One ob my mawsters called me "Wallace " but my real name is J. W. King . I'se eighty-three years old and I was bawn on January 30, 1854, Wardville, Missouri. I couldn't tell yo' nothin' about dem days in Missouri 'cause I was too young. I was about six months old when we was brought to Texas. Fathaw, so I'se told, was Egeton Bolton but I couldn't tell yo' mo'e about him dan yo' kin. Fathaw wasn't bought by de Texas man, and he had to stay up in Missouri. We never did see him again. Susan Bolton Mabry was my mothaw. She was married two times and had twelb chillun, six boys and six girls. Her second husband was Rugg Bouldin . William Mabry was de man dat bought us and brought us down to Texas. He had a cotton fahm right where de Deaf and Dumb fo' negroes is now. Mawster William also had a ranch above Georgetown in Williamson County. Mothaw's job was to do de cookin' on de place. She didn't do nothin' but cook, and she was a good one. When I was a young boy I was whut dey called a "Lackey boy". I had to run errands all over de community. I rode a sorrel mare, named Julianne.

Befo' de Civil War we was sold to Mawster Green Bouldin of Chappel Hill, Washington County. Dey tell me dat I was sold fo' $500 before I was five years old. Dat was about $100 fo' each year ob my life. My job now was to tote water to de field hands, and den I done a little cotton pickin'. But I never was a good cotton picker. About de most dat I ever picked was about two hunnert pounds a day. De older folks would pick de cotton and moan out a song: Oh, rock along, Susie, Oh, Oh, rock along, Oh, rock me, Susie, rock me, Oh, rock along, Susie, Oh, Oh, rock along. Durin' de civil war mawster Green Bouldin went off to de war. His cousin, Ed Bouldin , was now our overseer. Mawster Ed was very nice to us. Mawster Ed was up in years and he was too old to go to de war. He didn't want to go to de war anyhow. I know dat when Mawster Bouldin went off to war everybody cried. Dey drove him in a hack to Chappel Hill, and f'om dere he went by hoss-back to de war. I rode dat hoss f'om de plantation to Chappel Hill. It was a fine lookin' black hoss but I kain't remembah his name. I never see dat hoss no mo'e. He never come back f'om de war. But Mawster Bouldin come back after de war. He had been shot in de leg, in de right leg, by a minnie ball. He died in 1874. I held many a minnie ball in my hand. Dey was shot out ob single-barrel muskets. During de war and befo' Mawster Bouldin come back, some of de men on de plantation would slip up to a open winder at de big house at night and try to hear whut was goin' on. Some would be layin' outside de winder and lissen whut was read f'om a letter. Den the talk would be lak dis: Sh-h-h, good news, good news!' one ob de boys would whisper. Whut's in de lettah?' It says dat de yankees ain't against de niggers.' I'll bet it says dat one southerner was enough fo' six yankees.' No, dat one yankee was enough fo' a dozen southerners.' I don't believe it.' Sh-sh-sh.' De next day dat's whut de folks would talk about in de fields. Some ob de pickers and workers would say, "I don't believe it. If we is to be freed it's a long time a gittin' here. Mawster Bouldin nicknamed me Wallace . De last whoopin' dat he give me was fo' stickin' a choppin' ax into another boy's head. His name was Henry Bouldin . We was choppin wood on de wood-pile and a fuss come up. We had a argument. De other boys didn't lak him, 'cause he was de biggest liar down dere. I never struck him too deep, but he sure bled. He got all right. Mawster Bouldin took me to a little stream where some putty persimmon trees growed, and he cut off a couple ob sprouts and whooped me. Den he said, "Wallace , now don't yo' ever do dat again. Mawster I won't do it no mo'e," I told him. I been tellin' yo' so much about yo' fightin, now yo' could ob killed Henry . Den he talk to me some mo'e and dat was de last whoopin' I ever got f'om him.

Every man dat had a wife and chillun got a log cabin to live in. If a man lived on one plantation and de girl he loved lived on another place he had to go and ask dat girl's mawster if he could marry her. If he could he would be allowed to come and see her about two or three times a week. But he had to have a pass. If yo' was caught without a pass de patrol would git yo' and whoop yo'. Sometimes when us boys got together one ob us would look back and shout, "Here comes a bunch ob men! Dere wasn't no men comin' but we'd watch de boys run jes' fo' de fun. Den one mawnin, before de sun was too high Mawster Bouldin called us all up to de big house. He was sittin' wid his chair leanin' against de shady side ob de house. A big rock was nearby in de shade. His slaves was settin' and layin' on and leanin' against dat rock when he read us de Emancipation paper. Now folks, all ob yo' is free, free as I is. Yo' is free niggers. Yo' is goin' to be turned loose, barefooted and without jobs. Now in de mawnin' I want yo' all to go to Brenham, where dere is goin' to be a big barbecue fo' yo' all. Dere is goin' to be speeches. Yo' all kin go in de wagon and I'll ride my hoss. If some ob yo' want to come back, I'll let yo' all help me gather my crops. Mawster Bouldin rode his big black hoss, Larkin, to Brenham. De chillun didn't git to go along wid de older folks. Mothaw didn't go and I stayed hom, and fo' some reason dat was one ob de loneliest days in my life. Mothaw, my step-fathaw, Rugg Bouldin , and us stayed on de place and helped gather de crops. About Christmas time Rugg left mothaw. He wanted to marry a white woman, but bless God, he was put in jail. Den he come back but mothaw wouldn't take him back. Den one time he come and saw us chillun, and told us goodbye. A cold, wet nawther was blowin', and him and his hoss fell into a puddle ob water and we had to pull 'em out. Rugg was drunk. Den he left, and we never seen him no mo'e. When I heard ob him again, he was dead. Everybody, white and black called him pap.

When pap left, mothaw and us hired out to Elias Elliott . She done de cookin' and we worked in de fields. Dis was de time dat my sistah Caroline picked three hunnert pounds ob cotton a day to de day ob her confinement wid a baby. Dere was some mean-dispositioned niggers here at dis time. Dere was Kye . He was a mean yellow nigger. Mawster Bouldin wouldn't allow him on de place. Kye was put in de penitentiary fo' attackin' a white woman. He served ten years and was let out. Den he done about de same thing and he was sent back to de pen. Kye's fathaw, old Sol , was mean too. So was his brothaws, Wylie and Wes . Dey was all killed fo' dere meanness. Dey sure was mean. Dere was times after de war when de Klu Klux Klan was on de war path. If yo' done any meanness, dey'd come up to yo' house and take yo' out to whoop yo'. Dere was de time when de Klan come to a grown nigger's house and he was ready fo' 'em. When one ob 'em stepped into de door, he split his head open wid a ax. Den he run away to de Yankees. One time de niggers wouldn't vote de Democratic ticket and three ob dem was hung. Jim Holt , a white feller dat was fo' de niggers said dat he would see dat de niggers voted de way dey wanted to vote. De last time dat I heard ob Jim Holt , was when he was shot dead.

I kain't read or write. Dey didn't show us how to do our A B C's on Mawster Bouldin's plantation. I didn't git to go to school much after slavery. Yo' could go to school only to a certain age, sixteen years was de limit, I believe. Now folks go to school up to de time when dey is twenty-five years or more. Fo' a while I could ob sent, but I didn't lak school. I always rather drive a yoke ob oxen. I would sometimes drive five and six yokes ob oxen at one time. I hauled cotton and freight down in dat paht ob de country, more down in Austin County. Dat was always my life, out in de open. I always thought dat it was a waste ob time to go to school. I never could see no good in it. Now, I know better but de only thing dat I kin write is to make a cross fo' my name. I never married until I was about twenty years old. On December 18, 1873, I married Millie Chappel . She was livin' in Chappel Hill. We rode hosses to de preachah's house and got married. Sias Campbell , a Methodist preachah, married us. We never had no chillun. Millie died in 1883. On November 15, 1883, I married Mandy Medearis . She lived at Bluff Springs, Travis County. We didn't have nothin' but twelb chillun, six boys and six girls. Dere is still ten ob 'em livin' and still half and half. Mandy died in 1913. Den three and a half years to a day, I was married to Lucy Harrington . We had no chillun. Lucy den got so much Holy Ghost, dat I couldn't suit her no mo'e. She is a Holy Roller. She said dat de Lawd told her to leave me. I told her dat if de Lawd told her to go, she had better go; but dat she could never come back to me. But I didn't rejoice when she left. She jis' left and I don't know where she is.