Yes, sir, I'm Felix Haywood , and I can answer all those things that you want to know. But, first, let me ask you this? Is you all a white man, or is you a black man?  I'm black, blacker than you are, said the caller. The eyes of the old blind Negro, - eyes like two murky brown marbles - actually twinkled. Then he laughed:  No, you ain't. I knowed you was white man when you comes up the path and speaks. I jus' always asks that question for fun. It makes white men a little insulted when you don't know they is white, and it makes niggers all conceited up when you think maybe they is white. And there was the key note to the old Negro's character and temperament. He was making a sort of privileged game with a sportive twist out of his handicap of blindness. As the interviewer scribbled down a note, the door to the little shanty on Arabella Alley opened and a backless chair was carried out on the porch by a vigorous old colored woman. She was Mrs. Ella Thompson , Felix ' youngest sister, who had known only seven years of slavery. After a timid "How-do-you-do," and a comment on the great heat of the June day, she went back in the house. Then the old Negro began searching his 92 years of reminiscences, intermixing his findings with philosophy, poetry and prognostications.

It's a funny thing how folks always want to know about the war. The war weren't so great as folks suppose. Sometimes you didn't knowed it was goin' on. It was the endin' of it that made the difference. That's when we all wakes up that somethin' had happened. Oh, we knowed what was goin' on in it all the time, 'cause old man Gudlow went to the post office every day and we knowed. We had papers in them days jus' like now.  But the war didn't change nothin'. We saw guns and we saw soldiers, and one member of master's family, Colmin Gudlow , was gone fightin' - somewhere. But he didn't get shot no place but one - that was in the big toe. Then there was neighbors went off to fight. Some of 'am didn't want to go. They was took away (conscription). I'm thinkin' lots of 'on pretended to want to go as soon as they had to go.  The ranch went on jus' like it always had before the war. Church want on. Old Man Johnson , the preacher, seen to it church went on. The kids didn't know war was happenin'. They played marbles, see-saw and rode. I had old Bustar, a ex, and he took me about plenty good as a horse. Nothin' was different. We get layed-into (whipped) time on time, but gen'rally life was good  just as good as a sweat potato. The only misery I had was when a black spider bit me on the ear. It swelled up my head and stury came out. I was plenty sick and Dr. Brennen , he took good care me. The doctor always took good care of people when they was sick. Hospitals couldn't de no better for you today Yes, maybe it was a black widow spider, but we called it the 'devil biter'.  Sometimes someone would came 'long and try to get us to run up North and be free. We used to laugh at that. There wasn't no reason to run up North. All we had to de was to walk, but walk South, and we'd be free as soon as we creased the Rio Grande. In Mexico you could be free. They didn't care what color you was, black, white, yellow or blue. Hundreds or slaves did go to Mexico and got on all right. We would hear about 'em and how they was goin' to be Mexicans. They brought up their children to speak only Mexican.  Me and my father and five brothers and sisters weren't goin' to Mexico. I went there after the war for a while and then I looked 'round and decided to get back. So I comeback to San Antonio and I got a job through Colonel Brockenridge with the waterworks. I was handling pipes. My foreman was Tom Flanigan   he must have been a full-blooded Frenchman!  But what I want to say is, we didn't have no idea of runnin' and escapin'. We was happy. We get our lickings, but just the same we got our fill of biscuits every time the white folks had 'em. Nobody knew how it was to lack feed. I tell my chillen we didn't know no mere about pants than a hawg knows about heaven; but I tells 'em that to make 'em laugh. We had all the clothes we wanted and if you wanted shoes bad enough you get 'em  shoes with a brass square too. And shirtal Mister, them was shirts that was shirtal If someone gets caught by his shirt on a limb of a tree, he had to die there if he weren't out down. Them shirts wouldn't rip no more'n buckakin.  The end of the war, it come jus' like that  like you snap your fingers.  How did you know the end of the war had come? asked the interviewer.  How did we know it! Hallalujah broke out   Abe Lincoln freed the nigger With the gun and the trigger; And I ain't goin' to get whipped any more. I got my ticket, Leavin' the thicket. And I'm a-headin' for the Golden Shore!' Soldiers, all or a sudden, was everywhere  comin' in bunches, crossin' and walkin' and ridin'. Everyone was a-singin'. We was all walkin' on golden clouds. Hallelujah! Union forever, Hurrah, boys, hurrah! Although I may be poor. I'll never be a slave Shoutin' the battle cry of freedom.'

Everybody went wild. We all felt like heroes and nobody had made us that way but ourselves. We was free. Just like that, we was free. It didn't seen to make the whites mad, either. They went right on giving us read just the same. Nobody took our homes away, but right off colored folks started on the move. They seemed to want to get closer to freedom, so they'd know what it was  like it was a place or a city. Me and my father stuck, stuck close as a lean tick to a sick kitten. The Gudlows started us out on a ranch. My father, he'd round up cattle, unbranded cattle, for the whites. They was cattle that they belonged to, all right; they had gone to find water 'long the San Antonio River and the Guadalupe. Then the whites gave me and my father some cattle for our own. My father had his own brand, 7 B, and we had a herd to start out with of seventy. We knowed freedom was on us, but we didn't knew what was to come with it. We thought we was goin' to get rich like the white folks. We thought we was goin' to be richer than the white folks, 'cause we was stronger and knowed how to work, and the whites didn't and they didn't have us to work for them anymore. But it didn't turn out that way. We soon found out that freedom could make folks proud but it didn't make 'em rich.  Did you ever stop to think that thinking don't de any good when you de it too late? Well, that's how it was with us. If every mother's son of a black had thrown 'way his hoe and took up a gun to fight for his own freedom along with the Yankees, the war'd been over before it began. But we didn't do it. We couldn't help stick to our masters. We couldn't no more shoot 'em than we could fly. My father and me used to talk 'bout it. We decided we was too soft and freedom wasn't goin' to be much to our good even if we had a education.  The old Negro was growing very tired, but, at a request, he instantly get up and tapped his way out into the scorching sunshine to have his photograph taken. Even as he did so, he seemed to smile with these blurred, dead eyes of his. Then he chuckled to himself and said: Warmth of the wind And heat of the South, And ripe red cherries For a rips, red mouth.  Land sakes, Felix !  came through the window from sister Ella .  How you carries on! Don't you be a-mindin' him, mister.

Felix Haywood is a temperamental and whimsical old Negro of San Antonio, Texas, who still sees the sunny side of his 93 years in spite of his total blindness. He was born and bred a slave in St. Hedwig, Bexar County, Texas, the son of slave parents bought in Mississippi by his master, William Gudlow . Before and during the Civil War he was a sheep herder and cowpuncher. His autobiography is a colorful contribution showing the philosophical attitude of the slaves as well as shedding some light upon the lives of slave owners whose support of the Confederacy was not accompanied by violent hatred of the Union. 

Yes, sir, I'm Felix Haywood and I can answer all those things that yo' want to know. But first, let me ask yo' this: Is yo' all a white man, or is yo' a black man? I'm black, blacker than you are," said the caller.  The eyes of the old blind negro eyes like two murkey brown marbles actually twinkled. Then he laughed: No, yo' ain't. I knowd yo' was white when yo' comes up the path and speaks. I jus' always asks that question fuh fun: It makes white men a little insulted when yo' don't know that they is white, and it makes niggers all conceited up when yo' think they maybe is white. And there was the key note to the old Negro's character and temperament. He was making a sort of privileged game with a sportive twist out of his handicap of blindness.  As the interviewer scribbled down a note, the door to the little shanty on Arabella Alley opened and a backless chair was carried out on the porch by a vigorous old colored woman. She was Mrs. Ella Thompson , Felix's youngest sister, who had known only seven years of slavery. After a timid "how-do-yo'do" and a comment on the great heat of that June day, she went back in the house. Then the old Negro began searching his 92 years of reminiscenses, intermixing his findings with philosophy, poetry and prognostications. It's a funny thing how folks always want to know about the war (Civil War). The war weren't so great as folks suppose. Sometimes yo' didn't knowd it was goin' on. It was the endin' of it that made the difference. That's when we all wakes up that somethin' had happened. Oh, we knowd what was goin' on in it all the time, cose old man Gudlow went to the postoffice every day, and we knowd. We had papers in them days jus' like now. But the war didn't change nothin'. We saw guns and we saw soldiers, and one member of master's family, Colmin Gudlow , was gone fighting fighting somewhar. But he didn't get shot no place but one that was in the big toe. Then there was neighbors went off to fight. Some of 'em didn't want to go. They was took away (conscription). I'm thinkin' lots of 'em pretended to want to go as soon as they had to go. The ranch went on just like it always had before no war. Church went on. Old Mow Johnson , the preacher, seen to it that church went on. The kids (colored children) didn't know war was happening. They played marbles, sea-saw and rode. I had old Buster, a ox, and he took me about plenty good as a horse. Then I drove three span of ox (six oxen) and tended over the sheep too. Nothin' was different. We got layed-on-to (whipped) time on time, but genneley life was good just as good as a sweet patato. The only misery I had was when a black spider but me on the ear. It swelled up my 'ed and stuff came out. I was plenty sick and Dr. Brennen he took good care of me. The whites always took good care of people when they was sick. Hospitals could do no better fur yo' today. Yes, maybe it was a black widdow spider, but we called it the 'devil biter'. Sometimes someone would come 'long and try to get us to run up North and be free. We used to laugh at that: There wuzn't no reason to run up North. All we had to do was to walk, but walk South, and we'd be free soon as we crossed the Reo Grande. In Mexico you could be free. They (the Mexicans) didn't care what color yo' was black, white, yellow or blue. Hundreds of slaves did go to Mexico and got on all right. We would hear about 'em and how they was going to be Mexicans. They brought up their chillen to speak only Mexican. Me and my father and five brothers and sisters wern't goin' to Mexico. I went there after the war for a while and then I looked 'round and decided to get back. So I come back to San Antonio, and got a job through Col. Breckenridge with the water works. I was handling pipes. My foreman was Tom Flanigann he must have been a full-blooded Frenchman. But what I want to say is that we didn't have an idea of getting away. We was happy. We got our lickings, but just the same we got our fill of biscuits every time the white folks had 'em. Nobody knew how it was to lack food. I tell my chillen that we didn't know no more about pants than a hog knows about heaven; but I tells 'em that to make 'em laugh. We had all the clothes we wanted and if yo' wanted shoes bad enough yo' got em shoes with a brass square toe. And shirts! Mister, them was shirts that was shirts. If someone gets cot by his shirt on a limb of a tree he had to die there if he wern't cut down. Them shirts wouldn't rip no more than buckskin. Yes, I'm telling you about that fast as I can. The end of the war came like that like you snap your fingers  'Abe Lincoln freed the Nigger With the gun and the trigger. Get your ticket an' get on board, Fur we're goin' to the Golden Shore!' Soldiers all of a sudden was everywhar. Commin in bunches crossin' and walkin' and ridin'. Everyone was singing'. We was all walkin' on golden clouds. Hallelujah!  'Union forever, Hurrah, boys, hurrah. Although I may be poar I'll never be a slave Shoutin the battle cry of freedom.' Everybody went wild. We didn't feel like anybody had don anythin' for us (the slaves). We all felt like heroes and nobody had made us that way but ourselves. We was free! Just like that we was free. It didn't seem to make the whites mad either. They went right on giving us food just the same. Nobody took our homes away. But right off colored folks started on the move. They seemed to want to get closer to freedom so they'd know what it was like it was a place or a city. Me and my father stuck stuck close as a lean tick to a sick kitten. The Gudlows started us out on a ranch. My father he would round up cattle unbranded cattle for the whites No, they was cattle that they belonged to all right. They had gone to find water 'long the San Antonio River and the Guadalupe. Then the whites gave me and my father some cattle for our own. My father had his own brand, 7 B , and we had a herd to start out with of seventy. We know'd freedom was on us, but we didn't know'd what was to come with it. We thought we was goin' to get rich like the white folks. We thought we was goin' to be richer and better off than the white folks; cose we was stronger and knowd how to work, and the whites didn't and they didn't have us to do work for them Yes, I'm tellin' yo' 'bout that fast as I kin. The end of the war it come jus' like that like yo' snap yo' fingers. How did you know the end of the war had come?" asked the interviewer. How did we know it?" Hallelujah broke out  'Abe Lincoln freed the Nigger With the gun and the trigger; And I ain't a-goin' to get whipped any more.  I got my ticket, Leavin' the thicket, And I'm a-headin' for the Golden Shore!' Soldiers, all of a sudden, was everywha-comin' in bunches, crossin' and walkin' and ridin'. Everyone was a-singing. We was all walkin' on golden clouds. Hallelujah! 'Union forever, Hurrah, boys, hurrah! Although I may be poor, I'll never be a slave Shoutin' the battle cry of freedom, anymore. Hallelujah! But it didn't turn out like that. We soon found out that freedom could make folks proud but it didn't make 'em rich. Did yo' ever stop to think that thinking don't do any good when yo' do it too late? Well, that's how it was with us. (the slaves) If every mother's son of a black had thrown away his hoe and taken up a gun to fight for his own freedom along with the Yankees, the war would have been over before it started. The whites then would have more respect for Negroes today. But we couldn't do it. We couldn't help stick to our mosters. We could no more shoot 'em than we could fly. My father and me used to talk 'bout it. We come to the conclusion that we was too soft and freedom wuzn't goin' to be much to our advantage even with a education. My father, he was a good talker a preacher the kind of a preacher who didn't call out for eight or nine dollars to be dropped in the plate on Sundays. He called out the Word of God. The old Negro was growing very tired; but, at a request, he instantly got up from his chair and tapped his way out into the scorching Texas sunshine to have his photograph taken. His black face rained sweat and he wiped it away with the long sleeve of his undershirt. Even as he did so, he seemed to smile with those blurred, dead eyes of his. Then he chuckled to himself and said: 'Warmth of the wind And heat of the South, And ripe red cherries For a ripe red mouth. Land sakes, Felix ! came through the window from sister Ella . How yo' carries on! Don't yo' be a mindin' him, mister