“I was born de seventeenth of September, 1873 right here in Russellville.  Daddy’s name was Dick, and mudder’s was Ann Potter.  Daddy died before I was born, and I never seed him.  Mudder’s been dead about eighteen years.  Dey master was named Hale, and he lived up around Dover somewheres on his farm, but I dunno how dey come by de name Potter.  Well, now, lemme see—­oh, yes, dey was freed at Dover after dey come dere from North Ca’liny.  I think my ma was born in West Virginia, and den dey went to North Ca’liny and den to South Ca’liny, and den come to Arkansas.

“I raised seven boys and lost five chillen.  Dere was three girls and nine boys.  All dat’s livin’ is here except one in Fresno, California.  My old woman here, she tells fortunes for de white folks and belongs to de Holiness church but I don’t belong to none; I let her look after de religion for de fambly.” (Interjection from Mrs. Potter:  “Yes suh, you bet I belongs to de Holiness chu’ch.  You got to walk in de light to be saved, and if you do walk in de light you can’t sin.  I been saved for a good many yeahs and am goin’ on in de faith.  Praise de Lawd!”)

“My mudder was sold once for a hundud dollahs and once ag’in for thirty-eight hundud dollahs.  Perhaps dis was jist before dey left West Virginia and was shipped to North Ca’liny.  De master put her upon a box, she said, made her jump up and pop her heels together three times and den turn around and pop her heels again to show how strong she was.  She sure was strong and a hard worker.  She could cut wood, tote logs, plow, hoe cotton, and do ever’thing on de place, and lived to be about ninety-five yeahs old.  Yas suh, she was as old or older dan Aunt Joan is when she died.

“No suh, I used to vote but I quit votin’, for votin’ never did git me nothin’; I quit two yeahs ago.  You see, my politics didn’t suit em.  Maybe I shouldn’t be tellin’ you but I was a Socialist, and I was runnin’ a mine and wo’kin’ fifteen men, and dey was all Socialists, and de Republicans and Democrats sure put me out of business—­dey put me to de bad.

“Dat was about twelve yeahs ago when I run de mine.  I been tryin’ to git me a pension but maybe dat’s one reason I can’t git it.  Oh yes, I owns my home—­dat is, I did own it, but——­

“Oh Lawd, yes, I knows a lot of dem old songs like ’Let Our Light Shine,’ and ‘De Good Old Gospel Way,’ and ‘Hark From de Tomb.’  Listen, you oughter hear Elder Beam sing dat one.  He’s de pastor of de Baptis’ Chu’ch at Fort Smith.  He can sure make it ring!

“De young folks of today compa’ed to dem when we was boys?  Huh!  You jist can’t compaih em—­can’t be done.  Why, a fo’-yeah-old young’un knows mo’ today dan our grandmammies knowed.  And in dem days de boys and gals could go out and play and swing togedder and behave deyselves.  We went in our shu’ttails and hit was all right; we had two shu’ts to weah—­one for every day and one for Sunday—­and went in our shu’ttails both every day and Sunday and was respected.  And if you didn’t behave you sure got whupped.  Dey didn’t put dey arms around you and hug you and den put you off to sleep.  Dey whupped you, and it was real whuppin’.