“My father was always a farmer.  He farmed till he died.  They were supposed to give him a pension, but he never did get it.  They wrote to us once or twice and asked for his number and things like that, but they never did do nothing.  You see he fit in the Civil War.  Wait a minute.  We had his old gun for years.  My oldest brother had that gun.  He kept that gun and them old blue uniforms with big brass buttons.  My old master had a horn he blowed to call the slaves with, and my brother had that too.  He kept them things as particular as you would keep victuals.

“Yes, my father fit in the Civil War.  I have seen his war clothes as many times as you have hairs on your head I reckon.  He had his old sword and all.  They had a hard battle down in Mississippi once he told me.  Our house got burnt up and we lost his honorable discharge.  But he was legally discharged.  But he didn’t git nothin’ for it, and we didn’t neither.

“My father was whipped by the pateroles several times.  They run him and whipped him.  My daddy slipped out many a time.  But they never caught him when he slipped out.  They never whipped him for slippin’ out.  That was during the time he was a slave.  The slaves wasn’t allowed to go from one master to another without a pass.  My father said that sometimes, his young master would play a joke on him.  My father couldn’t read.  His young master would give him a pass and the pass would say, ’Whip Arthur Boone’s —–­ and pass him out.  When he comes back, whip his —–­ again and pass him back.’  His young master called hisself playin’ a joke on him.  They wouldn’t hit him more than half a dozen licks, but they would make him take his pants down and they would give them to him jus’ where the pass said.  They wouldn’t hurt him much.  It was more devilment than anything else.  He would say, ‘Whut you hittin’ me for when I got a pass?’ and they would say, ’Yes, you got a pass, but it says whip your —–.’  And they would show it to him, and then they would say, ’You’ll git the res’ when you come back.’  My father couldn’t read nothin’ else, but that’s one word he learnt to read right well.

“My father was quite a young man in his day.  He died in 1891.  He was just fifty-six years old.  I’m older now than he was when he died.  My occupation when I was well was janitor.  I have been sick now for three years and ain’t done nothin’ in all that time.  If it wasn’t for my wife, I don’t know whut I would do.

“I was born in 1872, on December the eighth, and I am sixty-six years old now.  That is, I will be if the Lord lets me live till December the eighth, this year.

“Now whose story are you saying this is?  You say this is the story of Arthur Boone, father of J.F.  Boone?  Well, that’s all right; but you better mention that J.F.  Boone is Arthur Boone’s son.  I rent this house from Mr. Lindeman.  He has the drug store right there.  If anybody comes lookin’ for me, I might be moved, but Mr. Lindeman will still be there.”