“You couldn’t ever have a chance if Cook got to be governor.  I believe Carl Bailey’s goin’ to be a good governor.  I believe he’ll do better.  They put Miz Carraway back; I believe she’ll do good too.”

Extra Comment

State—­Arkansas

Name of worker—­Samuel S. Taylor

Address—­Little Rock, Arkansas

Date—­December, 1938

Subject—­Ex-slave

Name and address of informant—­Jeff Bailey, 713 W. Ninth Street, Little
Rock.

Jeff Bailey talked like a man of ninety instead of a man of seventy-six or seven.  It was hard to get him to stick to any kind of a story.  He had two or three things on his mind and he repeated those things over and over again—­Governor Bailey, Hostler, Post Office.  He had to be pried loose from them.  And he always returned the next sentence.

Interviewer:  Mary D. Hudgins. 
Person Interviewed:  James Baker Aged:  81
Home:  With daughter who owns home at 941 Wade St.

The outskirts of eastern Hot Springs resemble a vast checkerboard—­patterned in Black and White.  Within two blocks of a house made of log-faced siding—­painted a spotless white and provided with blue shutters will be a shack which appears to have been made from the discard of a dozen generations of houses.

Some of the yards are thick with rusting cans, old tires and miscelaneous rubbish.  Some of them are so gutted by gully wash that any attempt at beautification would be worse than useless.  Some are swept—­farm fashion—­free from surface dust and twigs.  Some attempt—­others achieve grass and flowers.  Vegetable gardens are far less frequent then they should be, considering space left bare.

The interviewer frankly lost her way several times.  One improper direction took her fully half a mile beyond her destination.  From a hilltop she could look down on less elevated hills and into narrow valleys.  The impression was that of a cheaply painted back-drop designed for a “stock” presentation of “Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch.”

Moving along streets, alleys and paths backward “toward town” the interviewer reached another hill.  Almost a quarter of a mile away she spied an old colored man sunning himself on the front porch of a well kept cottage.  Somthing about his white hair and erectly-slumped bearing screamed “Ex-slave” even at that distance.  A negro youth was passing.

“I beg your pardon, can you tell me where to find Wade Street and James Baker?” “Ya—­ya—­ya—­s ma’am.  Dat—­dat—­dat’s de house over da—­da—­da—­da—­r.  He—­he—­he lives at his daughter’s” “Could that be he on the porch?” “Ya—­ya—­yas ma’am.  Dat—­dat—­dat’s right.”

“Yes, ma’am I’m James Baker.  Yes ma’am I remembers about the war.  You want to talk to me about it.  Let me get you a chair.  You’d rather sit right there on the step?  All right ma’am.