Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

"Just 'fore war was declared I was still young and small but just de same I had to help pack brick to de moulders where dey would be building brick chimneys, and work in de field, too. I had it mighty hard in dem days, yes I did but den it wasn't hard as some others had it.

"I 'member during de war days, my old miss use to boast 'bout her littlest darkey, done spun enough thread to clothe her whole family for de next three years to come. For two years after freedom was declared I worked from farm to farm and de promise we was going to get paid, but we never got nothin' from none of dat work but de old slave cabin to sleep in and food enough just so we could work.

"We had noboby down in dat country to make folks keep dere word and pay a nigger, so we just have to keep on travelin'. After 'bout three years later I cooked in de same county for a Bill Green. Got my board and keep and $1.00 a week. He kept me 'bout five months. Dey never did keep us long for pay. Den I went to John Carney's plantation wid my mamma. I card and spun dere for 'bout one year and some weeks. We got $1.00 a week and he was supposed to give us home made cloth to make us some clothes for our work, but he never did do it. After dat we went to work on Sub Allen's farm for $1.00 week. I took sick dere and dey had to call in a doctor. My mamma and me worked for him a long time, but we got ready to go and want our money he said, while I was sick it taken all he owed us to pay my doctor's bill so we didn't git nothin' dere, but a place to stay and we shore did work like slaves in all dem places, from sun up till sun down just like in slave days. Only difference was we didn't git a beatin' when we didn't suit. I couldn't make no money for clothes or nothing so I just up and married and had eleven children. Den my husband died. I had a child in dis last World War. He was my ninth child and got took in de last draft. I never heard of him no more. Dis one I'm living with named Ulysses Divine. He's de only child I got living I know anything about.

"I been here in St. Louis since Wilson's first administration and worked in de nut factory five years. I like to sew and do general housework. I read, write and spell a little but not enough to speak about. I know dis young generation's got a mighty fine chance if dey 'cept of it and 'preciate it. Course some do and some don't. I prefer living in town dan out here but my son bought dis spot. I can't make my own living no more, so I got to live on it. I git what de relief pretend to call help, 'tain't nuff for nothin' though. Dey claim I'll git a pension, but I never seen it yet. I'll be dead directly and I won't need it. I can't answer dem other questions 'bout what us slaves expect and voting, I don't know."

Mary Douthit

*Interview with wife of Charles Douthit,*
*Farmington, Missouri.*

Note:--While the interviewer was questioning Charles Douthit, Farmington, Missouri, negro, who was born in 1865, his wife standing in the door looked rather wild-eyed, and unable to stand it any longer, finally broke out with the following:--"Say! What are they gittin' all dis stuff fur anyway? I bet I know. They want ta find out how dey treated de ole slaves so's dey'll know how to treat the young 'uns when dey makes dem slaves. I bet they're goin' a try to have slaves again and dere are some people who want slavery back but de people won't stan' fur hit now. I don't know what de government wants to do but de people would have a most turrible war if dey tried to have slaves again. But ma muther who worked for John Coffman in Ste. Genevieve County, wuz well treated. She war really owned by the Missus and de Missus would not sell ma mamma. When de war wuz ober de missus gave ma muther some land an built her a beautiful home down dare. Ma muther wuz treated so good dat she stayed an worked fur de Missus til de Missus died. I was borned down in dat dare house dat de Missus built fur ma Muthuh and ma son lives dere now. I was down dere las week, an I calls hit home."

John Estell

*Related by "Uncle" John Estell*
*[Missouri], age 85.*

_Slavery_

"The slaves had a hard time, some of them. All the work was done by hand. The slaves cradled the wheat. They raised hemp for clothes. The old master had one woman who made clothes the year round for the hands. We had to get a pass from the master to leave the place. If any of the slaves got in trouble they were taken to the whippin' post. If they had done a big crime they got 60 or 70 lashes with a whip, for a small crime they got about thirty, if their master would not pay their fine. The white folks went to singin' school then they would sing one or two songs that's all they knew. They would have big basket meetings. All the slaves had to set in the gallery when we went to church. Most everybody went on hossback. Some of the farmers were good to their men and some bad. When some farm had more slaves than was needed, he would hire them out to some body or sell them. New Year's day was always sale day or the day they would hire out for the year. When we wanted to get married we had to ask the master and the girls' mother and father. All the married man got Thursday night off to go to see their wives.

"At Christmas time we got a week off and we got Saturday afternoon off. At Christmas the old boss would fix a big bowl of eggnog for us niggers. The niggers were superstitious. They would not live in a house where a sinner had died. There was an old man and woman lived down the road from our house that fit all the time, and by that house after dark one night one saw them walkin' around in the house. None of us niggers would go by there after dark, we always rode around the place. People are lots smarter now than they was then."

Smoky Eulenberg

*Smoky Eulenberg,*
*Jackson, Missouri.*
*(Written from F.C.*
*in Sikeston District.)*

"I was born on October 13, 1854. My master was Henry Walker and we live 'bout three mile from Jackson. De house was of logs. One of dose big double kind wid a open hall in between. Solomon Eulenberg was my father and he was a big fine looking man. My mother come fum Tennessee when she was ten year old.

"Master had nearly a hundred slaves and dey was about ten or twelve cabins in de quarters. Dey was a big feeding barn where we'd hitch up and go to work. De barn was built of big hewed logs, too.

"No'm, dey wasn't none of us ever try to run away. We had a good home and we all stayed till dey declare peace and lots of us kept on a staying 'cause we didn't know nothing else to do. But my father was industrious--he worked hard and saved his money and in a couple of year he bought a team and we moved to a little place.

"But lots of de cullud folks had it hard dem days--dey was jest turned loose and didn't know what to do. Some of de white folks was mighty good to 'em. If they'd hear of a family being hungry dey'd send food to 'em or have 'em come to dey kitchen.

"A cose mebbe it don't sound right but in some ways I often wish we's back in dem days. We had a fine place. Every year we'd kill seventy or seventy-five hogs--and had plenty of every thing. We ate our meals in our own cabin but every morning at seven, de colored housewoman went to de smoke house to cut meat for de day. Us youngsters all ganged up round her, hoping to get something. Lotsa times missus would ask us if we's hungry and bring us into de kitchen and give us what dey had left. Sometime she have de women make up pancakes for us. Us children had de chores to do--and any work dat we's able.

"We didn't have no school. A woman come and stay all year round jest to teach little Miss Lucy and she taught some of de cullud children to read and write. Missus would have a preacher come once a month to preach. I rec'lect his name was Rev. Watts. All of us would come into de big house for meeting.

"Many a time we seen soldiers pass on de road but dey never molested us none, 'cept to come in and eat everything that was cooked--and sometime have de women cook up some more. One Sunday morning a bunch of 'em come by--dey had been over to Burfordville and burned de mill. Another Sunday a bunch of Rebs come by and camped 'bout a mile from our place. Dat night de Blue Coats ran onto 'em. Dey killed about thirty. Next morning us boys went over there and what we saw didn't suit me none. Some of de cullud men helped to bury 'em.

"We had lots a good times in dem days. Us boys played marbles and ball and other games like boys will. On Saturdays from five to nine we all had off--den we'd congregate--and have singing and dancing. At Christmas and such days we'd have a big time. When dey's a wedding missus always dressed 'em and fixed 'em up. I rec'lect one time missus sold my mother and four children but it wasn't no trade. De woman's name was Mrs. Sheppard and she was a sassy old woman. She come into my mother's cabin and grabbed her and told her she going to take her home. Mother jes' pushed her out de door and said she wouldn't go--and she told missus she wouldn't go--so dey had to call it off--it was no trade."

(Smoky Eulenberg lives about three blocks northwest of the courthouse in Jackson. The house was all nice and clean, his sheets and pillows all snowy white and freshly ironed. He has been bedfast for a long time. His wife is an interesting person, but she remembers nothing of slave days.)

Ann Ulrich Evans

*Interview with Ann Ulrich Evans,*
*St. Louis, Missouri.*

_Wed For Economic Reasons_

Although 94 years of living have dimmed her eyes a bit and the burdens she's packed through the years have bent her wiry frame Ann Ulrich Evans, a former slave, is still able to carry on. She lives in a rear apartment of the slum district at 1405 North Eighth Street with her daughter, Eliza Grant.

Ann declares she's had eleven children of her own and that from them have sprung so many grand children and great grand children that she's entirely lost count of them. The story of the incidents that have filled her life but have still left her able to love mankind and smile follows substantially in her own words:

"I was born March 10, 1843 on Dolphin Street, Mobile, Alabama. My mother's name was Charlotte Ulrich and my father's was Peter Pedro Ulrich. I am the mother of 11 children and we has over 100 grandchildren. Dere is so many great grandchildren and great great grandchildren we jes' quit countin' when we comes to dem. I has four generations, and dey give me a party three years ago, and so many of my off spring come der wasn't any room for half of 'em and even dat was not de beginning of de lot of 'em. I got a gang of 'em I never did see, and never will see, I don't reckon. Dey just write and tell us dey got 'em.

"My father was owned by a rich old boss named Captain Bullmay. He owned a raft of boats, and my father was a cook on one of dem boats. Mamma only raised two of her children. De Ulriches sold me when I was a girl to Dr. Odem in de same county, and I worked in his field, spun thread to make cloth, pulled fodder, put de spinning in, and after a while, I don't know how long, he swapped me off for two boys. My new owner was Gilbert Faulkner. He was a railroad section man. I worked in de field for him until we was set free. I had some good times and some bad times both. De man I married worked on the railroad for him. His name was Moses Evans. Dat was in Helena, Arkansas. My husband's been dead more dan 30 years now. I got four daughters and three sons living and a host of grand and great grand, and great great grandchildren living. Since my husband died, I just live from one child to the other and some time de grandchildren takes care of me, I havn't done no kind of work since my children got big enough to work. Dey been pretty good to me all my days.

"'Bout a year ago de government done started giving me a pension, $11 a month. It helps some, but don't very much, every thing's so high, honey. When freedom come I asked my old owner to please let me stay on wid dem, I didn't have no whar to go no how. So he just up and said, 'Ann, you can stay here if you want to, but I ain't goin' to give you nothing but your victuals and clothes enough to cover your hide, not a penny in money, do no nigger get from me.' So I up and said, 'Why boss, dey tells me dat since freedom we git a little change', and he cursed me to all de low names he could think of and drove me out like a dog. I didn't know what to do, or where to go, so I sauntered off to a nearby plantation where a colored slave kept house for her bachelor slave owner and she let me stay with her, and her boss drove me off after two days, because I kept company with a nigger who worked for a man he didn't like. I was barefooted, so I asked Moses Evans, to please buy me some shoes, my feet was so sore and I didn't have no money nor no home neither. So he said for me to wait till Saturday night and he'd buy me some shoes. Sure 'nough when Saturday night come, he buyed me some shoes, and handkerchiefs and a pretty string of beads and got an old man neighbor named Rochel to let me stay at his house. Den in a few weeks me and him got married, and I was mighty glad to marry him to git a place to stay. Yes I was. 'Cause I had said, hard times as I was having if I seed a man walking with two sticks and he wanted me for a wife I'd marry him to git a place to stay. Yes I did and I meant just dat. In all my born days I never knowed of a white man giving a black man nothing, no I ain't.

"Now child, let me tell you right here, I was always a heap more scared of dem Ku Klux dan I was of anything else. 'Cause de war was to help my folks. But dem old Ku Klux never did mean us no good. Honey, I used to make pallets on de floor after de war for my children, myself and husband to sleep on, 'cause dem Ku Klux just come all around our house at night time and shoot in de doors and windows. Dey never bothered nobody in de day time. Den some time dey come on in de house, tear up everything on de place, claim dey was looking for somebody, and tell us dey hungry 'cause dey ain't had nothin' to eat since de battle of Shiloh. Maybe twenty of 'em at a time make us cook up everything we got, and dey had false pockets made in dere shirt, and take up de skillet with de meat and hot grease piping hot and pour it every bit down de front of dem shirts inside de false pockets and drop de hot bread right down dere, behind de meat and go on.

"One night dey come to our house after my husband to kill him, and my husband had a dream dey's coming to kill him. So he had a lot of colored men friends to be at our house with guns dat night and time dey seed dem Ku Klux coming over de hill, dey started shooting just up in de air and about, and dem Ku Klux never did bother our house no more. I sure glad of dat. I'se so tired of dem devils. If it hadn't been for dat dey would have killed everyone of us dat night. I don't know how come dey was so mean to us colored folks. We never did do nothing to dem.

"Dey go to some of dem niggers' house, and dey run up de chimney corner to hide and dem low down hounds shoot 'em and kill 'em in de chimney hole. Dey was terrible. Den de next bad thing happened to us poor niggers after de war was dis. De white folks would pay niggers to lie to de rest of us niggers to git der farming done for nothing. He'd tell us come on and go with me, a man wants a gang of niggers to do some work and he pay you like money growing on trees. Well we ain't had no money and ain't use to none, so we glad to hear dat good news. We just up and bundle up and go with this lying nigger. Dey carried us by de droves to different parts of Alabama, Arkansas and Missouri. After we got to dese places, dey put us all to work all right on dem great big farms. We all light in and work like old horses, thinking now we making money and going to git some of it, but we never did git a cent. We never did git out of debt. We always git through with fine big crops and owed de white man more dan we did when we started de crop, and got to stay to pay de debt. It was awful. All over was like dat. Dem lying niggers caused all dat. Yes dey did.

"I don't know what to think of this younger generation. 'Pears to me like dey jest ain't no good. Dey is too trifling. I often times tell 'em dere chances today side of mine in my day. Dey jest say dey wouldn't take what I been through.

"But dey is just a hopeless lot, just plain no good. All I can say is as you say, some is some good but so few 'ginst de masses, take so long to find 'em, I just don't bother 'bout trying to hunt 'em out.

"I voted once in my life, but dat's been so long ago I don't 'member who it was for, or where I was living at de time. I never had no friends in politics to my knowing. All I 'member dey told me to put a cross under de elephant, and I did dat. I don't know nothin 'more 'bout it dan dat. Don't know what it meant or nothing. After all I been through, honest chile, I love everybody in de world, dose dat mistreat me and dose dat didn't. I don't hold nothing in my heart 'ginst nobody, no I don't. God going to righten each wrong some day, so I'se going to wait with love in my heart till dat day come. Den I speck I will feel plenty sorry, for what's going to happen to dem dat mistreated me and my people and all other helpless folks. 'Cause I seen white folks in my day, have 'bout as tough time in a way as black folks, and right now some of 'em fairing just 'bout like me.

"I 'member how de old slaves use to be workin' in de field singing 'Am I born to die, And Lay Dis Body Down.' And dey sing, 'Dark was de night and cold de ground, on which my lord was laid, Great drops of blood like sweat run down, in agony He prayed.' Another song was 'Way over in de promised land my Lord calls me and I must go'. And 'On Jordan's Stormy Banks I stand, and cast a wishful eye. To Canaan's fair and happy land, where my possessions lie. All o'er those wide extended plains, Shines one eternal day; There God, the son forever reigns, And scatters night away. No chilling winds, nor pois'nous breath, Can reach that healthful shore; Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, Are felt and feared no more. When shall I reach that happy place, And be forever blest? When shall I see my father's face, And in his bosom rest? I am Bound for the Promised Land.'

"I am a member of the Sanctified Church. I was a Baptist for years."

James Goings

*Interview with James Goings,*
*Cape Girardeau, Missouri.*

"Teresa Cannon wuz my mammy. She belonged to old Dr. Cannon, of Jackson; when I was born. Tom Goings wuz my Daddy: He lived on a near-by plantation. Mrs. Dunn bought my mammy and me. Den 'Massa' Lige Hill got us fum her. I growed up out der near Whitewater. Dey wuz 'bout twenty slaves on de place, 'en we wuz all living pretty good--plenty to eat, an' clothes enuf. Dey wuzn't no school out dere, an' I didden know nothin' 'bout readin' 'bout writin'--mostly, I jes' done 'chores' carrin' in de wood 'en water en' sech like.

"I wuz 'bout ten years old wen de war wuz over, so I 'members well-nuf. They wuz a battle over at White water, I didden see it, but I heard de shooting and seed some o' de wounded men. De Southern soldiers had been round de place for 'bout a week. 'Massa' had a grist mill 'en he had lots o' corn. Dey wuz takin' our corn en' grindin' it for dey own use. Dey wuz killin' our hogs, an' helpin' der selves to whut we had. Den word came dat de 'Yankees' wuz comin'. 'Old George' was sent to take de horses to de woods 'en hide 'em. Back in de woods he met two neighbor boys, 'Willis' 'en 'Columbus Bain', en' dey showed him where to hide de hosses, an' de sojers never did fin' 'em. Our young 'Massa Billie' 'en de two 'Bain' boys got away--but de 'Yanks' druv de army clear to Bloomfield 'en furder.

"De dead wuz laying all long de road an' dey stayed dere, too. In dem days it wuzn't nuthin' to fin' a dead man in de woods. De 'Yankees' took 'Old Massa' 'en all de udder men in to Cape Girardeau 'en made 'um help build de forte.

"We often seed sojers on de roads, but dey didden bother us much, but de bushwackers, 'de wuz bad. One day, Bill Norman 'en his step-mother, fum White water Station, cum up to our place. She had on a print dress 'en a sunbonnet, 'en dat wuz all she had left in de world. Dey had burned up everything for 'um--dey house, dey grist mill--everything. But sumtimes de sojers got de Bushwackers--Dere wuz one fella named 'Bolen' dey got him 'en tuck him to de Cape. Dere dey hung him on a high gate-post, jest outside 'er town. My 'mammy', Teresa Cannon lived here in dis house wid us for a long time. She died nine year ago at de age of one hundred 'en fifteen."

Rachael Goings

*Interview with Rachael Goings,*
*Cape Girardeau, Missouri.*

"My full name wuz Rachael Exelina Mayberry (Mabrey) an' my mammy's name was Cynthy Minerva Jane Logan. You see I carried de name Mayberry 'cause dat wuz my masta's name. Masta' Josiah Mayberry. My mammy carried de name Logan 'cause dat wuz de famly she belonged to fo' Masta' bought her down in Buckskull, Arkansas. Masta had three sons, Dosh, his wife wuz Roberta, Alf his wife wuz Malissa and Byrd, his wife wuz Cully. In dem days we called 'em all by dere first name. We honored de ole Masta', but de younger folks, we didden call Masta' Dosh, or Masta' Byrd--or Missus Cully. It wuz jes Dosh, Byrd or Cully. I didden' know de ole Missus. Dey tole me she went crazy and kilt herself shortly after I wuz borned 'cause she thought I was white. We wuz de only slave famly Masta' had en he wuz good to us. We all liked him, all o' us but Cynthy, dat's my mammy I allus called her Cynthy till after de war wuz over. Cynthy always called him "Ole Damn"--she hated him 'cause he brought her fum Arkansas and left her twins an' dey poppy down dere. Cynthy's daddy was a full Cherrokee. She wuz always mad and had a mean look in her eye. When she got her Indian up de white folks let her alone. She usta run off to de woods till she git over it. One time she tuk me and went to de woods an' it was nigh a month fore dey found her--and I wuz nigh dead. Dey kept me at de white folks house till I got strong again. Only one time Masta' whip me. We made lots o' molasses on our place. Oh! lots of molasses en' dey wuz allus some barrels standin' upright wid bungs in close to de bottom so de 'lasses run out. One day I seed one o' de men fix him some sweetened tobaccy. He had his tobaccy in a box about so big, en he push de bung des way, en dat way--den down, den up den he hol' it jes loose enough so de 'lasses trickle out over his tobaccy. I watched him an thought I'd fix me some, too. I got my box fixed en' I pushed at de bung, I pushed dis way, en dat way like I seed him do when all at once dat bung flew out en' dat lasses flew all over de place. De barrel was full en' it cum out so fast I couldn't git de bung back in. I tried till I wuz wadin' in 'lasses to my knees. Den I run call Masta' and tell him a bung dun bust out. He say how you do dat? I tell him I jes knock again' 'en it flew out. Den he seed my box and he knowed how I done it. Den he laid me on de floor an' he put his foot on my haid. He took his switch and he gave me one good out. Den he kept beatin on de floor. I guess dat wuz to make de others think he wuz giving me a big beatin'. But I didden want that big foot on my haid no more.

"De big house stood facing de road. It wuz built like lots o' houses wuz in dem days, de kitchen and dinin' room on one side. Masta's room on de udder with a big open hallway between. Across de front was a big porch. We called it a gallery. Across de road, back a piece ways wuz our cabin. Cynthy did all de cookin, an she wuz a good cook. We allus had plenty good things to eat. De white folks would sit down en eat, en when dey's through we'd sit down at de same table. I 'members de first shoes I ever had. One of de men had got em fo' his little girl, en' dey was too small. So he giv' 'em to my step-daddy for me. Dey uz too big but I wore em en wuz proud of em. They wuz so big fo' me, they went dis way en' dat way en' den de heels went all crooked. I wore 'em till 'bout de time de first snow came den I guess I thought I'd wore 'em long enuf an' I throwed em away. My step daddy whipped me for dat and made me wear 'em all winter.

"I must a been 'bout eight year old when de war start. Fust I knowed, one day Masta said to me. "Child go out to de gate an see if anyone comin." I went to de gate like he tole me an' dere was men comin down de road. Whew! I never seed so many men in all my life. I went back en' tole him. He didden' say nuthin' but lit out the back way across the fields an we didden see him again fo' some time.

"After that we saw lots o' sojers--dey'd stop at our place but dey never bother nuthin. Masta told us allus to have plenty cookin' an bakin' ready when de sojers came. Cynthy'd have de kitchen cupboard piled full o' lightbread and cakes and pies--sometime dey's Rebel sojers an sometimes dey's Republicans--We called de Northerns Republicans. We cud allus tell 'em. The Rebels wore brown coats and the Northerners wore blue suits wid pretty gold pieces on dey shoulders. My! but dey wuz pretty.

"Masta' ud come home once en awhile--an den one day he come home--I can see him yet a-sittin by de kitchen stove. De stove sat back in de big fireplace far enuf so de pipe go up de flue but not too far so you could look in de oven. Dere sat de Masta lookin' like he had sumthin' to tell mammy but was skeered to. She had her mad up that day--I jes foun' a hen's nest an' wuz runnin' in to tell her. I hollered "Cynthy, Cynthy"--Masta' put up his hand en say, slow like--"Stop chile! You mustin' call her Cynthy no more. The war is over and you no more slaves. Now you must call her mammy". But dat all de difference it made--we kep' on livin dere just de same, till Masta' died two year atter de war.

"One day a mule kicked him on de laig what wuz hurt in de war. It got so bad de doctor couldn' do nuthin for it. Masta' wud holler wid pain--It wuz in de fall of de year. One day I came in and sed, "Masta' you know dat big yellow apple tree? It's bloomin again, en it's got little green apples on it." He looked at me an sez--'Chile, youre lyin". I sez, "No Masta I ain't." He say "If you're lyin' to me, I'll get up and lick you again", so I runs and gets him a branch wid flowers on, and little green apples, an when he sees it, he cries. He knows he's gonna die 'cause de tree is bloomin out of season. But I didden know it. I says "Masta' if dem apples gits ripe, we'll have good eatins''cause de big yellow mealy ones wen dey fall, dey bust wide open."

"Masta' died en if I'd a know'd what I know now I could have saved him. I'd a took young elder leaves en boiled em to make a tea--den I'd a poured dat in de sore en it ud a got well.

"Masta' musta had hundreds a acres--'cause he give each o' his boys a big farm--en dey was his dotter Caroline, by his fust wife--I forgit 'bout her--he give her a farm, too--Dis wuz down in Stoddard County, near Advance. Shortly after dat Dosh died, en de rest sold out en' went to Texas.

"We seed Masta' lots a times after he died. I sez it wuz Masta' 'cause it looked like him. One day I was standin lookin thru de bars o' de gate wen I seen out in de road de largest dog I ever seed in all my life. He wuz standin' der lookin' at me. I says to my brother, 'Look! he's got thick sandy red hair like Masta's, en he's got a nose like Masta's, en he's got eyes like Masta's, an he sho' do look like Masta'--Den I run back onto de gallery where de adder folks is. Dat dog stan' dere lookin at us, de big brush on his tail jes a wavin', den he reach thru de gate wid one paw, en onlatch it, and walked right in. The gate went shut agin but it didden make no noise. Den he cum up de walk en go rite across de gallery in front of us. He jump over de side fence, en run across de field, en go inter de woods. We know'd it wuz Masta', jes cum to look aroun, en it git so he'd cum every day 'bout noon, jes when Masta' always cum in fo' dinner. We ain't never seed him cum outer de graveyard, but he always com frum dat way. En one day I wuz playing in de doorway of our cabin an I looked across to de big house, and dere sat Masta' in his big chair on de gallery. I called Mammy en she says--'If you're lyin', I'll whup you.' But she cum en look, en she seed him too, he had his white shirt-sleeve rolled up to his elbow and his red flannel undershirt sleeve down to his wrist jes like he uster wear it. Der he sat en while we wus lookin he got up en walked off around the house.

"I 'members one evenin' 'bout dusk I wuz commin thru de cotton patch, an' I run plum into a man crawlin' along--Dat wuz durin' de war, en der he wuz crawlin' on his hands en knees. He had de biggest hands I ever seed on a human, an his feet wasn't ever touchin de groun'--dey wuz jes floppin' one over de udder, dis way. An his face!--I've seed false faces but dis wuz de worst I ever seed--dere wuz big red en white stripes all across his face. He rared up an looked at me like a dog rare on his haunches, and jes' dat way he wuz taller dan I wuz. I didden stop to look again' but I lit out en run through dat cotton patch. Lawd ha' mercy! how I did run. I jes' knocked dat cotton one way er nother--en dey didden whip me for it when I tole em 'bout it nuther. Nex' mornin' we went down der to look, en we seed de tracks where his knees had made--thru de cotton patch, cross the road, en enter de woods. But no body else never did see him. I often studied, wuz he natchel, or jes a ghost.

"When my little brother wuz borned, I 'members dat day. Mammy and I wuz working out in dis corn patch. She wuz coverin' corn, an she jes had 'bout three or four more rows to cover, den she ran to de house. Dey wuz jes one room en she tried to made de udder children go outside but dey wouldn' go, so she ran outside in de chimney corner, en soon dey heard a baby holler. Dey called me to cum quick 'cause Mammy found a baby. By de spring house stood a ole tree--en I seed it had blown down an in de branches was a big nest an de nest wuz empty. I sez--"Rite dere's where mammy found her baby--rite outer dat nest". Dey sez, "No suh! She done found it in de chimney corner, 'cause we heard it dere." No, mammy didden need nobody to help tend to her. Aunt Hannah Erwin was a doctor woman. She could sure cure a woman if she had child-bed fever--but my mammy didden need her."

Sarah Frances Shaw Graves (Aunt Sally)

*Interview with Sarah Graves,*
*Skidmore, Missouri.*

_Still Carries Scars From Lashes_

"Sweet are the uses of Adversity,
"Which like a toad, ugly and venomous,
"Wears yet a Jewel in its head."

--Shakespeare.

Childhood and girlhood memories are vivid to Sarah Frances Shaw Graves, an 87 year old Negro woman whose indomitable courage and steadfast purpose overcame obstacles and made possible the ownership of the 120 acre farm near Skidmore, on R.F.D. #4, where she lives with her bachelor son, Arza Alexander Graves.

The frame house which is their home, though small, is comfortable. It is surrounded by a neatly kept yard, with flower beds and a cement walk which leads from the gate to the front door.

The visit had been arranged by telephone, and as the interviewer neared the home, Aunt Sally could be seen standing, on the front porch, eagerly watching and waiting. A "close up" showed that her immaculately washed, stiffly starched, print dress and apron were unwrinkled. Evidently she had stood up ever since she had put them on.

Her white hair was combed back off her fore-head, and held in place by side combs. Although age has lined her hands, and put deep furrows in her brown cheeks, her unquenchable will to overcome handicaps has held her body erect and shoulders undrooped. In spite of her years, most of which were spent in gruelling labor, she is rugged and healthy, and meets the world with a smile and ready sympathetic laughter.

She was eager to begin her story, and led the way into the house, where at once the unmistakable signs of good housekeeping, cleanliness and tasteful arrangement are apparent. The home, though small, is moderately and comfortably furnished. They also enjoy the conveniences and accommodations of the rural telephone, a radio and a daily newspaper.

Her life story is one of contrasts; contrasts of thought; contrasts of culture, beneficial inventions and suffrage. Not far from her home the glistening streamlined Zephyr speeds on twin rails beside the Missouri River, near the route of the slow-moving, creaking wagons on the ox-road of the 1850's.

Skidmore, Nodaway Co., Missouri.

"My name is Sarah Frances Shaw Graves, or Aunt Sally as everybody calls me. Yes'm that's a lot of name an' I come by it like this. My husband was owned by a man named Graves, and I was owned by a man named Shaw, so when we was freed we took the surnames of our masters.

"I was born March 23, 1850 in Kentucky, somewhere near Louisville. I am goin' on 88 years right now. (1937). I was brought to Missouri when I was six months old, along with my mama, who was a slave owned by a man named Shaw, who had allotted her to a man named Jimmie Graves, who came to Missouri to live with his daughter Emily Graves Crowdes. I always lived with Emily Crowdes."

The matter of allotment was confusing to the interviewer and Aunt Sally endeavored to explain.

"Yes'm. Allotted? Yes'm. I'm goin' to explain that," she replied. "You see there was slave traders in those days, jes' like you got horse and mule an' auto traders now. They bought and sold slaves and hired 'em out. Yes'm, rented 'em out. Allotted means somethin' like hired out. But the slave never got no wages. That all went to the master. The man they was allotted to paid the master."

"I never was sold. My mama was sold only once, but she was hired out many times. Yes'm when a slave was allotted, somebody made a down payment and gave a mortgage for the rest. A chattel mortgage."

A down payment!!

"Times don't change, just the merchandise.

"Allotments made a lot of grief for the slaves", Aunt Sally asserted. "We left my papa in Kentucky, 'cause he was allotted to another man. My papa never knew where my mama went, an' my mama never knew where papa went." Aunt Sally paused a moment, then went on bitterly. "They never wanted mama to know, 'cause they knowed she would never marry so long she knew where he was. Our master wanted her to marry again and raise more children to be slaves. They never wanted mama to know where papa was, an' she never did", sighed Aunt Sally.

Only those who have lost their mate, and never know the end of the tale, can understand such heart anguish.

"Mama said she would never marry again to have children," continued Aunt Sally, "so she married my step-father, Trattle Barber, 'cause he was sick an' could never be a father. He was so sick he couldn't work, so me and mama had to work hard. We lived in a kitchen, a room in a log house joined on to the master's house. My mama worked in the field, even when I was a little baby. She would lay me down on a pallet near the fence while she plowed the corn or worked in the field.

"Stepfather and mama often tended their own tobacco and grain in the moonlight. This they could sell and have the money. We could go to church which was held in the school house. Sometimes they let us play with the other children after the noon dishes were washed and there wasn't anything else to do.

"There was most always something to do. Master never allowed nobody to be idle. Mama worked in the house and the fields too. At night after she come home from the field, she had to grate corn for the family next day. We didn't have many grist mills them days, an' we would punch holes in a piece of tin, and rub the ear of corn across it and make meal for our use.

"Nowadays, when you all want a nice wool dress, all you got to do is go to the store and get it", Aunt Sally commented, when asked to tell about their clothing.

"When I was growin' up an' wanted a nice wool dress, we would shear the sheep, wash the wool, card it, spin it and weave it. If we wanted it striped, we used two threads. We would color one by using herbs or barks. Sometimes we had it carded at a mill, an' sometimes we carded it ourselves. But when we did it, the threads were short, which caused us to have to tie the thread often, makin' too many knots in the dress. I have gathered the wool off the fences where it had been caught off the sheep, an' washed it, an' used it to make mittens.

"Yes'm. I worked in the fields, and I worked hard too. Plantin' and harvestin' in those days was really work. They used oxen to break up the ground for corn, an' for plowin' it too. They hoed the corn with a hoe, and cut the stalks with a hoe and shocked 'em. They cut the grain with the cradle and bound it with their hands, and shocked it. They threshed the grain with a hickory stick. Beating it out.

"I carried water for the field hands. I've carried three big buckets of water from one field to another, from one place to another; one in each hand and one balanced on my head.

"Yes'm. Some masters was good an' some was bad. My mama's master whipped his slaves for pastime. My master was not so bad as some was to their slaves. I've had many a whippin', some I deserved, an' some I got for being blamed for doin' things the master's children did. My master whipped his slaves with a cat-o'-nine-tails. He'd say to me, 'You ain't had a curryin' down for some time. Come here!!!' Then he whipped me with the cat. The cat was made of nine strips of leather fastened onto the end of a whip. Lots of times when he hit me, the cat left nine stripes of blood on my back. Yes ma'am."

Aunt Sally brooded over the whipping memories, then under the influence of a brighter thought continued:--

"I belong to the African Methodist Episcopal Church, an' I ain't never cussed but once in my life, an' that was one time I nearly got two whippin's for somethin' I didn't do. Some of master's kin folks had a weddin', an' we walked to the church, an' somebody kicked dust on the bride's clothes, an' I got blamed but I ain't never kicked it. The master's daughter Puss, she kicked it. Ole mistress she whipped me. Yes'm, she whipped me. It was the worst whippin' I ever got. The worst whippin' in my whole life, an' I still got the marks on my body. Yes'm. I got 'em yet.

"When the master come home, he was goin' to whip me again, an' I got mad, an' told him it was a lie, an' if Puss said I kicked dust on the white folks she was a DAMNED LYIN' DEVIL. He took the switch an' gave Puss a whippin' for tellin' a lie. Yes'm. That's the only time I ever cussed in my life.

"Yes'm, an' that's about all I knows about slavery and folks ways hereabouts. I can tell you about after we was freed. When we was freed all the money my mama had was 50 cents. I never went to school till after I was freed. I went two winters and a little more to school near Burlington Junction. I never went a full term 'cause I had to work.

"I knowed my husband all my life. He was brought here by that man Jimmie Graves, that mama was allotted to. My husband took that name. His full name was Joseph H. Graves. We had one child, a boy. His name is Arza Alexander Graves. He lives here with me. It's our farm.

"I have lived on this place ever since I was married. That was in the same year that Burlington Junction was started. We first bought 40 acres for $10.00, then two years later we bought the back 80 acres for $15.00. Things is changed. We workin' for ourself now, an' what we get is our'n, an' no more whippin's. I worked in the fields and helped pay for this land. I belong to the African Methodist Episcopal Church in Maryville."

The day her family was freed, they had 50 cents. Today these children of a transplanted race, once enslaved, have through years of steadfast courage overcome the handicap of race and poverty. They threshed grain with a hickory stick, and made their corn meal by grating the ears across a strip of tin with holes punched in it.

With all her handicaps, this Negro woman has lived to an honorable old age, is self-supporting and has the respect of her neighbors. All this she has accomplished despite the fact she was once a chattel and was frequently "curried down" with a "cat-o'-nine-tails."

*Interview with Sarah Frances Shaw Graves,*
*R.F.D. #4, Skidmore, Missouri.*

Sarah Frances Shaw Graves (Aunt Sally) whose address is R.F.D. #4 Skidmore, Missouri is eighty-seven years of age. She lives with her bachelor son on their one-hundred-twenty acre farm. The home though small is moderately furnished and she enjoys the comforts of the rural telephone and radio and daily newspapers in her home. The house is surrounded by a nice yard containing many flowers and is enclosed with an iron fence, a cement walk leading from the front gate to the house.

Aunt Sally had been informed that the reporter was intending to call on her the following day and she was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the visitor. The reporter was greatly impressed by the arrangement and cleanliness of Aunt Sally's modest home. Aunt Sally was immaculately dressed in a stiffly starched print dress and a fresh white apron. Her white hair was combed straight back off her forehead and held back with side combs. She was in a very excited talkative mood, and talked freely, and laughed heartily when the reporter explained the purpose of the interview and asked the privilege of taking her picture. Actual interview follows:

"My name is Sarah Frances Shaw Graves or Aunt Sally as everybody calls me. I am eighty-seven (87) years old and I was born March 23, 1850 in Kentucky somewhere near Louisville. I was brought to Missouri when I was six months old with my Mamma who was a slave owned by a man named Shaw who had allotted her to a man named Jimmie Graves who came to Missouri to live with his daughter. Emily Graves Crowdes. I always lived with Emily Crowdes. We left my Papa in Kentucky as he belonged to another man. My Papa never knew where my Mamma and me went and my Mama and me never knew where my Papa went. They never wanted Mama to know where my Papa was because they knew Mama would never marry as long as she knew where he was. Our Master wanted Mama to marry again and raise more children for slaves but Mama said she would never marry a man and have children so she married my step-father, Trattle Barber, because she knew he had a disease and could not be a father. He was sick and not able to work so me and Mama had to work hard. We lived in a kitchen, a room in a log house joined on to the Masters house. All I knew about that part was what they told me. The Crowdes family who we came here with, settled near Possum Walk which is near the place that is now called Burlington Jct., Missouri. We were freed in 1863 but we heard so much about slavery coming back that we stayed with the Crowdes' two years longer or until 1865 when we was sure that we was freed. When we was freed we took the same name as our Masters. We then lived about two miles north of them and worked for some of the neighbors who was poor and had children and we lived on Lowell Livengood's grandfather's place for about two years. Mamma had fifty (50c) cents coming to her and that is all the money we had. My Mama did a washing for that money for a lady and the Mistress told her that when the lady called for her washing that the fifty cents belonged to us. This was after we was freed. I went to school near Burlington Jct., Missouri and my teacher's name was Rachel Libbey. I went to school two winters a little while, I never went a full term any time. I had to work and when the busiest time was over I would go to school when I didn't work. I knew my husband all my life. He was owned by this man Jimmie Graves who Mama was alotted to, but was brought here by the man he was alloted to, named Nicholas. My husband's full name was Joe H. Graves. We had one child, a boy, whose name is Arza Alexander Graves. I have lived on this place I am on now every since I was married, that was the same year Burlington Jct., Missouri, started. We first bought forty (40) acres and paid twenty ($20.00) dollars for that, then about two years later we bought the back eighty (80) acres and I think we paid fifteen ($15.00) dollars for that. I worked in the fields and helped pay for this land. I belong to the African Methodist Episcopal Church in Maryville, Missouri.