“No, ma’am, there never was any fighting right around us.  I never really saw any fighting.  Old man Dave Robinson was good to me.  He didn’t have a big farm—­just owned me.  Treated me almost like I was one of his own children.  Course, I had to work.  Sometimes he whipped me—­but no more than he had to.  I was just a child and any child has got to be made to mind.  He was good to me, and old Miss was good to me.  All my masters was pretty good to me—­lots better than the usual run.  Which one I like the best.  Well, you might know.  I kept the name Robinson, and I named my son Dave.  You might know which one I think the most of.

“One day I was out milking the cows.  Mr. Dave come down into the field, and he had a paper in his hand.  ‘Listen to me, Tom,’ he said, ’listen to what I reads you.’  And he read from a paper all about how I was free.  You can’t tell how I felt.  ‘You’re jokin’ me.’  I says.  ‘No, I ain’t,’ says he.  ‘You’re free.’  ‘No,’ says I, ‘it’s a joke.’  ‘No,’ says he, ’it’s a law that I got to read this paper to you.  Now listen while I read it again.’

“But still I wouldn’t believe him.  ‘Just go up to the house,’ says he, ‘and ask Mrs. Robinson.  She’ll tell you.’ so I went.  ‘It’s a joke,’ I says to her.  ‘Did you ever know your master to tell you a lie?’ she says.  ‘No,’ says I, ‘I ain’t.’  ‘Well,’ she says, ’the war’s over and you’re free.’

“By that time I thought maybe she was telling me what was right.  ’Miss Robinson,’ says I, ’can I go over to see the Smiths?’—­they was a colored family that lived nearby.  ‘Don’t you understand,’ says she, ’you’re free.  You don’t have to ask me what you can do.  Run along child.’

“And so I went.  And do you know why I was a’going?  I wanted to find out if they was free too.” (a chuckle and toothy smile) “I just couldn’t take it all in.  I couldn’t believe we was all free alike.

“Was I happy?  Law Miss.  You can take anything.  No matter how good you treat it—­it wants to be free.  You can treat it good and feed it good and give it everything it seems to want—­but if you open the cage—­it’s happy.

“What did I do after the war was over?  I farmed.  I farmed all my life, ’til I got too old.  I stopped three—­four years ago.  I lives with my son—­Dave Robinson—­the one I named for my master.

“How did I farm?  Did I share crop?  No, ma’am!” (Sharply as tho repramanding the inquirer for an undeserved insult.) “I didn’t share crop, except just at first to get a start.  I rented.  I paid thirds and fourths.  I always rented.  I wasn’t a share-cropper.[A]

[A:  Socially and economically sharp distinctions are drawn between the different classes of renters, both by owners and tenants themselves.  Families whom ambition and circumstances have allowed to accumulate enough surplus to buy farm implements and have food for a year ahead look with scorn on fellow farmers who thru inertia or bad luck must be furnished food and the wherewithall to farm.  In turn, families that have forged ahead sufficiently to be able to pay cash rent on farms they cultivate look down On both of the other groups.]