Summer time us go barefoot but winter time come, dey give you shoes with heels on 'em big as biscuits. De quarters is back of de big house and didn't have no floors. Dey sot plumb on de ground and build like a hawg pen. Dey cut down timber and stake it up at de corners and fill it in with timber with de bark on it. Dere was split log houses and round log houses and all sech like dat. Dey have only fifty slaves on dat place, and it a big place, big 'nough for a hundred. But what dey do? Dey take de good slaves and sell 'em. Dat what dey do. Den dey make de ones what am left do all de work. Sell, sell, all de time, and never buy nobody. Dat was dem. Every Sat'day evenin' us go to de pitcher poke. Dat what dey calls it when dey issues de rations. You go to de smokehouse and dey weigh out some big, thick rounds of white pork meat and give it to you. De syrup weighed out. De meal weighed out. Dey never give us no sugar or coffee. You want coffee, you put de skillet on de fire and put de meal in it and parch it till it most black, and put water on it. Mammy make salt water bread out of a li'l flour and salt and water. Sometimes, dey make de slaves go to church. De white folks sot up fine in dere carriage and drive up to de door and git de slaves out of one cabin, den git de slaves out of de nex' cabin, and keep it up till dey gits dem all. Den all de slaves walks front de carriage till dey gits to church. De slaves sot outside under de shade trees. If de preacher talk real loud, you can hear him out de window. If a cullud man take de notion to preach, he couldn't preach 'bout de Gospel. Dey didn't 'low him do dat. All he could preach 'bout was obey de massa, obey de overseer, obey dis, obey dat. Dey didn't make no passel of fuss 'bout prayin' den. Sometimes dey have prayin' meetin' in a cabin at night. Each one bring de pot and put dere head in it to keep de echoes from gittin' back. Den dey prey in de pot. Dat de Gawd's truth! Like I done said, massa sol' de good slaves in Monroe. Nobody marry in dem days. A gal go out and take de notion for some buck and dey make de 'greement to live together. Course, if a unhealthy buck take up with a portly gal, de white folks sep'rate 'em. If a man a big, stout man, good breed, dey gives him four, five women. Sometimes dey run 'way. It ain't done dem no good, for de dawgs an put on dey trail. If you clumb de tree, dem dogs hold you dere till de white folks comes, and den dey let de dogs git you. Sometimes de dogs tore all dey clothes off, and dey ain't got nary a rag on 'em when dey git home. If dey run in de stream of water, de dogs gits after 'em and drowns 'em. Den Nick , de overseer, he whop 'em. He drive down four stakes for de feets and hands and tie 'em up. Den he whop 'em from head to feets. De whip make out a hide, cut in strips, with holes punch in 'em. When dey hits de skin it make blisters.

All kind of war talk floatin' round 'fore de Yankees come. Some say de Yankees fight for freedom and some say dey'll kill all de slaves. Seems like it must have been in de middle of de war dat de Yankees come by. We hears somebody holler for us to come out one night and seed de place on fire. Time we git out dere, de Yankees gone. We fit de fire but we had to tote water in buckets, and de fire burn up de gin house full of cotton and de cotton house, too, and de corn crib. De Yankees allus come through at night and done what dey gwine to do, and den wait for more night 'fore day go 'bout dere business. Only one time dey come in daylight, and some de slaves jine dem and go to war. All de talk 'bout freedom git so bad on de plantation de massa make me upt de men in a big wagon and drive 'em to Winfield. He say in Texas dere never be no freedom. I driv 'am fast till night and it take 'bout two days. But dey come back home, but massa say if he cotch any of 'em he gwine shoot 'em. Dey hang round de woods and dodge round and round till de freedom man come by. We went right on workin' after freedom. Old Buck Adams wouldn't let us go. It was way after freedom dat de freedom man come and read de paper, and tell us not to work no more 'less us git pay for it. When he gone, old Mary Adams , she come out. I 'lect what she say as if I jes' hear her say it. She say. 'Ten years from today I'll have you all back 'gain.' Dat ten years been over a mighty long time and she ain't git us back yit and she dead and gone. Dey makes us git right off de place, jes' like you take a old hoss and turn it loose. Dat how us was. No money, no nothin'. I git a job workin' for a white man on he farm, but he couldn't pay much. He didn't have nothin'. He give me jes' 'nough to git a peck or two of meal and a li'l syrup. I allus works in de fields and makes baskets, big old cotton baskets and bow baskets make out of white oak. I work down de oak to make de splits and make de bow basket to tote de lunch. Den I make trays and mix bowls. I go out and cut down de big poplar and bust off de big block and sit down 'straddle, and holler it out big as I wants it, and make de bread tray. I make collars for hosses and ox whops and quirts out of beef hide. But I looses my eyesight a couple years back and I can't do nothin' no more. My gal takes care of me. I come here in 1931. Dat de first time I'm out of Franklin Parish. I allus git along some way till I'm blind. My gal am good to me, but de days am passin' and soon I'll be gone, too."

William Mathews was born a slave on the Adams ' Plantation in Franklin Parish, Louisiana, on December 25, 1848. He was "waiting boy" or driver of the family's carriage until freed by the Civil War. After the War he worked as a field hand and supported himself by making and selling baskets. Since 1931 he has been living with his daughter, Sarah Colburn , at 812 1/2 - 41st St. Course I can rec'lect 'bout slavery. I is old an' my eye sight is gone, but I can still rec'lec'. 'Course dat been a long time 'go, but I ain' never forget it. People now don' believe you when you tell 'em how bad dey use to treat us in slavery times. My marster, old Buck Adams , could out-mean de devil hisself. I say to my daughter dat it was all Buck Adams meanness dat I seen dat make me lose my eye sight. He was shore hard, hard an' sneaky as slippery ellum. Old Mary Adams , Buck's wife, was 'most as hard as he was. Sometime I use to wonder how dere chillun ever stood 'em. Dey had three boys, Bill , John an' Sam , an' three girls. De girls was all married off an' I don' know much 'bout dem. Old Buck Adams brought my mother an' father from South Car'lina to work in de fields. My father's name was Economy Mathews an' my mother's front name was Phoebe . Simmons was her name 'fore she got married. I was born on old Buck's place on December 25, 1848, my mother say. Dis plan'ation, old Buck's place, was in Franklin Parish somewhere 'round Monroe in Louisiana. Me an' Bill Adams was raise together. I use to follow him 'bout when he wen' hunting an' tote what he kill. 'Course I didn' have no gun--jes' him. When he shoot a deer I use to run home like greased lightnin' an' git a horse. Den him an' me'd sling de deer 'cross de horse's back an' tote it home. If we was close'n home when he shoot, I use to cut a long pole an' tie de deer's feet together an' sling him 'cross de pole an' me'n Bill use to totehim home on our shoulder. Some time he use to shoot a big hog an' I use to skin him an' leave de meat what we don' wan' dere to rot. When I got big 'nough I use to drive dere buggy. I was what dey call de 'waiting boy'. I set in de buggy an' wait 'til dey come out of where dey was, an' den I driv 'em off. I wasn' 'lowed to git out an' visit 'round wit' de other slaves. No, sir. I had to set dere an' wait. Dey shore work de slaves bad. Made 'em git out in de fields 'fore de sun come up an' work out dere 'til black dark. Den dey come home an' have to feel dere way in de house 'cause it was so dark dey couldn' see de door.

My mother an' father use to work in de fields. Dey work 'em hard, but it ain' hurt 'em none, 'cause Pa was somewhere 'round a hundred an' fifty when he die. He was a hundred an' ten when we wen' to see him when my daughter here was little an' he was right pert den. He live 'til she was a right big girl. My grandma, Grandma Simmons , was de cook. She had to git in de cook pot 'bout four 'clock 'cause dey had dere breakfast 'bout daylight. Dey et by candles it was so dark. If dey was kind of low on candles, dey et by pine torches. Dey use to split a piece of fat pine an' make a light out of dat. One of de black boys use to stand behind 'em an' hold it while dey et. If dey put it down, it might set de place on fire, so de black boy hold it for 'em. Dey use to make de tallow candles theirself, too. When dey kill a beef dey use to take de tallow, melt it down an' fix it how dey wan' it, put a piece of rag in it an' dere was a candle. Dey stunk kind of bad an' de old Mis' never like 'em much. She use to buy candles in Monroe lots. Everything was dif'run in slavery dan what it is now. De clothes we wear den was made out of 'dyed lows'. Dat's de stuff dey make sacking out of. Dey dyed 'em brown an' black an' dark green an' made pants an' jumpers out of 'em. Summer time you go barefoot. Winter time dey give you shoes wit' heels on 'em as big as biscuits. De quarters was back of de big white house dat de white folks live in in de middle of some pine trees. De cabins didn' have no floors in 'em. Dey set plumb on de ground. Dey was build like you build a hog pen. Dey cut down de timber an' stake it up at de corners an' fill it in wit' timber wit' de bark still on it. Dere was split log houses, an' round log houses, an' all sech like dat. Dey only had 'bout fifty slaves on de place. It was big, big 'nough for a hundred more, but what dey do? Dey take de good slaves an' sell 'em, dat's what dey do. Den dey make de ones dat was lef' do de work. Dey never bought nobody dat I can rec'lect. Sell, sell all de time an' never buy nobody. Dat was dem. Every Sat'day evening we wen' to de 'pitcher poke'. Dat's what dey call it when dey issue de rations. You go to de smoke house an' dey weigh out some big thick rounds of white pork meat an' give it to you. De syrup was weighed out. Meal was weighed out. Sometime dey give us a little flour. Dey never give us no sugar or coffee. You wan' coffee you put a skillet on de fire an' put de meal in it an' parch it 'til it's black an' put water in it. My mother put a little flour, salt an' water all mix up on de fire an' half cook it an' dat makes de salt water bread we got to eat.

Sometime dey git up in de morning an' put de bread on de fire to cook it an' de overseer come to de door an' call 'em an' dey snatch de bread out of de fire an' a piece of de boiled sow belly an' wrap it up in de bread an' stick it in dere bosom an' snatch a bite now an' den when de overseer ain' looking. Sometime, dey make de slaves go to church on Sunday. Den de day 'fore, Sat'day, dat was, dey made de women wash de clothes so dey'd be clean when dey wore 'em to church. De white folks set up fine in dere buggy an' driv up to de door an' git de slaves out of one cabin, den dey driv up to de next door an git de ones in dat cabin an' dey kep' dat up 'til dey got 'em all. Den dey all walk in front of de buggy 'til dey come to de church. When dey git dere, de slaves set outside under de shade trees while de white folks goes inside. If de preacher talk real loud you can hear him out de window, an' you better not make a noise neither. Den going back dey git behind you in dere buggy an' drive you right back home. Dey drive by dis cabin an' de ones dat belongs dere goes in dere, dey drive by dat cabin an' dey goes in dere. Dey drive by all de cabins 'til dey is all gone in, an' dey goes back to de big house. Sundays you didn' go to church you set in de house. Dey catch you out, you was paid for it. Dey didn' 'low nobody else on de place, an' dey didn' 'low you to go nowhere. If a colored man took a notion he wan' to be a preacher, he couldn't preach 'bout de Gospel an' God. Dey didn' 'low him to. All he could preach 'bout was obey. Obey de marster, obey de overseer, obey dis, an' obey dat. Dey didn' make no passel of fuss 'bout praying den. Sometimes dey sneak off an' meet in one of de other cabins at night. Den each one bring a pot an' dey put dere head in de pot to keep de echoes from getting back an' somebody hearing dem. Den dey pray in de pot. Dat's de God's truth. I wen' wit' 'em one time to git some salt. Dey go 'cross de Red River, over to Winfield in Texas, over dere to de salt works where dey make de salt. Lordy me, but dose pots where dey cook de salt was big 'nough to boil all of us in 'em at one time. We stay dere long 'nough to git de salt an den we tote it back to de plantation. I can tell you a lot of things dey make medicine out of, but I don' know what dey use de medicine for. De women make de medicine an' issue it out, but I use to git my Ma de stuff to make it wit'. I know dey use to git de bark off de sassafras tree an' use dat for de fever. I rec'lec' dat. Den dey got de hollywood. Dat's de stuff dey dec'rate de house wit' for Christmas. I don' know what dey use dat for. Den snakeroot was 'sposed to be good for somethin'. Dat's a little bush dat grow right straight up. De root had long sprangles on it dat look like a snake. Seems like dey use de dogwood berries for somethin', too. An' hammel leaves. I know what dey use dat for. Dey make a bath out of 'em for de people who got de fever. Dey put some water in a pan wit' some of de leaves an' bath 'em in dat. Le's see now if I rec'lec' any more. Dere was slippery ellum bark. De skin of de ellum was rough outside, but de bark inside was nice and smooth. Dey use to make something out of dat too. I know dey put it in water, 'cause it was like okra when it got wet, all slimy-like. De women know more 'bout de medicine dan I do. Like I done said, de marster sol' de good slaves in Monroe. I ain' never been sol', an' I ain' seen none of 'em sol', but I know how dey done it. Dey stand 'em on blocks an' bid 'em off. Some other man git 'em. Mothers was taken 'way from dere chillun, husbands was taken 'way from dere wives, wives was taken 'way from dere husband. You know what happen?

After de war when dey was all free, dey marry who dey want to an' sometime a long time after dat dey find out dat brothers had married dere siters, an' mothers had married dere sons, an' things like dat. How I know? I hear 'em talk 'bout it. Course I don' know anybody who done it, but on places like ours where dere wasn' no marriages, how you going to know who is your brother an' who ain'? Nobody marry in dem days. A girl go out an' take a notion for somebody an' dey make a 'greement an' take a house together if it's 'greeable to de white folks an' dat was all. If I see somebody I wan' I make a 'greement wit' 'er an' I go to her house an' if she 'low me to come in, I's her husband. Course if a unhealthy nigger take up wit' a healthy, stout woman, de white folks sep'rate 'em. Dey matched 'em up like dey wan' 'em. If a man was big, stout, man, good breed, dey give him four, five women. Dat's de God's truth. Sometime some of de slaves run 'way dere jes' like dey do every place else. It ain' done 'em no good 'cause dey put de dogs on dere trail. It ain' no use talking, de dogs go to you. An' if you clumb up a tree, dey hol' you up dere 'til de white folks come an' dey make you come down an' let de dogs git you. When dey take 'em home sometimes dey was naked 'cause de dogs tore all de rags off from dere back. Dey ain' got nary a rag on time dey git home. If dey run in a stream of water de dogs git out dere after 'em an' drown 'em an' 'come on back an' go on home. I hear 'em tell 'bout lots dat got kill dat way. I rec'lec' one or two who run 'way an' didn' come back an' nobody know nothing 'bout 'em, an' dey say de dogs kill 'em in de water. When dey took 'em home after dey run 'way old Nick, dat's what dey call de overseer, use to whup 'em. Dey use to drive down four stakes, one for each foot an' one for dere hands, an' stretch dere hands an' feets out an' tie 'em to de stake. Jes' stretch 'em out on de ground wit'out a rag on an' whup 'em from head to feet. Dey use to take a hide an' cut it up into little pieces. Den dey cut one end wide an' de other end narrow an' punch holes in it. Den when dey hit 'em de skin draw up in de holes an' make blisters on dere back.

I use to drive old Mary , Buck's wife, 'round to see her daughter, an' de daughter's husband come running out de door wit' a long bull whup. De overseer call 'im 'cause some of de slaves don' do like he wan' 'em to. He turn 'round an' whup 'em wit' de whup right in front of me. Den he turn 'round to me an' say, 'I got a good mind to whup you, too', an' if I'd said a word he would've done it, but I ain' open my mouth. Everybody know 'bout de war. All kind of war talk was floating 'round 'fore de Yankees come. Some say de North was going to fight for freedom an' some say de Yankees going to kill all de slaves. 'Tween dis an' dat you don' know what to do. Seems like it must've been in de middle of de war dat de Yankees come by. We hear of 'em coming, but we don' know when dey was going to come or if dey was going to come by our place. Time we did learn de harm was done. We hear somebody holler for us to come out one night an' we look out an' seen de place was on fire. Time we got out dere de Yankees was gone. I never seen none of 'em dat time, but some of de white folks did. Dat's how dey know it was de Yankees what done it. We wen' out an' fit de fire, but we had to tote de water in buckets an' de fire burn up de gin house full of cotton an' de cotton house dat was full of cotton, too, an' de corn crib 'fore it wen' out. De Yankees always come through at night an' done what dey was going to do at night, an' den wait for de night 'gain to go on 'bout dere business. One time de Yankees come marching through by our place in de day light. Dey had on dere blue uniforms, dat's how we know dey was Yankees. Dere was droves of 'em. Dey 'jes kep' goin' right out past wit'out stopping. Some of de slaves run 'way an' join 'em an' dey make soldiers out of 'em. De talk 'bout freedom got so bad on de plantation dat de marster made me put de men in a big wagon an' drive 'em to Winfield. He said dat in Texas dere wouldn't never be no freedom, and dat freedom was all talk anyhow. I had to drive 'em fast an' we driv 'til it was too dark to see at night an' in de morning we was on our way 'fore de sun got up. It didn't take us long to git dere, only 'bout a couple days. Well, 'bout time I drive de wagon back home de freedom news got so strong in Texas dat de men up an' come home. Dey wouldn't 'low dem 'bout de place. De marster said if he catched any of 'em hanging 'round dere he was going to shoot 'em. Dey wen' in de woods an' dodge 'round an''round de place 'til de freedom man come by. We wen' right on workin' after freedom. Old Buck Admas wouldn't let us go 'til dey have a man select to go out through de country an' tell de slaves dat dey was free now. Dat was 'way after de war was over. De freedom man come to our place an' read a paper what de pres'dent had writ what said we was now an' talk to us 'bout freedom an' tol' us not to work no more 'less we got paid for it. When he had finish an' gone, de woman, old Buck Adams ' wife, old Mary Adams , come out an' spoke to us. I rec'lec' what she say jes' as well as if I jes' hear her say it. She say, 'Ten years from today I'll have you all back 'gain.' Yes, sir. 'Ten years from today I'll have you all back 'gain.' Dat ten years been over a mighty long time an' she ain' got us back yet an' she is dead an' gone. Dey ain' had no time for no celebration for dey make us git right off de place. Jes' like you take an old horse an' turn it loose. You see a lot of cattle in de field eating de grass wit' a fence 'round dem, den somebody open de gate an' say, 'Git!'. Dat's how we was. No money, no nothin'. Jes' turn loose wit'out nothin'. I got a job working in de fields for a white man who had a farm next to de Adams '. He couldn't pay me much 'cause he ain' got much hisself. I can't rec'lec' what he pay me now, jes' 'nough to buy a peck or two of meal an' a little syrup. I heared 'bout de Klu Kluxes in other places after de war, but I ain' seen none of 'em. We never had none where I was at. I 'ways work in de fields an' make baskets, big old cotton baskets what dey pick de cotton in, an' bow baskets made out of white oak. I work down de white oak to make de oak splits an' make a bow basket to tote in de hands wit' de lunch in it, or anything you wan' to put in it. Den I make trays, dey call 'em 'mix bowls' here 'bouts, to make de bread in. I go out an' cut down a big poplar tree an' bust off a big block an' sit down astraddle of it an' holler it out big as I wan' it, an' make a tray to make de bread in. I make collars for de horses an' ox whups an' quirts out of beef hide too. But I lost my eye sight a couple years back an' I can't do nothin' no more. My daughter take care of me. I ain' never been no where else but Franklin Parish 'til I come here in '31. I ain' knowed any prom'nent colored people first hand, but course I hear 'bout some of 'em in other places. Look at 'em. Dey take nothin' an' make something out it. What dey do if dey git educated? Maybe de young folks what git educated now help de black people rise up. Dey say in de North dat de black people is treated jes' de same as de white people, but 'course I don' believe dat. I is too old to ever see de day dat dat happen.