Pappy's name - and don't let most of 'em tell yo' that they didn't call their fathaws pappy - was Hal Mason . He took that name, 'cause he was once woned by a Mason . His mother mawster was Jess Burditt . He owned a laghe cotton plantation, right down the Colorado River, about ten miles east of Austin. It was at the place called Hornsby's Bend. Mawster Burditt could of been better, and then he could of been worse. He did whoop his slaves at times. Jack Bevil was the overseer on the place. That was his job. Sometimes, he'd kick some of the men with his boots. Jack was almost anything but a good man. He died a natural death after freedom. Pappy was a man of about five feet and nine inches tall, and weighed about one hunnert and sebenty-five pounds. He was about my height and weight, but he was a better lookin' negro than me. Pappy was bawn in Tennessee, and was brought to Texas when he was only a little boy. Pappy was a great hand fo' parades on the celebratin' of Juneteen. That's a picture of him there on a hoss. Yo' kin see that he's wearin' a uniform. When pappy died in 1904, he was in his sebenty-fifth year. Mammy's name was Rachel Mason . There was a time durin' slavery, when me and mammy belonged to a different mawster. His name was John Holcom, Sr . Mawster Holcom had a little fahm in Bastrop County somewhere. He went to the war and was killed. Then Mistress Amanda , we called her Mandy , owned us. Mawster and Mistress Holcom was mighty good folks. I don't think that mammy done much work outside of the big house. She was a cook on the place. The memory of my mammy is one of the sweetest memories that I have. I had a very sweet mammy. She give me all that she could give. I only wish that she could of lived longer, 'cause I could of learned a lot from her. Sweet, gentle, good old mammy. I was only about eight years old when she died, but I remembah her well. She was black lak me. She was brought from South Ca'olina to Texas, when she was only about thutteen years old. She was brought here by her owner, Mawster Bill Fowler . This was in '47, and they come overland. Most of the folks travelled by ox-teams in them days. And then, jes' about one year after freedom, mammy died. But, I'll always remembah her. She was kinder chunky-built. Mammy had only three chillun: Frances , Zanie and me. They're both dead now.

I'm prepared to go, too, now. I was bawn on September 17, 1858, on Mawster Jess Burditt's cotton plantation, about ten miles east of Austin. This was right on the Colorado River. When I was a child, I didn't have to do much of anything but drink buttermilk. Oh, I had to help rock the baby to sleep, and help around the big house. I was jes' a child then, and I remembah how, on one beautiful Sunday afternoon, I was fannin' mammy with a tukkey-fan. She had been feelin' kinder dizzy. She'd spit up great clots of blood at times. Mistress Mandy was bringin' mammy some dinner. She had a plate of eats in her hand. She looked down on mammy's face; then she looked upward, and said, 'Rachel , Rachel , Rachel .' Then she told me, 'Rachel is dead.' That was the first time that I had ever heard that word. I didn't know jes' whut it meant. Next mawnin' I was cryin'. I was standin' out in the open. I felt a certain sadness, and didn't know whut it was. Mawster Barnett wasn't a good enough man to tell me to come to the house and eat somethin'. Barnett was so mean that after slavery he begrudged his servants their freedom. One day he hid and killed two of the men that had once been his servants. He stayed in jail a long time fo' this. His son, Stephen , was drowned durin' the trial. He got drowned while tryin' to swim across the Colorado River. That was a common way how people got killed. There was no other way of crossin' the big river there, and swimmin' was about the only way to cross, unless yo' was on a hoss. The little village of Del Valle was jes' on the other side of the river. Pappy used to swim that river. He was a good swimmer. He would take off the few clothes that he had, tie 'em around his head, and swim across. The reason that he would swim across, was 'cause he loved a girl over there, by the name of Jane . This was durin' slavery, and mammy was still livin'. Yo' see, marriage in them days wasn't whut it is now. Why some of them slaves was bred lak hosses. A good, well-built man was hired out among a bunch of wimmen, so as to produce good, healthy chillun. When Mawster Barnett got out of jail, he peddled Bibles around the country. If he met some people on a country lane, he would git off his hoss, and have great Bible discussions. After freedom, we and sister Frances was fahmed out to first one kinfolk and then the other. Then she married twice. She lived with me here fo' ten years. She died about four years ago, at the age of seventy-one. When I got a little older, I done fahmin' and common labor. I got from forty cents to a dollah a day, and room and board. It wasn't much pay, but I was glad to git it. Sometimes, I couldn't find no work. Pappy would work out, too. He took a great interest in education, but he jes' couldn't learn nothin'. That's about the way it is with ninety-nine percent of my race. But pappy liked to make up some words to fit a song. He used to chant this: "'I went down in the valley, Shoutin' about the good old way, Shoutin' about the good old way, I went down in the valley - to pray - Good Lawd, show me the way Good Lawd, show me the way It looked lak de songs in them days was revealed to the folks.

A lot of times they didn't need no song book to help 'em along. I went to one of the first schools fo' negroes in our paht of the county. This was held in a double-log schoolhouse, in 1872. I doubt very much if I went more'n six months. I learned a little to read and write. Winnie Lane , a colored woman, was our first teacher. She was a putty good teachah. I was about twenty-seben years old, when I got married. Emma Hareford was only twenty-two years old, when I married her. We had four chillun, two boys and two girls: Hallie , Estella , Lucy , and a baby boy that died when he was young. Now, Emma and all of the chillun is gone. Emma , my wife, died in 1890. Fourteen months after Emma died, I married Sarah Miller . We had no chillun. We lived together fo' about six years. Then we separated. She had a lot of temper, and her morals wasn't whut they should of been. Sarah died about four years ago.