“Yes,” he said, “I try to be good; but what’s the use?  They are all the time troubling me.”  Then he proceeded to relate his afternoon’s difficulty with young master Nicholas.  It seemed that the brother of master Nicholas had pleased himself with making up stories about William.  Master Nicholas said he should be flogged, and he would do it.  Whereupon he went to work; but William fought bravely, and the young master, finding he was getting the better of him, undertook to tie his hands behind him.  He failed in that likewise.  By dint of kicking and fisting, William came out of the skirmish none the worse for a few scratches.

He continued to discourse, on his young master’s meanness; how he whipped the little boys, but was a perfect coward when a tussle ensued between him and white boys of his own size.  On such occasions he always took to his legs.  William had other charges to make against him.  One was his rubbing up pennies with quicksilver, and passing them off for quarters of a dollar on an old man who kept a fruit stall.  William was often sent to buy fruit, and he earnestly inquired of me what he ought to do under such circumstances.  I told him it was certainly wrong to deceive the old man, and that it was his duty to tell him of the impositions practised by his young master.  I assured him the old man would not be slow to comprehend the whole, and there the matter would end.  William thought it might with the old man, but not with him.  He said he did not mind the smart of the whip, but he did not like the idea of being whipped.

While I advised him to be good and forgiving I was not unconscious of the beam in my own eye.  It was the very knowledge of my own shortcomings that urged me to retain, if possible, some sparks of my brother’s God-given nature.  I had not lived fourteen years in slavery for nothing.  I had felt, seen, and heard enough, to read the characters, and question the motives, of those around me.  The war of my life had begun; and though one of God’s most powerless creatures, I resolved never to be conquered.  Alas, for me!

If there was one pure, sunny spot for me, I believed it to be in Benjamin’s heart, and in another’s, whom I loved with all the ardor of a girl’s first love.  My owner knew of it, and sought in every way to render me miserable.  He did not resort to corporal punishment, but to all the petty, tyrannical ways that human ingenuity could devise.

I remember the first time I was punished.  It was in the month of February.  My grandmother had taken my old shoes, and replaced them with a new pair.  I needed them; for several inches of snow had fallen, and it still continued to fall.  When I walked through Mrs. Flint’s room, their creaking grated harshly on her refined nerves.  She called me to her, and asked what I had about me that made such a horrid noise.  I told her it was my new shoes.  “Take them off,” said she; “and if you put them on again, I’ll throw them into the fire.”