I run off.  I knew in general de way home.  When I come to de Brazos river it looked most a mile across.  But I jump in an’ I swim it.  One day I done found a pearl handled pocket knife.  A few days later I meet up wid a white boy.  An’ he say its his knife, an’ I say, ’White boy, I know dat ain’t your knife, an’ you know it ain’t.  But if you’ll write me out a free pass, I’ll give it to you.’  An’ so he wrote it.  After dat, I could walk right up to de front gates an ask for somthin’ to eat.  Cause I had a paper sayin’ I was Clara Jones an’ I was goin’ home to my ol’ mistress Mis’ Cornelius.  Please paterollers to leave me alone.  An’ folks along de way, dey’d take me in an’ feed me.  Dey’d give me a place to stay an fix me up a lunch to take along.  Dey’d say, “Clara, you’s a good nigger.  You’s a goin’ home to your ol’ miss, so we’s goin’ to do for you.”

An’ I got within five miles of home before dey catch me.  An’ my ol’ miss won’t let me go back.  She keep me an’ send another one in my place.  An’ de war kept on, an ol’ massa had to go.  An’ word come dat he been killed.

Yes, ’em, some folks run off, an’ some of ’em stayed.  Finally ol’ miss refugeed a lot of us to California.  What is it to refugee.  Well, you see, suppose you was afraid dat somebody go in’ to take your property an’ you run ’em away off somewhere—­how you come to know.

When de war was over, young miss she come in an she say, ’Clara, you’s as free as I am.’  ‘No, I ain’t.’ says I.  ‘Yes, you is,’ says she.  ’What you goin’ to do?’ ‘I’s goin’ to stay an’ work for you.’ says I.  ‘No’ says she, ‘you ain’t cause I can’t pay you.’  ‘Well,’ says I, ’I’ll go home to see my old mother.’  ‘Tell you what,’ says she, ’I ain’t got nuff money to send you, only part—­so you go down to whar’ dey is a’pannin’ gold.  You kin git a Job at $2.00 per day.’

Many’s a day I’ve stood in water up to my waist pannin’ gold.  In dem days dey worked women jest like men.  I worked hard, an’ young miss took care of me.  When I got ready to come home I bought my stage fare an’ I carried $300 on me back to my ol’ mother.

De trip took six weeks.  Everywhere de stage would stop young miss had writ a note to somebody and de stage coach men give it to ’em an dey took care of me—­good care.

When I got home to my mother I found dat ol’ miss had give all of ’em somthin’ along with settin ’em free.  My mother had 12 children so she git de mos’.  She git a horse, a milk cow, 8 killin’ hogs and 50 bushels of corn.  She moved off to a little house on ol’ miss’s plantation and make a crop on halvers.  She stay on dar for three—­four years.  Den she move off into another county where she could go to meetin without havin’ to cross de river.  An’ I stayed on wid her an help her farm—­I could plow as good as a man in dem days.