waited awhile and looked. De dogs were jumping up against de fence. So de soldier shot de dog and then went off and got on his hoss again.

"One day a Union officer come up and had a saber and said he would cut off de mistress' head. De officer was a Dutchman. The mistress then ran to town for help. De soldier came right in de cabin and said, 'Me no hurt you.' De soldier went in de safe in de house and ate all he wanted and den went to bed in de house. Finally de law come and moved him out of de bed off de place. De soldiers would come at night and rout de slave women out of bed and make 'em cook de soldiers a square meal."

Joe Casey

*Interview with Joe Casey,*
*Festus, Missouri.*

_Sold Slave, Ill Luck Followed_

"I did not get to see my daddy long. He served in de first of de war and come home sick and died at Cadet. I was born at Cadet. I lives here in Festus and am 90 years old. My mother was Arzella Casey and was a slave in Cadet. Tom Casey owned both my mother and father. De master had a pretty good farm and dat was where I worked when I was a boy. Mr. Casey never hit me a lick in my life. He was sure good to us. I had an uncle John and dey had to sell him 'cause dey could not do anything with him. Dey took him to Potosi before dey sold him. He did not want to be drove. Mr. Casey said if he had 100 niggers he would never sell another one. He said he never had any more good luck since he sold John. Losing his children was his bad luck.

"Before freedom we had our own house and stayed here after freedom. My master said, 'Well, Joe you are your own boss.' I said: 'How come?' He said: 'I'll help you.' Dey would not turn us out without a show. We stayed dere free and I went out in de diggin's in de tiff at Valle Mines. Some days I made $5 and den some days made $2. White folks would come and get ma and she would go to help kill hogs and clean up de lard. Dey paid her good. We must have stayed about 3 years at Casey's after de freedom and den went to Mineral Point and worked for de tiff and mineral. I married up dere and had about 13 children by 2 wives. I ain't got no wife now. Dey is both dead. My children is scattered so I don't know how many is livin'. I got a boy dat went to this last war and I think he is out west somewhere. I got two boys here. One is workin' for de factory in Crystal City. De other one knows lots about cement. I got another child in New York. They don't write to me. I can't read or write. Dere was no school for niggers dem days. I has to make a cross mark every time I do anything. I went to school one week and my mother had to clean tiff to make a livin' for dem children and get grub so I had to go to work. I had about seven sisters and brothers altogether. I done worked at everything--steamboating, cutting wheat in Harrisonville, Illinois. I was here when dis was all woods, man. Me and a saloon keeper have been here a long time, more'n 50 years I guess. I pay $5 a month rent or just what I can give 'em. My two boys lives here with me now and I get $12 pension.

"Dat's when my old master run when dem blue jackets come. Dey made me kill chickens and turkeys and cook for 'em. De lieutenant and sergeant would be right dere. De master would go out in de woods and hide and not come out till they rung de bell at de house.

"I voted since I been 21. I voted for Roosevelt twice. Some thinks he is goin' to get in again. What's the use of takin' money from a man for votin' a certain way? If I like you and you have treated me good all my life den I'll vote for you.

"I don't know what I think about de young Negroes today. Dey is all shined up and goin' 'round. If dey can read and write dey ought to know de difference between right and wrong. I don't think dey will amount to much. Some of 'em ain't got no sense. My mother would not let me stay out. Now, dat is all dey doin'. Last night de policeman put a knot on my boy's head; he was drinkin' and got into it with a coon. De young colored people is fightin' all de time. I don't get out. Just go to de store and come back home again. Dere is a house right near where dey has a big time every night. De whites and black ones was mixed up here till I stopped it. Right down in dat hollow I'll bet you'll find one-third white women livin' with black men. Most all de colored people around here is workin' in the works here at Crystal City. Dey will get up a war here if they keep on, you just watch, like they did in Illinois when dey burnt up a heap of coons. It's liable to get worse de way dey is goin' on."

Lula Chambers

*Interview with Lula Chambers,*
*St. Louis, Missiouri.*
*(Written by Grace E. White.)*

The subject of this sketch is Lula Chambers who is not certain of her age. However she knows she is past ninety and that she was born in Gallatin County, Kentucky near Virginia. She lives with a granddaughter, Genevieve Holden, 2627 Thomas Street, St. Louis.

Lying ill in a three-quarter metal bed in the front hall room of her granddaughter's 4-room brick apartment, the old lady is a very cheerful person, with an exceptionally fair complexion. Her brown hair is mixed with gray and she wears it quite long. Her room is neatly furnished.

"I was born in Gallatin County, Kentucky, more than ninety years ago, slaves didn't know dere age in them days when I come along. I do know I was born in July and my mammy's name was Patsy Lillard. I don't know nothing at all about no kind of father. Course, I had one but who he was I never knew. I ain't never even seen my mother enough to really know her, 'cause she was sold off the plantation where I was raised, when I was too young to remember her, and I just growed up in the house with the white folks dat owned me. Dere names was Dave Lillard. He owned more dan one hundred slaves. He told me dat my mother had seven children and I was de baby of 'em all and de onliest one living dat I knows anything about. They sold my mother down de river when I was too young to recollect a mother. I fared right well with my white masters. I done all de sewing in de house, wait on de table, clean up de house, knit and pick wool, and my old miss used to carry me to church with her whenever she went. She liked lots of water, and I had to bring her water to her in church. I had so much temper dey never bothered me none about nursing de children. But I did have a heap of nursing to do with de grown ups.

"I used to get a whipping now and den but nothing like de other slaves got. I used to be scared to death of those old Ku Klux folks with all dem hoods on dere heads and faces. I never will forget, I saw a real old darkey woman slave down on her knees praying to God for his help. She had a Bible in front of her. Course she couldn't read it, but she did know what it was, and she was prayin' out of her very heart, until she drawed the attention of them old Ku Klux and one of 'em just walked in her cabin and lashed her unmerciful. He made her get up off her knees and dance, old as she was. Of course de old soul couldn't dance but he just made her hop around anyhow.

"De slave owners in de county where I was raised--de well-to-do ones I mean, did not abuse de slaves like de pore trash and other slave holders did. Of course dey whipped 'em plenty when dey didn't suit. But dey kind of taken care of 'em to sell. Dey had a great slave market dere dat didn't do nothing but sell slaves, and if dey wanted a good price for dem de slave would have to be in a purty good condition. Dat's what saved dere hides. My owners had a stock farm and raised de finest stock in Kentucky. Dey didn't raise any cotton at all, but dey shore did raise fine wheat, barley and corn, just acres and acres of it. De worse lashing our slaves ever got was when dey got caught away from home without a pass. Dey got whipped hot and heavy den.

"In Arkansas many of de slave owners would tie dere slaves to a wagon and gallop 'em all over town and would dey be banged up. I saw a strange niggah come to town once and didn't know where he was going and stepped in the door of a white hotel. When he saw all white faces, he was scared most to death. He didn't even turn around he just backed out and don't you know dem white folks kilt him for stepping inside a white man's hotel by mistake, yes they did.

"I can't tell you any pleasure I had in my early days, honey, 'cause I didn't have none. If I had my studyin' cap on, and hadn't just got over dis terrible sick spell, I could think of lots of things to tell you, but I can't now. Right after de war dey sent colored teachers through de South to teach colored people and child, do you know, dem white folks just crucified most of 'em. I don't know how to read or write. Never did know. I am de mother of five children, but dey is all dead now. I have two grandchildren living, and have been in St. Louis seven years. I come here from Helena, Arkansas. My husband was a saloon keeper and a barber. He died in 1880 in Brinkley, Arkansas. I nursed and cooked in Brinkley after he died for fifteen years for one family.

"I wears glasses sometime. I have been a member of de church over fifty years. My membership is in Prince of Peace Baptist Church now and has been every since I been in St. Louis. God has been so good to me, to let me live all dese years. I just want to be ready to meet him when he is ready for me. My only trouble will be to love white folks, dey have treated my race so bad. My pastor, Rev. Fred McDonald always tells me I will have to forgive them and love dem if I wants to go to heaven. But honey, dat's goin to be a lifetime job. I don't care how long God lets me live, it will still be a hard job.

"I gets an old age pension. It is very little, but I thank God for dat. I have nothing left to do now in this world but to pray. Thank God for his goodness to me and be ready when He comes.

"Dis rheumatism serves me so bad I can't be happy much. Wish I could remember more to tell you but I can't."

The old woman is well preserved for her years.

Emmaline Cope

*Interview with Emmaline Cope,*
*Joplin, Missouri.*

Emmaline Cope was born at McMinnville, Tenn., on August 20, 1848, and is now 89 years of age.

Emmaline's slave father was King Myers and her slave mother was Caroline Myers. They were both owned by one Tim Myers a wealthy and prominent planter of McMinnville.

After peace was declared at the expiration of the Civil War, Emmaline Cope was taken to Lowell, Kansas, and there afterwards, was married to John Cope. Thirty five years ago John Cope died in Kansas and Emmaline Cope then moved to Joplin with one girl child. They have lived in Joplin continuously since then.

When interviewed Mrs. Cope, slowly recovering from a paralytic stroke, seemed unable to give any details of the Civil War activities.

Peter Corn

*Interview with Peter Corn,*
*Herculaneum, Missouri.*

_Peter Tells How Slavery Began_

"I'se 83 years old and was born in Ste. Genevieve County and my old slave-time place was in New Tennessee about 14 miles west of de town of Ste. Genevieve. My master had only my mother, my mother's brother, and an old lady by de name of Malinda. My mother had six children but only four of us lived to be grown. Father was owned by a Mr. Aubushon right dere at Coffman. Mother come from way south in Kentucky and she was owned by a Master Calvin dere and when him and de mistress died de slaves had to be divided up among de children. Den my mother's mistress left Louisville and brought her here to Missouri. When mother come to Missouri she was only 9 years old.

"My old mistress, I can't say a hard word about her. Before I was borned she was left a widow and she treated us almost like white folks. She took care of us and raised us up. Mother died after she had six children and we was left in de care of dis old mistress. The Catholic people treated us like as if we was free. My mother and father was married by de priest and it was lawful. But dese other ones was married by de master hisself. When dey married de master could pick up any old kind of paper and call it lawfully married. An almanac or anything would do. But what was it? The colored people didn't know A from B and wasn't allowed to learn to read. If my master or mistress would see me readin' a paper dey would come up and say, 'What you know about reading a paper? Throw dat down.' Dis was done to keep us from learnin' to read anything.

"After we got free what did we do to get lawfully married to our slave-time wife? Understand good now. Den de squire came around and we had to get married all over again under de new constitution. It would cost $5. When de master first married us he would say in de ceremony something like dis:

"'Now, by God, if you ain't treatin' her right, by God, I'll take you up and whip you.' The girl's mistress would chastise her de same way. I would choose who I wanted to marry but I had to talk to my master about it. Den him and de owner of de girl I wanted would get together and talk it over.

"Dere is lots of people right today who can't tell you how de new constitution come up. In slave time, young man, we was stock, like cattle and hogs. If I killed 50 men nothin' was said about jail, but we got whipped den. Dat was your sufferin' for what you done done. Man, I never got but one whippin' from my master. I can tell you just how it come. It was done through takin' care of an old cow. Now, in dem times, son, dere was not gates like dere is now. You called dem 'slip bars', and would let down a rail fence called bars to let the cattle in. Understand, listen at it good now. Every mornin' I had to go up to de straw stack and drive de cows to de barn. To milk dem we had to drive dem down a lane to de house for de old cook woman to milk. As I drove dese cows dey all got through de gate but when de last cow come through she fell over de bottom rail and de master was standin' at de window and saw dis happen. De snow was about three feet deep. Now listen good. De old master was crippled and so here he come with a walkin' stick in one hand and a cowhide in de other.

"He said, 'By God, I'm goin' to learn you, by God, how to let down bars'. I said, 'Marster Jim, I let down every bar 'cept dat one on de bottom'. He jumped on me and got me down in dat snow till I couldn't see him at all. Every time he raised up an' come down with dat cowhide it cut through de snow and hit me. I didn't had nuthin' on 'cept an old pair of socks around my feet. You know if you was raised from birth like dis you could stand it. It come to me, I thought dat if I ever get to be a man I would pay de marster back for dat.

"And so after dat when we got free I was growin' on 13 years of age. My aunt and brothers come and got me. My old master was a shoemaker, and one day my uncle told me to take a pair of boots and take dem over to have half-soled. I taken dem over. I had not come across the old master since de time we was free until dis day. But when I went in de house de family was around dere and I forgot about payin' him back for de way he done treated me. Jim's mother who was dere said, 'Well, Peter, don't you wish you was back here livin' with us again?' I said, 'No, mam.' Den I went in de kitchin and talked to Jim's wife. She was a Republican and said, 'Wasn't dat hateful what she said about you bein' back here again?' De next time I met my old master, Mr. Galvin, was on de road. He was walkin' and could hardly drag. I was ridin' my horse and thought about gettin' down and whippin' him but when I looked at him I thought I might as well be whippin' a year old child. I let him go.

"Later on Jim got poor and one day I met him at de saloon in Staabtown. He wanted to get some leather from another store. He asked me if he could have my horse. I said rather sharp, 'No, I won't.' Den I thought and said, 'Mr. Jim, I'll go and get de leather myself.' So I got de leather and taken it to his home and set it in on de porch by his door. Den he said, 'Peter, I thank you a thousand times. Any time you need anything in de shoe line come to me.'

"Later on he was down and out and he come to his sisters. Dey could not take care of him so dey put him in de asylum in Farmington. I met him in Farmington on lots of days, and felt like payin' him back for dat whippin'. But just looked like every time, God would say, 'No, don't do dat. He will pay for dat. He will come down'. And he sure did pay for it. He died in de asylum out from Farmington. I never mentioned about dat whippin' to Jim Galvin, not a nary time.

"When I was freed I felt like I was goin' into a new world. It was de daughter of de old mistress what told me I was as free as dey was. It was dangerous around de house durin' of de war. So de old mistress broke up de old place and us boys was given to our godmother. Mary was my godmother and it was here I was told dat I was free. We was little and didn't know which way to go. My mistress said, 'Now Peter, you are free and de first chance we get we are going to send for your aunt to come and get you.' Dere were four of us brothers bein' taken care of by four sisters, when we was free. My uncle was in de army and served two years and had come home. He asked my aunt, 'Where are dose boys?' My aunt said, 'Dey is still with de white folks.' So my uncle come to get us. When he come he rid up and we was so glad to see him we run out and met him. He said, 'Boys, I've come after you.'

"We walked up to de house. Den de white folks was just as glad to see Uncle Julius as if he had been their brother. Den Uncle Julius said to my godmother, Mary, 'Well, Miss Evely, I come after Pete.' She said, 'Julius, I'm awful glad you've come to get him, I hate to give him up, but take him and take good care of him.' Julius was told de same thing by all de other godmothers of my brothers. All of dese sisters had de winter clothes for us cut out but dey wasn't made. De white women said, 'All your aunt has to do is to make dem.' We had between nine and ten miles to go to get down to my aunt's home.

"My aunt's husband was freed at least 15 years before de war started. His master died and he was freed by a will when the master went to de court house in Ste. Genevieve. Now, just listen good. Dis master willed 800 acres to his slaves who divided up de farm. Before he died, he put it down in a way dat his daughters and sons-in-laws could not break it 'cepting dey would raise several thousand dollars. De old slaves would sit down and tell us about it. De master turns in and pays de taxes up for 100 years. One of de trustees for de will was a Dr. Herdick and Henry Rozier both of Ste. Genevieve. My uncle's part was 40 acres and it was dis farm where I went when I come out from under de shelter of de white folks. De colored would sell 2 or 3 acres at a time and all dis farm is now sold. I was 13 when I got free and went to dis farm and there was my home until I was right at a grown man. De only taxes we had to pay was on household goods and stock. Every year when de personal taxes come due I would go into Ste. Genevieve to pay de taxes. As long as Dr. Herdick and Henry Rozier lived as overseers we was well protected on de farm. But Ed Rozier, a lawyer, tried to get us to pay de other kind of taxes.

"I was goin' on 20 or 21 before I left de farm. De old lady and Uncle died about de same time. Dey took de old lady to de River Aux Vases Catholic Church to bury her and I stayed with de old man and he died before dey got back from de funeral. We sold our forty acres and dere was six heirs. Den I went to work on a farm of Mr. Aubushon for $10 a month for 15 years. When I quit Aubushon I went den out in Washington County at Potosi and stayed with my two uncles out dere. I served in a iron factory dere for about two years. Sometimes I would get $5 a day. Den when de price would fall off I would get less. Den I come back to Ste. Genevieve County and worked by de day and den went to St. Louis. I worked dere from one iron factory to another and so den I quit dat.

"Den I 'run the river' three straight years from St. Louis to Cairo and Memphis, and Baton Rouge, and New Orleans. I den quit de down trade and rested up and made de northern trip from St. Louis to St. Paul. Everything had to be sent from de South out to California. Dat boat had nothin' on it 'cept eatin' things. So my aim was to get out to California to dig gold. I got defeated in dis way.

"De river got so low dat we would be tied up for 3 or 4 days before we could unload it. And we never made it to de port where we could unload it to send it to California. From dese ports you went by land with a covered wagon and oxen or mules. It would sometimes take 6 months to get to California from de time we left de river. My way would have been free because I could drive a team out to California. But I never got to go 'cause de river got so low. I quit de river work and done some farming for first one den another down in Ste. Genevieve County for a couple of years.

"Dey was just startin' up at Crystal City. Dere was lots in de paper about it. Now and den William Kimer, who was livin' in Jefferson County, wrote me to work for him. I would work for him from May to December durin' de wheat cuttin', thrashing, corn pullin' and wheat sowin'. Den dere was no more summer work, so Crystal City was just startin' up and dere was no railroad and dey got everything by boat and teams hauled de things from de river up to de plant. Sometimes there was from 50 to 60 farm teams down at de river haulin' de coal, brick, etc. for de company. Sometimes we would make $15 a day for de farmer man and he would pay me $10 a month and board. Den I went to Crystal City and worked 13 straight years. De most dat ever I got dere was five or six dollars a day. Dis would be about every three months w'en we tore down de furnace and built it back. At other times I would get about $4.50 a day. I done everything. Made mortar, carried de hod and brick and when quittin' time come you was tired. After I quit Crystal City I went down in Ste. Genevieve County and farmed and got married and had two children. My wife and one child, a little girl, is dead. I live here with my son and his wife. My son has been workin' for de St. Joe here for 12 or 13 years. I had to quit work when I lost my eye-sight.

"I was grubbin' hazel-nut bushes in dem rich bottoms in Ste. Genevieve County; and one day I was runnin' and fell down on a stob and it went through my left eye. Dis happened about 40 years ago. De other eye was good till I was 45 and den I had de loss of both eyes and been blind ever since. I'se been gettin' a blind pension for 22 years. It is $75 every three months.

"Dere is only one colored family here dat owns their house. All de others rent from the company. I vote at every presidential election, but dat's about all I ever do vote. I been votin' for every president election since I was 21 years old. From de beginning to de end it's always the same, the Republican ticket. Dey joke me a good deal around here 'bout voting one way.

"As I look back on it, people ought never to have been slaves. Dat was the low downest thing dat ever was. De first startin' of slavery was when a white man would go over to Africa and de people over dere was ignorant and de white man would hold up a pretty red handkerchief and trade it for one of de Negro women's children. De Negroes in Africa was too ignorant to know better and dis is de way slavery started. I always said like dis, when de older ones that knowed de things, dey ought have learned de slaves their names as dey was in Africa. Lots of us don't know what our grandparents was in Africa. Slavery didn't teach you nothin' but how to work and if you didn't work your back would tell it. Slavery taught you how to lie, too. Just like your master would tell you to go over and steal dat hog. Den de other master from who I stole de hog would say, 'Peter, why I've lost a hog; did you ever see him anywhere?' I would say, 'No, suh'. Of course if I did not lie I would get a whippin'.

"De white people did not want to put us in a state to ourselves after de freedom 'cause dey couldn't do without us. De colored people done come up too high now to back 'em and dey got a better chance. De conditions now of de colored people is of course better now 'cause dey is somebody. But every day dey is tryin' to starve us out and give de white man a job on de state road. Dey do dat to keep us down. Dat's done more now dan ever before. It's been worse since Roosevelt got in dere. When Highway 61 was put in from St. Louis down to Festus de colored man had a part to do. Since Roosevelt got in dey won't even let a colored man walk down de highway."

Ed Craddock

*Interview with Ed Craddock,*
*Janitor, Saline County Court House,*
*Marshall, Missouri.*

_Veteran Janitor_

Marshall, Missouri has a life-long negro citizen who was born in slavery, but was too young to remember actual slave conditions. He is Ed Craddock, born a few years before the Civil War, the son of slaves owned by leading pioneer families. Craddock lived through the hard days of reconstruction. His own father was a school building janitor in Marshall in the 1870's, and Ed Craddock was apprenticed under his sire, finally, upon death of the latter, succeeding to the job, which he has held for forty-seven years. Years ago he married and reared a large family. Craddock belongs to the Methodist Church, serving as "second minute-man", which he explains is something like a secretary, and also belongs to the Colored Masonic Lodge. Craddock's brother is a practicing physician in St. Louis.

"Stories told me by my father are vivid," Craddock said in an interview. "One especially, because of its cruelty. A slave right here in Marshall angered his master, was chained to a hemp-brake on a cold night and left to freeze to death, which he did. My father said slaves had to have a pass to go places. 'Patrollers' usually went in groups of three. If they caught a slave off his plantation without a pass the patrollers often would flog them."

Craddock relates that his father suffered from chills and fever which, quinine, the only remedy known then, failed to cure. Someone advised him, next time the chill came on, to plunge into a deep and cold hole in the river. Ed says his father, out of desperation, tried the suggested cure, and it worked, in a way squaring with the modern medical theory of setting up a counterirritant in certain cases.

Craddock's mother was owned by the family of Marmadukes, one of whom was an early-day governor of Missouri.

Isabelle Daniel [TR: Mrs. Eli Daniel]

*Interview with Mrs. Eli Daniel,*
*Marshall, Missouri.*

An aged negress answered the door when I knocked and asked if this was Isabelle, she invited me into her parlor, a tiny room with a rather good-looking brussels rug upon the floor, and panel lace curtains hung at the windows. The walls were hung with enlarged crayon pictures of Isabelle's husband and their sons and daughters; no other pictures adorn the walls. The center is the old family Bible occupying the place of honor; all the births, deaths, and marriages of the family have been carefully recorded in this book. An album holds next place and contains many old fashioned pictures of her "white folks" and friends of her younger days.

The outside of this little four room house is quite attractive, it was formerly painted white, but not much paint clings to it now; old fashioned green shutters still hang at the windows, a tiny little portico shelters the front door. There is room at one end for a small porch swing to be hung. At the other end an old weather-beaten chair affords a resting place for the caller.

The yard is entirely enclosed by a fancy wire fence, and a concrete walk leads to the porch.

This old woman lives entirely alone in this little cottage which was provided for her many years ago by the will of her old master.

She says she is 87 years old, but circumstances seem to indicate that she is at least 90; she said she was married and had a child about a year old when the war closed in 1865.

Her work as a slave was almost all in the house; she was taught to sew, and had to help make the clothes for the other slaves. She also was a nursemaid for her mistress' little children and at one time was hired out to the methodist preacher's family to take care of the children when his wife was ill.

She remembered joining the "white folks" methodist church in old Cambridge and going to church on Sundays and sitting in the Gallery, which was the place reserved for colored people in that particular place.

On Sunday morning Aunt Cindy got "happy" at the services and began to throw herself about and shout; the white folks on the seats below hurried to get out from under the edge of the balcony for fear Aunt Cindy would lose her balance and fall over the railing to the floor below.

Isabelle is a Firm Believer in "hants."

When she was a girl the adjoining plantation was owned by her master's brother-in-law, and on this plantation was the big old tobacco factory where the tobacco raised on several neighboring plantations was priced and hung. The negroes on her master's place said this factory was "hanted." None of them would go near this factory after nightfall, for "when the nights were still and the moon was full, you could hear the ting, ting, ting, of the lever all night long and voices of the slaves crying out and complaining, and you knew there wasn't anybody there at all, jest hants."

Isabelle was a mid-wife by profession after the war, and tells this as one of her experiences.

She was caring for a lady that had just had her second child; they lived in a cottage with a full basement under it.

The father was to take full care of the other child, a little boy, at night, and they were to sleep in the basement. The father and little son tried to sleep in the basement for two or three nights, but the father could not sleep. Something bothered him as if restless spirits were abroad. One morning Isabelle said she was standing by the door when she heard a voice, low and vibrant, saying, "No sleep here. Can't sleep here." No one was there but her and the mother and the two little children, so, of course, she knew it was "hants". This was proved to her satisfaction a few months later. The skeleton of a man was found under the basement floor.

Henry Dant

*Interview with Henry Dant,*
*Hannibal, Missouri.*

_Henry Says He's 105_

Henry Dant, now living with his daughter on Davis Street in Hannibal, was born in slavery on the farm of Judge Daniel Kendrick, south of Monroe City in Ralls County. He is about one hundred and five years old, in possession of all his faculties and is able to move around the house. He seemed to have only hazy recollections, and it was difficult to keep him from wandering from the subject. The following is the story that he told:

"I was married and had three children when we was freed. The only slaves Mr. Kendrick had was my mother, brother, sister, and myself. Mr. Kendrick had three boys. Joe carried mail to Paris, and de other two, Bob and Jerome, was school teachers.

"We was treated fair when we behaved ourselves, but we had to be straightened out sometimes but we were not mistreated. We worked hard on de farm. I cradled wheat and plowed corn often till midnight. We often drove hogs to Palmyra and Hannibal. When dere was no crops in de fields we made brooms and baskets. My brother died and den I had to do most of de work. I was de only colored man on de place den. De Stage stopped at Mr. Kendrick's place and I had to look after de horses and mules. De mail come dere too, and dere was always a lot of people to be fed.

"Mr. Kendrick was judge of de court at New London and he was away most of de time. He was a big man in de county in dem days, and I had to go to town often. Once when I was driving to town with de ox team and wagon during de war, dere was soldiers on de road like you never did see. I tell you dem was bad times. I come back a different road because I was afraid, and I run dem oxen most of de way home. I got dere all right, but de oxen laid down on me once. De next morning one of the oxen was dead and in about a week de other one died. Dey just couldn't stand de running.

"Two of de master's boys got locked up over in New London or some place during de war. Dey come back after the war was over.

"I played a fiddle for all de weddings and parties in de neighborhood. Dey paid me fifteen or twenty cents each time and I had money in my pockets all de time.

"When we was set free dey gave us a side of meat and a bushel of meal. Dat's all we got. I went on a farm and farmed for myself, later I owned a farm in Ralls County. We raised corn and pigs and drove de pigs to Hannibal and Palmyra. When I got too old to farm I come here to live with my daughter. I get a pension now for about a year. It's not very much but it helps."

Lucy Davis

*Interview with Lucy Davis,*
*Cape Girardeau, Missouri.*

"In dem ole days we lived down near Hickman, Kentucky. We belonged to Masta' Joe Mott and Missus Mary Mott. Den dey was young Massa' James Andrew an' young Massa' Joe, an' dey wuz Missie Ophelia an' Missie Mary Rebecca.

"Dey had a nice big house, white wid big porches an' big locust trees aroun' in de yard. Dey only had us one famly o' slaves but dey wuz a good many er us.

"My Daddy wuz Henry Litener and my mammy wuz Rosanna Litener. My daddy belonged to Woodson Morris. He wuz a cousin of Massa Joe Mott an' lived a few miles away. He wuz allus allowed to visit us over Saturday night an' Sunday. Mammy done de cookin' at de big house an' Massa Joe allus said dey warn't nobody cud cook like Rose--dat's what he call her.

"We lived in a three-room log house an' we allus had plenty good eatin'. Hams, puddi near all year round chickens, en' sweet'taters an' possums too.

"Cain't tell 'bout no good times in dem days 'cause dey warn't none. We didden have no church but Ole Missus Mary usta carry mammy along to her church--ridin behind on her hoss. I guess dey wuz mos'ly right good to us all. The chillern wouldn' never let nobody whup me 'cause we all played togedder. But Ole Massa usta whup mammy when he'd git mad.

"When de war came Ole Massa didden go but he war a reg'lar ole seesesh! Young James Andrew went off to war an' ole Missus usta grieve for him. We ain't never seed no fightin' round our place but we could hear de big guns over at Columbus. When de sojers was round de neighborhood dey'd allus have me playing' round de front gate so I cud tell em when dey's comin' up de road. Den dey goes an' hides 'fore de sojers gits dar. Dey all skeer'd o' de sojers. I's skeerd too but dey say sojers won't bother little black gal. De sojers jes' came in en' ransack de house--dey finds sumthin to eat an' dey looks for money. Dey wants money! but dey don' find none. Den dey wants ter know whar's my folks--but I tells 'em I don't know. Dey jes left en' didden say whar dey wuz goin'.

"When de war wuz over Ole Massa Joe came in an' he say: 'Rose, you all ain't slaves no mo'--You is all free as I is.' Den you should a heard my mammy shout! You never heerd sich shoutin' in all yo' bahn days. An' Ole Missus she joined in de shoutin' too. She war glad 'cause now James Andrew would be comin' home.

"Old Missus Delia Reed, dat wuz Old Massa's sister, she wuz good 'bout lookin atter us wen we's ailin' but iffen we's sick dey'd git de doctor. Dey wuz jes as dutiful to us as to dere white folks.

"Dey usta talk--bout hoodoos an castin' spells en' sech like--but I guess dey warn't much to it er dey'd a cast spells on some a' de mean Massa's when dey beat um up. Still iffen dey had, mebby dey'd a beat um up worser or mebby killed em."

Mary Divine

*Interview with Mary Divine,*
*St. Louis County, Missouri.*

_Was Nurse Maid At 4_

The subject of this sketch is Mary Divine, 85 years old. She lives at 8004 Elinore Avenue, St. Louis County, Missouri, with her son and daughter-in-law.

Her home is an old fashioned 3-room slate dwelling, with an abundance of old furniture for such a small place. The little old woman was interviewed while mending the pockets in her son's trousers. Her story follows:

"I was born May 24, 1852 in Carroll County, Tennessee. My mother's name was Mary Whitehorn, 'cause she was owned by de Whitehorns in dat county. My father's name was James Farrow 'cause he was owned by de Farrows. De slaves had to carry dere owners' names, married or what not. My mother had three children. My first owner's name was George Whitehorn and his wife's was Jackie Whitehorn. When old Marse George died, we was handed down to Joseph Whitehorn in Miss Jackie's will. She knowed long before freedom we were going to be free, so she had in her will dat her darkies,--she always called us darkies--had caused dem to have all dey owned and it was no more dan right when we git free to divide up de plantation so every one of us could make a good livin' on de livin' we done made for dem, and dey still own and have plenty. She was a good old soul. She didn't want a one of us to leave, even after freedom been declared. She said she would never live to see it and she didn't neither. She died 'fore we was free, and dem chillun never did carry out her will neither.

"'Cause dey didn't give a one of us nothin', no, nothin' at all. Put us out wid just what we had on our backs, and dat was most nothin'. At 4 years old I had to nurse old man George's son, Joseph's baby, and de baby was most big as me, but I nursed it just de same, honey. Dey put me in dat family nursin' dat baby 'fore I was four 'cause dey put me dere in January and I wasn't four years old till de incoming May dat same year. I 'member dat right well. I nursed dat baby for two years, too, and it sure was crazy 'bout me. I loved it too, yes, I did. Den after two years dey sent me to work for de old man's oldest son, Jacob. Dey made me do all de cardin' and spinnin', make ropes and ply lines, two cuts a day, was my task and I stayed dere in dat family until after the Civil War was over.

"I heard my father got killed in de Civil War. I never knowed for sure, 'cause three months 'fore I was born, his owners carried him away to some other part of de country and we never seen nor heard from him no more. Mother never did know what happened him, no she didn't.