Volume 2 / Part 2 — ILLUSTRATIONS (continued 6)

"Times is hard. I was raised in the field. I made seven crops here—near Brinkley—with my son. I had two girls. One teaches in Brinkley, fourth or fifth grade; one girl works for a family in New York. My son fell off a tall building he was working on and bursted his head. He was in Detroit. Times is hard now. The young folks is going at too fast a gait. They are faster than the old generation. No time to sit and talk. On the go all the time. Hurrying and worrying through time. Hard to make a living."

Interviewer: Zillah Cross Peel Information given by: "Gate-eye" Fisher Residence: Washington County, Arkansas

"I was jes' a baby crawlin' 'round on the floor when War come" said "Gate-eye" Fisher, who lives in a log house covered with scraps of old tin, on what is known as the old Bullington farm near Lincoln. His one room log cabin is "down in the bresh" back of the barn and when new renters come on the place, they just take it for granted that "Gate-eye" just belongs. He bothers no one. No floors, no windows just a door, a bed, stove and a table. Yes and a lantern and a chair.

"Yes mam, my mother, Caroline, belonged to the Mister Dave Moore family. His wife, Miss Pleanie, was a Reagan. Yes mam, they was good folks. When the War come, my pa, Harrison Fisher and my ma stayed on the place, Mister Moore had lots of land and stock—and he and his folks went to Texas, nearly everybody did 'round here, and he took some of his fine stock with him but he called my pa and ma in and told them he wanted them to stay on the place and take care of all the things. Pa was boss over all the slaves. I guess mos' all my white folks is dead. Mos' of them all buried down yan way to Ft. Smith. One of Mister Moore's daughters, Miss Mary, married Dr. Davenport and Miss Sinth (Cynthia) went to live with her."

(The Moores came from Kentucky and Tennessee and settled at Cane Hill, Washington County, about 1829. The Reagans came about the same time. The first schools in the county were at Cane Hill).

"Yes mam, I guess all the colored folks that belonged to Mister Moore, but me, is dead. I guess. My mother, Caroline, stayed in the house nearly all the time and took care of Missy's children, and when they come home from school she'd hear them learn their ABC's. That's how come I can read and write. My ma taught me, out of an old Blue Back Speller. Yes mam, I learned to read and can't write much, jes my own name. Yes mam, I kinda believe in signs that's how come I wear this leather strap 'round my wrist it keeps me from havin' rheumatism, neuralgia. Yes mam, it helps. I used to believe in signs a lot and I used to believe in wishes. I used to wish a lot of bad wishes on folks till one day I read a piece from New York and it said the bad wishes that you made would come back to you wosser than you wished, so I don't wish no more. I got scared and don't wish nothin' to no body."

"After the War Ole Mister and Ole Missey called in my ma and pa and asked them if they wanted to still stay on the place or go somewhere. 'Bout ten of us stayed. Then a while after Mister Moore asked my pa if he wanted to go up on the Tilley place—600 acres and farm it for what he could make. We, my pa and my ma and my sister Mandy, stayed there a long time. Then Mister Moore sold off a little here and a little there and we moved up on the mountain with my sister and her husband, Peter Doss, where my ma died. Then I went down to Mister Oscar Moore's place—he was my Missey' boy."

"Yes mam, I did have a wife. I had a mos' worrysome time. It is a worrysome time when a man comes to takes your wife right away from you. No'm, I don't ever want her to come back."

"Yes'm, I do my own cooking, and I've put up some fruit. I have a little mite of meat, a little mite of taters, a little mite of beans and peas. I get a little pension too."

"These darkies today nearly all get wild. You can't tell What they are going to do tomorrow. They's jes like everybody—some awful good and some awful bad."

And in the tiny one room shack, of logs and tin, no window, a swing door held by a leather strap, "Gate-eye" does his cooking on a small wood stove. A long bench holds a lantern with a shingly clean globe, a lot of canned fruit, dried beans and peas. The bed is a series of old bed springs. But "Gate-eye" just belongs to the neighborhood, and every one feels kindly toward him. He says he is seventy-one years, past.

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person Interviewed: Ellen Fitzgerald Brinkley, Ark. Age: 74

"Mama was named Anna Noles. Papa named Milias Noles. She belong to the Whitakers and he belong to Gibbs. Noles bought them both. They was both sold. Mother was born in Athens, papa somewhere in Kentucky. Their owners, the Noles, come to Aberdeen, Mississippi.

"Grandma, papa's mama, was killed with a battling stick. She was a slender woman, very tall and pretty, papa told me. She was at the spring, washing. They cut a tree off and make a smooth stump. They used a big tree stump for battling. They had paddles, wide as this (two hands wide—eight or ten inches) with rounded-off handle, smoothed so slick. They wet and soap the clothes, put em on that block-tree stump and beat em. Rub boards was not heard of in them days. They soaked the clothes, boiled and rinsed a heap. They done good washing. I heard em say the clothes come white as snow from the lye soap they used. They made the soap. They had hard soap and soft soap, made from ashes dripped and meat skins. They used tallow and mutton suet too. I don't know what was said, but I recken she didn't please her mistress—Mrs. Callie Gibbs. She struck her in the small part of her back and broke it. She left her at the spring. Somebody went to get water and seen her there. They took her to the house but she finally died. Grandpa was dead then. I recken they got scared to keep papa round then and sold him.

"I was born first year of the surrender. Moster Noles told them they was free. They didn't give them a thing. They was glad they was free. They didn't want to be in slavery; it was too tied down to suit em. They lived about places, do little work where they found it.

"We dodged the Ku Klux. One night they was huntin' a man and come to the wrong house. They nearly broke mama's arm pullin' her outen our house. They give us some trouble coming round. We was scared of em. We dodged em all the time.

"I was married and had a child eight years old fore I come to Arkansas. I come to Brinkley first. I was writing to friends. They had immigrated, so we immigrated here and been here ever since. When I come here there was two big stores and a little one. A big sawmill—nothing but woods and wild animals. It wasn't no hard times then. We had a plenty to live on.

"My husband was a saw mill hand and a railroad builder. He worked on the section. I nursed, washed, ironed, cooked, cleaned folks houses. We done about right smart. I could do right smart now if white folks hire me.

"The night my husband died somebody stole nearly every chicken I had. He died last week. We found out it was two colored men. I ain't needed no support till now. My husband made us a good living long as he was able to go. We raised a family. He was a tolerably dark sort of man. My girls bout his color."

The two grown girls were "scouring" the floor. Both of them said they were married and lived somewhere else.

Interviewer: Mary D. Hudgins Person Interviewed: Henry Fitzhugh Aged: 90 Home: Rooms at 209 Walnut Street

Several "colored" districts are scattered throughout Hot springs. On Whittington, within a block of the First Presbyterian Church and St. Joseph's Infirmary stand the Roanok Baptist and the Haven Methodist (both for colored). Architecturally they compare favorably with similar edifices for whites. Their choirs have become nationally famous. Sunday afternoon concerts are frequent. Mid-week ones are not uncommon. At such times special sections are reserved for whites, and are usually filled. Visitors to the resort enjoy them immensely.

Across the street a one-time convent school has been converted into a negro apartment house. A couple of blocks up Whittington, Walnut veers to the right. It is paved for several blocks. Fronting on concrete sidewalks are houses, well painted and boasting yards which indicate pride in possession. Some are private homes, some rooming houses and some apartments. Porch flower boxes and urns are mostly of concrete studded with crystals.

Finding Henry Fitzhugh wasn't easy. The delivery boy at the corner chain store "knows everybody in the neighborhood" according to a passer-by. He offered the address 209. That number turned out to be an old, but substantial and well cared for two story house. Ringing the bell repeatedly brought no response.

A couple of women in the yard next door announced that to find Fitzhugh one had to "go around back and knock on the last door on the back porch." This procedure too brought no results. Another backyard observer offered the suggestion that Fitzhugh was probably down at the restaurant eating.

School had just been dismissed. Two well dressed negro children walked along together, swinging their books. "Can you tell me where the restaurant is?" asked the interviewer, stopping them. "Do you mean the colored restaurant?" one of the tots asked, not a whit of embarrassment in her manner, no servility, no resentment—just an ordinary question. "It's right over there."

The restaurant proved to be large, well lighted, scrupulously clean. Tables were well spaced and quite a distance from the counter. Sunshine streamed in from two directions. Fitzhugh was sitting just outside talking to the boot-black.

"Yes, ma'am, I's Henry Fitzhugh. Can't work no more since I got hit by an automoble. Before that I had a shoe-shine place myself. But I can't work no more. Yes 'um I gets the pension. I gets $10 a month. It's not much, but I sort of get by. I's got my room up at 209 and I gets my meals down here at the restaurant. Yes ma'am, pensions seem to be coming in pretty regular now.

Been in Hot Springs a long, long time. Come here in 1876. I remembers lots of the old families here. What yo say your name was? Your Mother was a Dengler? Sure, I remembers the Denglers. Mr. Dengler had a soda-water shop. I remembers him.

When I first come, soon as I was able, I cleaned up for Captain Mallard. Cleaned up all along Central in that block he was in.

How'd I come to Hot springs? I was sick. I had rheumatism. Was down with it so bad the doctor had done give me up. He'd stopped giving me medicine. But the lady I was working for, she run a hotel in Poplar Bluff. They put me on a stretcher and they put me in the baggage car and they brought me clean on in to Hot Springs. They bathed me at the free bath house. I started getting better right away. 'Twasn't long before I was well and able to work. I stayed right on here in Hot Springs.

Yes, ma'am I's all Arkansas. I was born near Little Rock. Ain't never been out of the state but twice. Then I didn't stay long.

I worked on a farm that belonged to Mr. J.B. Henderson. He was an uncle to Mr. Jerome Henderson what was in the bank and Mr. Jethro Henderson what was a Judge.

No, the war didn't bother us none. We wasn't afraid. We heard the shots, but it seemed just like a whole lot of fire crackers to us. Guess we just didn't have sense enough to be afraid. Fighting we did [HW: hear was] near Pine Bluff—the Baxter-Ware trouble. We seen the soldiers when they come through Mt. Pleasant, right smart bunch of them. They was Confederates. We didn't see none of the Yankees.

My father was killed during the war. Went off to help and never came back. My mother, she died when I was a baby. She was lying down in her cabin before the fire—lying on the hearth, letting me nurse. The door was open and a gust of wind blew her dress in the fire. She dropped me and she screamed and run out into the yard. Old Miss saw her from the house. She grabbed a quilt and started out. She got to my mother and she wrapped her in the quilt to smother out the fire. But my mother done swallowed fire. She died. That's the story they tell me. I was too little to know.

I guess I was about eleven when I went into the fields. What's that, pretty young? I didn't go because they made me. I went because I wanted to be with the men. Wasn't nobody around to play with. We was the only family on the farm. It was a pretty good sized farm and they had lots of children. There was Miss Sally and Miss Fanny and Miss Ella and Miss Myrtle and Miss Hattie. Then there was four boys.

Stayed on with the folks three years after the surrender. They treated me good and gave me what I wanted. Treated me nice—very nice—my white folks.

Then I went on down to Marshall—way down in Texas. There I worked for the high sheriff. Drove his carriage for him and cleaned up around the yard. I worked for him a whole year then I went back to Arkansas and then went up in Missouri. Wasn't there long before I got sick. I was working for a woman who had a hotel. She was good to me. Mighty good she was.

Yes ma'am. There has been lost chances I has had to do more than I has. But I's sort of satisfied. There's been lots of changes in Hot Springs since I come. I used to know all the white folks and all the colored folks too. Can't do that today. Place has got too big.

Joe Golden? Yes, I does—I knows Joe. He used to have a butcher shop over on Malvern. Quite a man, Joe was. I hasn't seen him in a long time. How is he? Pretty good? That's fine.

"I remembers Mc—McLeod's Happy Hollow." (Hot Spring nearest approach to a Coney Island in the earlier days). "I remembers that they used to have the old stage coach there what the James and Younger brothers held up. Sort of broken down it was, but it was there.

Law, law, them was the times. I'll never forget when Allen Roane brought in the news. Allen drove a sort of a hack. He come on into town and he whipped up his horse and he run all over town telling about the hold-up. Allen lived just next door to where I does now."

Down the street passed a colored woman, her head held high. Passing the porch where the aged negro man and the young white woman sat talking she paused and gave what was suspiciously like a sniff. Fitzhugh grinned. "She's sanctified," he explained.

"Did you ever hear of Tucky-Nubby? He was an Indian. Bob Hurley used to bring him to Hot Springs every year. What medicine shows they used to have here. Ain't seen nothing like it lately, everybody knowed Tucky-Nubby. Lots of those medicine shows—free shows, used to come here. But Bob Hurley and Tucky-Nubby was the most liked.

Yes, ma'am, I'm all alone now. My sister married a man a long, long time ago. She didn't live but a couple of years. I's had four children. One of them died when it was born. One died when it was three. One lived until it was seven. One son he lived to be grown. He went to the war. Got as far as camp. One day I got a word saying that he was sick. I went but before I could get there he had died. That left me alone.

What's that? Been married once? I been married eleven times. But it was ten times too many. Besides they is all dead, so you might say that I's been married only once.

Yes, ma'am. Thank you ma'am. The quarter will come in powerful handy. When you tries to make out on $10 a month a little extra comes in powerful handy. Thank you ma'am. I enjoyed talking to you, ma'am."

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Mary Flagg 1601 Georgia Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 89

"Yes'm, I was here in Civil War days. I was bout twelve years old when Lincoln was elected. I remember when he was elected. I was big enough to weave and knit for the soldiers. I remember when the war started. Yes ma'm—oh I remember so much. Saw all the soldiers and shook hands with em. Why I waited on the table when General Lee stopped there for dinner on his way from Mobile to meet Sherman. That was in Winchester, Mississippi where I was born. I worked in a hotel, yes ma'm. I was raised up in a hotel, called em taverns in those days. I was born right in Winchester, Mississippi. Used to see the soldiers drill every day. If I could remember, I could tell you a heap of things.

"My mistress' name was Mrs. Shaw. She took me away from my mother when I was four years old—taken me for her body servant. She learned me how to do housework and all kinds of sewin'—cuttin' and makin'. I done all the sewin' for her family.

"I never went to no school but Mrs. Shaw tried to teach me and she slapped my jaws many a day bout my book.

"I married when I was fifteen just fore the war ended and I forgot everything I ever learned—yes ma'm! I been married four times and they're all dead. I never married when any of em was livin' like a heap of colored folks did.

"The Yankees come within fifty miles of where we was livin' and then they burned the bridge and turned back. White folks never told us what the war was for but a old German man used to read the paper at the table—every battle they'd fight and when the Yankees would whip. Oh them was times then. If I could remember I could tell you a heap of things but my mind's gone from me.

"Old master had about a hundred head of hands and old mistress had a cousin had five hundred.

"White folks was good to me. My father was the carriage driver and old mistress used to carry me to church with her every Sunday.

"I never seen no Ku Klux but I lived where they was, in Mississippi. That was a Ku Klux state. Yes ma'm.

"I remember when General Lee come to Winchester you could hear the horses' feet a mile away, it so cold.

"My great grandfather was a full blooded Indian. I've lived among the Indians in Mississippi and bought baskets from em. They lived all around us. Yes ma'm, I'm acquainted with em. Oh, I been through a little bit.

"I started sewin' and weavin' when I was just big enough to reach the treadles. Used to sew for Mrs. Hulburt in Bolivar County, Mississippi. I remember she started to the Mardi Gras on a boat called the Mary Bell. It got burned and she had to turn back. I used to do a heap a sewin'.

"Everythings changed now. People is so treacherous now. Chile, ain't nothin' to this younger generation. Now I'm tellin' you the truth. They ain't studyin' nothin' good. Sin and corruption all you see now.

"Last man I married was Elder Flagg. He was a preacher in the Baptist church and as good a preacher as I ever heard. They don't preach the Gospel now.

"Well, I wish I could remember more to tell you, but it's been a long time. I'll be ninety if I live till the 4th of next May."

Interviewer: Mrs. Zillah Cross Peel Person interviewed: Doc Flowers Age: 85? Home: Lincoln, Arkansas

Everybody calls him Uncle Doc. His name is Doc Flowers, and he lives in the last house on a street that is just part of a road in the town of Lincoln, Arkansas.

When you stop in front of the house you will find there is no path. One has to watch his step owing to the fact that there is a zigzaggy branch hidden by the tangle of weeds.

If old Aunt Jinney is on the porch she will say, "Sorry, honey, but de path done growed up."

Uncle Doc is six feet two and as strong as a lion. Whether he is 80 or if he is 90, he is young-looking for his age.

"No'm lady, I'se jes' don' know how old I is. Back in dem days didn't keep up with our ages. No record of the born. Yes'm I was a pretty good chunk of a boy when de war started."

Doc belonged to Edward Choate, who lived on Barron Forks, near Dutch Mills in the Southwest corner of Washington County. Barron Forks is made up from Fly Creek and the River Jordan Creek.

About 1849 Edward Choate came from Tennessee to Arkansas, where he had bought Aunt Marie [TR: 'a slave' marked out here] and her three sons, Doc, Abe, and Dave.

"Yes'm, we had a 100 acres or better all along the banks of de river and good valley land where we raised corn, potatoes, wheat, oats, an' 'bacco. Master Choate had three sons, I recollect, Jack, Sam, and Win. He had a lot of slaves. Some of dem was good, some was bad. An' old Mister Choate had a cat-a-nine-tails. He never did have to whup me, some of dem darkies did get whupped. Dar was one who was always dressing up in wimmins clothes and go walking down by de river.

"My mother was Maria. She worked part time in de kitchen and part time in de field. My mother had three boys and I 'member one of my sisters was sold as a slave. We darkies had cabins all along de river bank.

"During de War we all jes' stayed on de place. Mister Choate and Old Missy stayed too. After peace was made my mother and all of we went up to Prairie Grove to live.

"Yes'm, I voted every chance I got. I voted for Harrison for President. No'm, I don't know which Harrison. Yes'm, I vote Republican.

"I can't say much for these young darkies these times.

"I ben 'roun' some. I went to Caldwell, Kansas, two times. Farming is my occupation. Now we jes' live. I get $10 a month from the state. Yes'm, that there Jinney is my wife. Her mother Celia and she belonged to the Ballards of Cincinnati.

"No'm, I jes' can' tell how old I is. I know I was quite a chunk of a boy when de War started. Me and Mister Win, one of Mister Choate's boys, was 'bout de same age." (Winston Choate died in the spring of 1935 at the age of 94 years, according to a niece.)

The Choate place down on Barron Forks is still owned by one of the Choates, a grandson of the first owner, Edward Choate.

A granddaughter of Mr. Choate lives in Fayetteville and said that there are four or five graves on the old place where Negro slaves who belonged to her grandfather were buried, and the children on the place would never go near these graves. They thought they were haunted.

So when one asks Uncle Doc how old he is he will say, "I know I was jes' a chunk of a boy when de War started so I mus' be 'bout 83 nex' spring."

Aunt Jinney, his wife, sat on the porch and just rocked back and forth while Uncle Doc was talking. She didn't speak while Doc was speaking.

"Law, honey, I had good white folks. None of dem never struck their colored folks. No'm. Me an' my mother Celia belonged to Mister Ballard at Cincinnati. Old Missey's name was Miss Liza, an' she kept my ma in de house wid her to wait on her. Yes'm all de white folks always kept a little darkey in de house to wait on all of dem. Dem was good times 'fo' de War. Yes'm good times—plenty to eat. Good times. I was jes' a baby crawling on de flo' when de War come."

The interviewer didn't ask Uncle Doc when and why he went to Caldwell, Kansas the two times. She knew that Uncle Doc, big and strong, took another Negro's wife away from him and ran off with her to Kansas and there left her. Later he brought her to Arkansas. Jinney was his wife and took Uncle Doc back, but Gate-eye didn't take his wife back. Nor did the interviewer tell Uncle Doc that she had been to see old Gate-eye Fisher and had heard the long ago story of Uncle Doc taking his wife, and what a worrysome time he had. In an old record marked "Miscellaneous" in the Washington County Courthouse at Fayetteville, Arkansas, one can find this Emancipation paper:

"For and in consideration of the love and affection of my wife for my little Negro girl (a slave) named Celia, about two years old, I do by these presents henceforth and forever give to said Celia her liberty and freedom, and through fear of some mistake, mishap or accident, I now hereby firmly bind myself, heirs and representatives forever in accordance with this indenture of emancipation.

"In testimony whereof witness my hand and seal this 26th day of January 1846.

Jinney, wife of Doc Flowers, is the daughter of the said Celia. "Yes'm," said Jinney, "Miss Liza, my old Missy, always had my mother right by her side all the time to wait on her. She were always good to all her colored folks. No'm she'd never let anybody be mean to her colored folks."

Jinney must have learned the art of house keeping from Miss Liza, for her little three-room home that she and Doc rent for $4 a month is spotless. Maybe the "path is growed up with weeds," but one just can't blame that on Jinney.

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Frances Fluker, Edmondson, Arkansas Age: 77 [May 11 1938]

"I was born the 25th day of December 1860 in Marshall County, Mississippi. Our owners was Dr. George Wilson and Mistress Mary. They had one son I knowed, Dr. Wilson at Coldwater, Mississippi. My parents was Viney Perry and Dock Bradley.

"I never seen my pa. I heard about him since I been grown. He left when the War was going on and never went back. Mama had ten children and I am all that's living now. Old mistress set my name and age down in her Bible. I sent back and my niece just cut it out and sent it to me so I could get my pension. I pasted it in the front of my Bible. I was never sold. It was freedom when I first recollect.

"Ma was the cook for the white folks. Grandma Perry come from North Carolina I heard 'em say. She was a widow woman. When company come they would send us out to play. They never talked to us children, no ma'am, not 'fore us neither. I come a woman 'fore I knowed what it was. My sisters knowed better than tell me. They didn't tell me nothin'.

"When it wasn't company at ma's they was at work and singing. At night we was all tired and went to bed 'cause we had to be up by daybreak—children and all. They said it caused children's j'ints to be stiff sleeping up in the day. All old folks could tell you that.

"This young set ain't got no strength neither. Ma cooked and washed and raised five children up grown. The slaves didn't get nary thing give 'em in the way of land nor stock. They got what clothes they had and some provisions.

"Ma was ginger cake. They said pa was black. I don't know. Grandma was reddish and lighter still than ma. They said she was part Cherokee Indian. Her hair was smooth and pretty. She combed her hair with the fine comb to bring the oil out on it and make it slick. I recollect her combing her hair. It was long about on her shoulders.

"I heard about the Ku Klux but I never seed none of 'em. Ma said her owners was good to her. Ma never had but one husband.

"I come to Arkansas 1921. Mr. Passler in Coldwater, Mississippi had bought a farm at Onida. We had worked for him at Lula, Mississippi. Me and my husband come here. My husband died the first year. I cooked some in my younger days but field work and washing was my work mostly. I like' field work long as I was able to go.

"My first husband cleared up eighty acres of land. He and myself done it, we had help. We got in debt and lost it. He bought the place. That was in Pinola County close to Sardis. I had four children. One daughter living.

"What I think it was give me rheumatism was I picked cotton, broke it off frozen two weeks on the sleet. I picked two hundred pounds a day. I got numb and fell and they come by and got a doctor. He said it was from overwork. I got over that but I had rheumatism ever since.

"I learned to read. I went to Shiloah School—and church too—several terms. Mr. Will Dunlap was my first teacher. He was a white man. He run the school a good while but I don't know how long. My name is Frances Christiana Fluker. I been farming all my life, nothin' but farmin'. Never thought 'bout gettin' sick 'cause I knowed I couldn't.

"I jus' get $6 and that is all. It cost more to send get the commodities than it do to buy them. We don't get much of them. I needs clothes—union suits. 'Course I wears 'em all summer. If they would give me yarn and needles I could knit my socks. 'Course I can see and ain't doing nothing else. I needs a dress. I ain't got but this one dress."

NOTE: The two old beds were filthy with slick dirt. They had two chairs and a short bench around the stove and a trunk in which she kept the little yellow torn to pieces Bible tied around the back with a string. The large board door was kept wide open for light I suppose. There were no windows to the room.

I heard the reason she gets only $6 was because her daughter lives there and keeps two of her son's children and they try to get the young grandson work and help out and support his children and mother at least.

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Ida May Fluker Route 6, Box 80, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 83

"I was born in slavery times in Clark County, Alabama. Clover Hill was the county seat.

"Elias Campbell was old master. I know the first time I ever saw any plums, old master brought 'em. I 'member that same as yesterday.

"I 'member the same as if 'twas yesterday when the Yankees come. We chillun would hide behind the door. Had on blue suits with brass buttons. So you see I'm no baby.

"I 'member my mother and the other folks would go up to the big house and help make molasses. Didn't 'low us chillun to go but we'd slip up there anyway.

"Old missis' name Miss Annis. She was good to us.

"I didn't do nothin' but play around in the yard and tote wood. Used to tote water from the Wood Spring. Had a spring called Wood Spring.

"My mother was the cook and my grandma was the spinner. I used to weave after freedom.

"I know the Yankees come in there and got a lot of fodder. They was drivin' a lot of cows. We chillun would be scared of 'em—mama would be at the big house.

"Mama belonged to the Campbells and papa belonged to Davis Solomon, and I know every Christmas they let him come to see mama, and he'd bring me and my sister a red dress buttoned in the back. I 'member it same as if 'twas yesterday 'cause I was crazy 'bout them red dresses.

"I used to hear the folks talkin' 'bout patrollers. Yes ma'am, I heered that song

I know you've heered that song.

"I heered papa talk about how he was sold. He say the overseer so mean he run off in the woods and eat blackberries for a week.

"I guess we had plenty to eat. I know mama used to fetch us somethin' to eat from the house. Old missis give it to her. I know I was glad to get it.

"When the people was freed they was so glad they went from house to house and prayed and give thanks to the Lord.

"Our folks stayed right there and worked on the shares.

"I never went to school but about two weeks. My papa was hard workin'. Other folks would let their chillun rest but he wouldn't let his chillun rest. He sure did work us hard.

"You know in them days people moved 'round so much they didn't have time to keep up no remembrance 'bout their ages. We didn't have no time to see 'bout no ages—had to work. That's the truth."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Wash Ford, Des Arc, Arkansas Age: 73 or 75?

"I was born close to Des Arc and Hickory Plains, seems like about half way. Mama's master was named Powell. Papa's master was Frank Ford. My parents was Fannie and Henry Ford. I was the oldest child. There was 6 boys, 4 girls of us.

"They didn't get anything after freedom. They kept on farming. They started working on shares. That was all they could do. If they expected anything I never heard it.

"I heard my mother say when I was small Papa was bouncing me up and down. He was lying on the floor playing like wid me. She looked up the road or 'cross the field one, and said, 'Yonder come some soldiers. What they coming here for?' Papa put me down and run. He hid. They didn't find him. It was soldiers from De Valls Bluff I judge. They made the colored men go wait on them and fight too, if they run up on one. That is what I heard.

"My father voted. He voted a Republican ticket. I do cause he did I reckon. I still vote. If the colored man could vote in the Primary it wouldn't be no better. They know better who to put in office, to run the offices right. I think it is right for a woman to vote.

"I been farming all my life. I was a section hand much as six months in all my life. I work at the veneer mills but they never run no more. I am having a hard time. I have high blood pressure. I can't pick cotton. I can't even get a mess of turnip greens. The Social Welfare helps me a little and I am janitor up town in two offices. They hand me a little pocket change. It amount to maybe $2 a month. I had that job four years. If I could work I would be on the farm. I could make a living there. I always did. I had plenty on the farm.

"Young folks don't take on no manners. The young folks take care of themselves. It is the old ones seeing a hard time now."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Wash Ford, Des Arc, Ark. Age: 75?

"One thing I remembers hearin' my folks talk bout. They had a leader hoeing cotton. His name was John. He was a fast hand. He hoe one row a piece and reach over and hoe the other. He'd get way ahead of the other hands. If they didn't keep up they get a whoopin. So he rest till they ketch up. Once he hoed up to a tree—big shade tree out in the field. He stuck his hoe in the root of the tree and a moccasin bit him bout that time. It bit him right on the toe. They took him up to the house but he died.

"I was born close to Des Arc and Hickory Plains. My parents was Henry and Fannie Ford. Her master was named Powell and his master was named Frank Ford. I was the oldest 'mong six boys and four girls. My folks didn't git nuthing. I don't think they expected freedom much. They heard they goiner be free and knowed they was fightin'. They didn't know what freedom be like. When they was set free at DeValls Bluff they signed up. They went back and went on farmin' lack nothin' ever happened. That what I heard em say when I was small boy.

"I voted—Republican ticket, I believe. If I vote that what I vote. I reckon the women ought to vote. I still vote that is if I sees fit to vote.

"My father run from the soldiers. He didn't go to the war as I ever knowd of.

"I been farmin' all my life till I got so nocount I ain't able to do nothin' no more. I worked on the section bout six months. I worked some off an on at the veneer mill till it shut down. I does a little janitor work now and the Welfare help me a little.

"The present conditions good if a fellow able to pick cotton but if they run through with it times be hard in the heart of the winter cause they cain't git no credit. Times is hard for old folks."

Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Judia Fortenberry 712 Arch Street, Little Rock, Arkansas Age: 75 Occupation: Field hand [May 21 1938]

[HW: Slaves Allowed to Visit]

"I was born three miles west of Hamburg in Ashley County, Arkansas, in the year 1859, in the month of October. I don't know just what day of the month it was.

"My mother was named Indiana Simms and my father was named Burrell Simms. My father's mother was named Ony Simms, and my mother's mother was named Maria Young. I don't know what the names of their parents was.

"My mother's master was named Robert Tucker. My father's master was named Hartwell Simms. Their plantations were pretty close together, but I don't know how my father and my mother got together. I guess they just happened to meet up with each other. The slaves from the two plantations were allowed to visit one another. After their marriage, the two continued to belong to different masters. Every Sunday, they would visit one another. My father used to come to visit his wife every Sunday and through the week at night.

"My mother had ten children.

Houses

"I was born in a log house with one room. It was built with a stick and dirt chimney. It had plank floors. They didn't have nothin' much in the way of furniture—homemade beds, stools, tables. We had common pans and tin plates and tin cans to use for dishes. The cabin had one window and one door.

Patrollers

"I have heard my mother and father tell many a story of the pateroles. But I can't remember them. My father said they used to go into the slave cabins and take folks out and whip them. They'd go at night and get 'em out and whip 'em.

How Freedom Came

"I was so little that I don't know much about how freedom came. I just know he took us all and went somewheres and made him a crop. Went to another man. Didn't stay on the place where he was a slave. He never got anything when he was freed. I never heard of any of the slaves getting anything.

Schooling

"I went to free school after the War. I just went along during the vacation when they weren't doing any farming. That is all the education I got. I can't tell how many seasons I went—four or five, I reckon. I never did go any whole season. I never had much chance to go to school. People didn't send their children to school much in those days. I went to school in Monticello, but most of my schooling was in country schools.

Occupation

"When I first went to work, I picked cotton. That is at a place out near Hamburg. I picked cotton about ten or fifteen years. Then I went to town—Monticello. I washed and ironed. About forty-five years ago, I came to Little Rock, and have been here every since. Washing and ironing has been my support. I have sometimes cooked.

Opinions

"I don't know what I think about the young people. Seems to me they coming to nothing. Lot of them do wrong just because they got a chance to do it. I'm a christian. I belong to the A.M.E.'s. You know how they do.

I can't remember the music. But that's on old song we used to sing 'way back yonder. I can't remember any more of the verses. You got enough anyhow."

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Emma Foster 1200 N. Magnolia, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 80

"Yes'm, I was born in time of slavery—seven years before surrender. No'm, I wasn't born in Arkansas. Born in Claiborne Parish, Louisiana.

"I remember hearin' the big guns shoot. I was small and I didn't know what it was only by what they told me.

"My parents belonged to the Harts. My mother run off and left me, a year-old baby.

"I remember better when I was young than I do now.

"After I got big enough—you know, a little old nasty somethin' runnin' around in the yard—after I got big enough, they took me in the house to rock the cradle, and I stayed there till I was twenty-three. I would a stayed longer but they was so cruel to me.

"I didn't know nothin'. I run off and stayed with a colored preacher and his family not far away. You know I was crazy. One day the preacher said some of his members was objectin' to me stayin' there and he was goin' to tell my white folks where I was. And sure enough, he did, and one morning I was out in the field and I saw the son-in-law comin'. So I went back and worked for him and his wife.

"Me? All I did do was farmin' when I was young.

"Oh, I been in Arkansas 'bout fifty years. My oldest boy was fourteen when I come here and he is sixty-four now.

"No, honey, I can't cook now. I'd burn it up. I used to cook. It's a poor dog that won't wag its own tail.

"All I know is I had a hard time, I been married three times. My last husband was a preacher and he was so mean I left him. I told him if all preachers was like him, hell was full of 'em.

"I went to Chicago and lived with my son a while but I didn't like it, so I come back here and I been here right in the yard with Mrs. O'Neal eight years washin' and ironin'—anything come to hand.

"Now if there's goin' to be a death in my family, I can see that 'fore it happens. I was out in the potato patch one day and it started to rain and I come in and somethin' just bore down on me and I started to cry. I didn't know why. I thought, 'Oh, Lord, is somethin' goin' to happen to my son?' But instead it was my grandson. He got killed that evenin'."

Name of interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Subject: Birthmarks Story:—Information This information given by: Emma Foster (C) Place of residence: 1200 N. Magnolia Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Occupation: Laundress Age: 80

[TR: Personal information moved from bottom of first page.]

"I know I marked one of my babies with beer. It was 'cause I wanted some beer and couldn't get it. And when it was born it had a place on the back of its neck looked like beer and she just foamed at the mouth. And when she was about a week old I got some beer and give it to her with a teaspoon and she quit foamin'.

"And another time there was a boy on the place had a finger that the doctor had done took the bone out. He and I used to love to rassle (wrestle) and one day he said, 'Oh, Emma, you hurt my finger.' And like a fool, you know I took his hand and just rubbed that finger. And do you know, when my baby was born it had six fingers on each hand."

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Ira Foster 2000 W. Eureka Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 76

"I was born in slavery because when the people come back from the War I was a pretty good sized yellin' boy when freedom come.

"I heerd 'em tellin' 'bout my young master comin' back from the War.

"Yes ma'am, I was sure born in Arkansas; I won't tell no lie 'bout that.

"My mother's old master was named Foster and after she married she belonged to Hezekiah Bursey.

"She was born in Alabama and she said she was pretty badly treated.

"She was the cook and then she was the weaver and the spinner.

"I never have been to school. Never did learn nothin'. My father put me to work soon as I was big enough.

"I always done farm work all my life till 'bout twenty years ago as near as I can come at it. I went to saw millin' and I didn't do nothin' but manufacture lumber. I worked for the Camden Lumber Company eighteen years and never caused 'em a minute's trouble.

"If I just had enough to live on I wouldn't do a thing but just sit around 'cause I think I done worked my share. Why, some of the white folks say, 'Foster, you ought to have a pension of thirty or forty dollars a month.' And I say, 'Why?' And they say, 'Cause you look just like a darky that has worked hard in this world.'

"I suffers with the rheumatism in my right leg clear up and down. Seems like sometimes I can't hardly get around."

FOLKLORE SUBJECTS Name of interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Subject: Songs of Pre-War Days Story:—Information This information given by: Ira Foster Place of residence: 2000 W. Eureka, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Occupation: None Age: 76

[TR: Personal information moved from bottom of first page.]

I used to hear my uncle sing that. That's all the words I can remember."

Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor Person interviewed: Leonard Franklin Temporary: 301 Ridgeway, Little Rock, Arkansas Permanent: Warren, Arkansas Age: 70

[HW: Mother Whipped Overseer]

"I don't know exactly the year I was born. But my father told me I was born since the Civil War. I am seventy years old. They always tell me when my birthday come 'round it will be in January—the eighteenth of January.

"My father's name was Abe Franklin and my mother's name was Lucy Franklin. I know my father's mother but I didn't ever know his father. His mother's name was Maria Franklin. My mother's father was Harris Pennington. I never did see her mother and never did see her.

"I was born in Warren, Arkansas. My mother and father were born in Warren. That is on the outer edge of Warren. My mother's slavery farm was on what they called Big Creek. It is named Franklin Creek. Two or three miles of it ran through Franklin's Farm.

"My father's master was Al Franklin. And my mother's master's name was Hill Pennington. One of Hill Pennington's sons was named Fountain Pennington. He lives about five miles from Warren now on the south highway.

"My mother had about three masters before she got free. She was a terrible working woman. Her boss went off deer hunting once for a few weeks. While he was gone, the overseer tried to whip her. She knocked him down and tore his face up so that the doctor had to 'tend to him. When Pennington came back, he noticed his face all patched up and asked him what was the matter with it. The overseer told him that he went down in the field to whip the hands and that he just thought he would hit Lucy a few licks to show the slaves that he was impartial, but she jumped on me and like to tore me up. Old Pennington said to him, 'Well, if that is the best you could do with her, damned if you won't just have to take it.'

"Then they sold her to another man named Jim Bernard. Bernard did a lot of big talk to her one morning. He said, 'Look out there and mind you do what you told around her and step lively. If you don't, you'll get that bull whip.' She said to him, 'Yes, and we'll both be gittin' it.' He had heard about her; so he sold her to another man named Cleary. He was good to her; so she wasn't sold no more after that.

"There wasn't many men could class up with her when it come to working. She could do more work than any two men. There wasn't no use for no one man to try to do nothin' with her. No overseer never downed her.

"They didn't kill niggers then—not in slavery times. Not 'round where my folks were. A nigger was money. Slaves were property. They'd paid money to git 'im and money to keep 'im and they couldn't 'ford to kill 'em up. When they couldn't manage them they sold them and got their money out of them.

"The white people started to Texas with the colored folks near the end of the war and got as far as El Dorado. Word come to 'em that freedom had come and they turned back.

"A paterole come in one night before freedom and asked for a drink of water. He said he was thirsty. He had a rubber thing on and drank two or three buckets of water. His rubber bag swelled up and made his head or the thing that looked like his head under the hood grow taller. Instead of gettin' 'fraid, mother threw a shovelful of hot ashes on him and I'll tell you he lit out from there and never did come back no more.

"Right after the war my folks went to work on the farm. They hired out by the month. [HW: My father] didn't never say how much he got. When they had a settlement at the end of the year, the boss said his wages didn't amount to nothing because his living took it up. Said he had ate it all up. After that, he took my mother's advice and took up part of his wages in a cow and so on, and then he'd always have something to show for his work at the end of the year when it come settling up time. It was ten years before he got a start. It was hard to get ahead then because the niggers had just got free and didn't have nothin' and didn't know nothin'. My father had two brothers that just stayed on with the white folks. They stayed on till they got too old to work, then they had to go. Couldn't do no good then. My father was always treated well by his master.

"I got my schooling at Warren. I went to the tenth grade. Could have gone farther but didn't want to. I was looking at something I thought was better than education. When I got of age, I come up here and just run about. I was what you might say pretty fine. I was looking so high I couldn't find nothing to suit me. I went 'round to a number of places and none of them suited me. So I went on back home and been there ever since.

"I married once in my life. My wife is still living. My wife is a good woman. No, if I got rid of this one, wouldn't do to take another one. I am the father of ten living children. I made a living by doing anything that come up—housework, gardening, anything.

"I don't get no government help. I don't want none yet. God has seen me this far. I think He'll see me to the end. He is good to me; He's given me such a good time I couldn't help but serve Him. Only been sick once in seventy years.

"I belong to the Baptist church. God is my boss now. He has brought me this far and He's able to carry me across"

Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden Person interviewed: Eliza Frazier 2003 Saracen Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Age: 88?

"I don't know when I was born or 'zackly how old I is, but I was born in South Carolina and come here before the War.

"I belonged to Wiley Mosley and he brought me and my mother and my sister here to Arkansas. I don't 'member it at all 'cause I was a baby, but I know what Wiley Mosley and my mother told me.

"Settled in Redland Township. That's what they called it. He bought a plantation there. There was three brothers come to this country and they didn't live very far from each other.

"I 'member hearin' 'em talk 'bout the War and one time I heered the guns a poppin'. They said they was just passin' through. I was just a small girl but I 'member it. I seed the Yankees too. I 'member they'd come up in the yard on hosses and jump down and go in the smokehouse and take the meat and go to the dairy house and get the milk.

"Old master was gone to the War. I 'member when he was gwine and I 'member when he come back. Old missis said he was up in Missouri. Got shot right through the foot once. I know he come home and stayed 'til he was well, then he went back. I don't know how long he stayed but he went back—I know that. And he come back after the War—I 'member that.

"I 'member one time when I upset the cradle. Miss Jane wouldn't 'low me to take the baby up but I rocked the cradle. And one time I reckon I rocked it too hard and it turned over. Miss Jane heard it time it hit the floor and she come runnin'. I was under the house by that time but she called me out and whipped me and told me to get back in the house. I know I didn't turn it over no more.

"The Yankees never said nothin' to me—talked to my mother though, and old mis'.

"They said they was fightin' to free the niggers. There was a boy on the place and while old master was gone to war, he'd just go and come and get the news. He didn't do that when old master was home. I know he brought the news when peace declared. Patrollers got him one night.

"I 'member when peace declared ever'body went around shoutin' and hollerin', 'The niggers is free, the niggers is free!'

"Our folks stayed there on the place right smart while after freedom. I 'member I was gwine out to the field and Woodson, he was the baby I upset, he wanted to go along and wanted me to tote him and I know old master said, 'Put him down and let him walk.'

"They told me I was twenty when I was married—the white folks told me. I know my mother asked how old I was and they said I was 'bout twenty. I 'member it well enough.

"I never went to school but I knowed my ABC's and could read some in the first reader. I ain't forgot about it. I thinks about it sometimes.

"The biggest work I has done is farm work.

"I've had nine chillun and raised all of 'em but one."

NOTE:

Eliza lives with her son who is well educated and a retired city mail carrier and he is now sending three children to the A.M.& N. College here.

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Mary Frazier, near Biscoe, Arkansas Age: 60

"My parents was Neily and Amos Hamilton. They lived in Marshall County, about forty-eight miles from Memphis. They belong to people by that same name.

"I heard them all say how they come to be way out in Mississippi. The Thompsons owned Grandma Diana and her husband in South Carolina. Master Jefferies went there from Mississippi and bought grandma. They let all twelve of her children go in the sale some way but they didn't sell grandpa. He grieved so till the same man come back a long time afterward and bought him. Jefferies was good to them. I was born in Mississippi. Grandma cooked all the time. Mama and papa both worked in the field. I heard grandma say every one of her children was born in South Carolina. Mr. Jefferies, one of the younger set, lived in Clarendon, Arkansas. Since I come to this country I seen him. I lived over there pretty close by.

"I got no 'pinion worth telling about our young folks. They want to have a big time when they are young. All young folks is swift on foot that way. Times is funny. Funniest times ever been in my life. Is times right now? Ain't no credit no more. That one thing making times so hard. Money is the whole thing now'days."

El Dorado District FOLKLORE SUBJECTS Name of Interviewer: Pernella Anderson Subject: TALES OF SLAVERY DAYS Story:—Information [Feb 6 1937] This information given by: Tyler Frazier Place of Residence: Ouachita County Occupation: Domestic Age: 75

[TR: Personal information moved from bottom of first page.]

Ah wus a young nigger bout nine or ten years ole when de slaves wus freed. Ah got freed in Texas. We went tuh Texas on a steamboat an dey wuz a lot uv people on de steamboat. We sho 'joyed dat trip. We went wid our mistress an moster. Dey wuz de Lides, Mistuh John Lide's parents. De Lides run one uv de bigges' stores in Camden now, if yo knows dem dey is de same Lides. One uv de boys wuz named Blackie Lide, one John Lide, one named Hugh Lide. Dem wuz granchillun. Hannah Lide, Minnie Watts now, dey wuz de granchillun. Now let me see, one Miss wuz named Emma Lide. Dem sho wuz good fokes. Ole miss died when we wuz on ouh way tuh dis country. An ole moster been daid since way back yondah. But when we got tuh dis country we settled bout seven or eight miles fum Camden in Ouachita County. Ole moster wuz named Peter Lide. We jes went tuh school nough tuh learn our A.B.C.'s cause we had tuh work in de fiel. We carried our meat tuh de fiel an cooked hot ash cake fuh dinnuh. We kep' spare ribs and backbone all de year roun'. We pickled de backbone an dem spareribs. We worked evah day. Wednesday night wuz wash night. Dat's when de women would do de washin. We'd go tuh de fiel way fo day.

Back in dem days we had er log church. Ah went in mah shirt-tail till ah wuz six. Mis Lide made mah fust pair uv britches. Ah membuhs one time ah went to Miss Lide's garden an stole watuh mellons. Ah put em in a sack an when ah want tuh come outn de garden ah got ovah de fence an got hung an moster caught me. Ah'm tellin de truth. Ah aint had no desire tuh steal since.

Moster Peter Lide's favorite song wus dis: "Hit's er long way tuh heaven." Ah kin mos heah him singin hit now. He wuz a Christian man. He wuz white and owned slaves but he wuz a good Christian. We didn' know bout no money. When we got sick dat's when we got biscuit. We didn' know bout Thanksgiving day and Christmas. We heard de white fokes tawkin bout hit but we didn' know whut hit meant.

When anybody would die dey made de coffin. Didn' have no funeral, no singin, no nothin' jes put dem in de groun. Dat wus all. Nebber stop work. We nevah plowed er hoss. We used oxen teams. We made good crops den. We raised all our sumpin tuh eat.

When ah wus a lil' bitsy boy Mrs. Lide use tuh tell us stories at night. She give us our fireside trainin. She tole us when anybody wuz a tawkin not tuh but in. Ah'm seventy five yers ole now an ah aint nevah fuhgot dat. We ole fokes aint got long tuh stay heah now. We lives in de days dats past. All we knows tuh tawk bout is what we use tuh do. When mah time is up ah is ready tuh go cause ah is done mah bes' fuh mah God, mah country and mah race.

Interviewer: Beulah Sherwood Hagg Person interviewed: Aunt Mittie Freeman Aged: 86 Home: 320 Elm St., North Little Rock. In home of granddaughter. [Aug 27 1937]

Story by Aunt Mittie Freeman

"Howdy, honey. Come on in and set down. It's awful hot, ain't it? What you come to see me for? You says old uncle Boss tell you I'se old slave lady? That's right, that's right. Us old war folks never fergits the others. Anything you wants to know, honey, jest go on and ax me. I got the bestest remembrance.

Orange county, Mississippi was where I was borned at but I been right here in Arkansas before sech thing as war gonna be. In slavery, it was, when my white folks done come to Camden. You know where that is?—Camden on the Ouachita? That's the place where we come. Yes Ma'am, it was long before the war when the doctor—I means Dr. Williams what owned my pappy and all us younguns—say he going to Arkansas. Theys rode in the fine carriages. Us slaves rode in ox wagons. Lord only knows how long it tuck a-coming. Every night we camped. I was jest a little tike then but I has a remembrance of everything. The biggest younguns had to walk till theys so tired theys couldn't hardly drag they feets; them what had been a-riding had to get out the ox wagon and walk a far piece; so it like this we go on.

Dr. Williams always wanted to keep his slaves together. He was sure good man. He didn't work his slaves hard like some. My pappy was a kind of a manager for Doctor. Doctor tended his business and pappy runned the plantation where we lived at. Our good master died before freedom. He willed us slaves to his chilrun. You know—passeled (parcelled) us out, some to this child, some to that. I went to his daughter, Miss Emma. Laws-a-Mercy, how I wishes I could see her face onct more afore I dies. I heerd she married rich. Unh-unh! I'd shore love to see her onct more.

After old master died, poor old pappy got sent to another plantation of the fam'ly. It had a overseer. He was a northerner man and the meanest devil ever put foot on a plantation. My father was a gentleman; yes ma'am, he was jest that. He had been brung up that-a-way. Old master teached us to never answer back to no white folks. But one day that overseer had my pappy whipped for sompin he never done, and pappy hit him.

So after that, he sent pappy down to New Orleans to be sold. He said he would liked to kill pappy, but he didn't dare 'cause he didn't owned him. Pappy was old. Every auction sale, all the young niggers be sold; everybody pass old pappy by. After a long time—oh, maybe five years—one day they ax pappy—"Are you got some white folks back in Arkansas?" He telled them the Williams white folks in Camden on the Ouachita. Theys white. After while theys send pappy home. Miss, I tells you, nobody never seen sech a home coming. Old Miss and the young white folks gathered round and hugged my old black pappy when he come home; they cry on his shoulder, so glad to git him back. That's what them Williams folks thought of their slaves. Yes ma'am.

Old Miss was name Miss 'liza. She skeered to stay by herself after old master died. I was took to be her companion. Every day she wanted me to bresh her long hair and bathe her feet in cool water; she said I was gentle and didn't never hurt her. One day I was a standing by the window and I seen smoke—blue smoke a rising over beyond a woods. I heerd cannons a-booming and axed her what was it. She say: "Run, Mittie, and hide yourself. It's the Yanks. Theys coming at last, Oh lordy!" I was all incited (excited) and told her I didn't want to hide, I wanted to see 'em. "No" she say, right firm. "Ain't I always told you Yankees has horns on their heads? They'll get you. Go on now, do like I tells you." So I runs out the room and went down by the big gate. A high wall was there and a tree put its branches right over the top. I clim up and hid under the leaves. They was coming, all a marching. The captain opened our big gate and marched them in. A soldier seen me and said "Come on down here; I want to see you." I told him I would, if he would take off his hat and show me his horns.

The day freedom came, I was fishing with pappy. My remembrance is sure good. All a-suddent cannons commence a-booming, it seem like everywhere. You know what that was, Miss? It was the fall of Richmond. Cannons was to roar every place when Richmond fell. Pappy jumps up, throws his pole and everything, and grabs my hand, and starts flying towards the house. "It's victory," he keep on saying. "It's freedom. Now we'es gwine be free." I didn't know what it all meant.

It seem like it tuck a long time fer freedom to come. Everything jest kept on like it was. We heard that lots of slaves was getting land and some mules to set up fer theirselves; I never knowed any what got land or mules nor nothing.

We all stayed right on the place till the Yankees came through. They was looking for slaves what was staying on. Now we was free and had to git off the plantation. They packed us in their big amulance ... you say it wasn't a amulance,—what was it? Well, then, their big covered army wagons, and tuck us to Little Rock. Did you ever know where the old penitentiary was? Well, right there is where the Yanks had a great big barracks. All chilluns and growd womens was put there in tents. Did you know that the fust real free school in Little Rock was opened by the govment for colored chullens? Yes ma'am, and I went to it, right from the day we got there.

They took pappy and put him to work in the big commissary; it was on the corner of Second and Main Street. He got $12.00 a month and all the grub we could eat. Unh, Unh! Didn't we live good? I sure got a good remembrance, honey. Can't you tell? Yes, Ma'am. They was plenty of other refugees living in them barracks, and the govment taking keer of all of 'em.

I was a purty big sized girl by then and had to go to work to help pappy. A man name Captain Hodge, a northerner, got a plantation down the river. He wanted to raise cotton but didn't know how and had to get colored folks to help him. A lot of us niggers from the barracks was sent to pick. We got $1.25 a hundred pounds. What did I do with my money? Is you asking me that? Bless your soul, honey, I never seen that money hardly long enough to git it home. In them days chilluns worked for their folks. I toted mine home to pappy and he got us what we had to have. That's the way it was. We picked cotton all fall and winter, and went to school after picking was over.

When I got nearly growd, we moved on this very ground you is a setting on. Pappy had a five year lease,—do you know what that was, I don't—but anyhow, they told him he could have all the ground he could clear and work for five years and it wouldn't cost him nothing. He built a log house and put in a orchard. Next year he had a big garden and sold vegables. Lord, miss, them white ladies wouldn't buy from nobody but pappy. They'd wait till he got there with his fresh beans and roasting ears. When he got more land broke out, he raised cotton and corn and made it right good. His name was Harry Williams. He was a stern man, and honest. He was named for his old master. When my brothers got growed they learned shoemakers trade and had right good business in Little Rock. But when pappy died, them boys give up that good business and tuck a farm—the old Lawson place—so to make a home for mammy and the little chilluns.

I married Freeman. Onliest husban ever I had. He died last summer. He was a slave too. We used to talk over them days before we met. The K.K.K. never bothered us. They was gathered together to bother niggers and whites what made trouble. If you tended to your own business, they's let you alone.

No ma'am, I never voted. My husband did. Yes ma'am, I can remember when they was colored men voted into office. Justice of Peace, county clerks, and, er—er—that fellow that comes running fast when somebody gets killed. What you call him? Coroner? Sure, that's him. I know that, 'cause I seen them a-setting in their offices.

We raised our fam'ly on a plantation. That's the bestest place for colored chilluns. Yes ma'am. My five boys stayed with me till they was grown. They heerd about the Railroad shops and was bound theys going there to work. Ben—that was my man—and me couldn't make it by ourselfs, so we come on back to this little place where we come soon after the war. He was taken with a tumor on his brains last summer and died in two weeks. He didn't know nothing all that time. My onliest boy what stayed here died jest two weeks after his pa. All them others went to Iowa after the big railroad strike here. They was out of work for many years; they didn't like no kind of work but railroad, after they been in the shops.

How I a-living now? You wants to know, honest? Say honey, is you a relief worker—one of them welfare folkses? Lor' God, how I needs help! Honey, last summer when my husband and son die they wasn't nothin' to put on 'em to bury in. I told the Welfare could I get something clean and whole to bury my dead; honey chile, it's the gospel truth, it was two weeks after they was buried when they brought me the close (clothes). Theys told me then I would get $10.00 a month, but in all this time now, I only had $5.00 one time. I lives with my daughter here in this house, but her man been outen work so long he couldn't keep up the payments and theys 'bout to loose it. Lordy, where'll we go? I made big garden in the spring of the year, and sold a heap. Hot summer burnt everything up, now. Yessum, that $5.00 the Reliefers give me—I bought my garden stuff with it.

I got the rheumatiz a-making the garden. It look like I'm done. I knowed a old potion. It made of pokeberry juice and whiskey. Good whiskey. Not old cheap corn likker. Yessum, you takes fine whiskey—'bout half bottle, and fills up with strained pokeberry juice. Tablespoon three times a day. Look-a-here, miss. Look at these old arms go up and down now. I kin do a washing along with the youngish womens.

Iffen you wants to know what I thinks of the young folks I tells you. Look at that grandchile a-setting there. She fourteen and know more right now than I knowed in my whole life. Yes ma'am! She can sew on a machine and make a dress in one day. She read in a book how to make sumthin to eat and go hatch it up. Theys fast, too. Ain't got no time for olds like me. Can't find no time to do nothin' for me. People now makes more money than in old days, but the way they makes it ain't honest. No'am, honey, it jest plain ain't. Old honest way was to bend the back and bear down on the hoe.

Did you ask somethin' 'bout old time songs? Sure did have purty music them days. It's so long, honey, I jest can't 'member the names, 'excusing one. It was "Hark, from the Tombs a Doleful Sound." It was a burying song; wagons a-walking slow like; all that stuff. It was the most onliest song they knowed. They was other music, though. Could they play the fiddle in them days, unh, unh! Lordy, iffen I could take you back and show you that handsome white lady what put me on the floor and learned me to dance the contillion!

I'm a-thinking we're a-living in the last days, honey, what does you think? Yes, Mam! We sure is living in the seventh seal. The days of tribulations is on us right now. Nothing make like it used to. I sure would be proud iffen I knowed I had a living for the balance of my days. I got a clean and a clear heart—a clean and clear heart. Be so to your neighbors and God will make it up to you. He sure will, honey."

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson Person interviewed: Mattie Fritz, Clarendon, Arkansas Age: 79

"I was born at Duncan, Arkansas. Mother died when I was a baby. Old slavery black 'Mammy' raised me. I called her 'Mammy'. My father was born in the State of Mississippi. He got loose there at 'mancipation. His master Jack Oates got killed in battle. They brung him home and buried him in the garden. Down close to Duncan on the place. I played in the yard wid Mr. Jack Oates, Jr. when we was little fellars. Father's master in Tennessee was Bill Tyler. My uncle went back to Tennessee to them. His name was Tyler Oates. Mr. Jack Gates, Sr. used to pat me and call me his little nigger. We thought the world and all of our white folks. We sure did. Some of 'em 'round 'bout Helena they say now. Mr. Jack, Jr., he had two boys and he was a widower.

"My own dear mother was Jane. My father called hisself Bill Tyler. My stepmother was Liddy. The woman what raised me was 'Mammy' all I ever knowed. But her name was Luckadoo.

"Mr. Tyler got killed. Pa had to stay on take care of his mistress. He got sold. Then she died. Then mother died. Jack Oates went to my father and brung him to Mississippi, then to Arkansas.

"Master Jack Tyler hid out. The Yankees come at night and caught him there and shot him. His wife lived about two more years. She grieved about him. They took everything and searched the house. My pa was hid under the house. They rumbled down in the cellar and pretty nigh seen him once. He was a little bit er black fellar scroughed back in the dark. All what saved him he wore a black sorter coat. They couldn't see him so good. Way he said they would took him to wait on them and be in the fights too. Them Yankees took Massa Jack Tyler off and sont him back in a while. She had him buried in the garden. She didn't know it was him.

"'Mammy' was a slavery woman. She was sold first time from a neighbor man to a neighbor man. He was an old man. She ploughed and rolled logs. Then she was sold to Master Luckadoo close to Holly Grove. They named her Eloise, and she was a farm woman. She was so good to me. She was a worker and never took time to tell me about old times. She said Luckadoo never whooped her. A storm come and blowed a limb down killed her granddaughter and broke my leg. The same storm killed their mule. She raised a orphan boy too. She died from the change of life but she was old, gray headed. Since I'm older I think she had a tumor. 'Cause she was old when she took me on.

"I gets ten dollars from the Welfare. I ain't goiner say nothin' for 'em nor nothin' agin 'em. They's betwix' and between no 'count and good.

"Times too fast. I can't keep up wid them. 'Betwix' and between the fat and the lean.' Some do very well I reckon."