“I never went to no church, but on Sund’ys a white man would preach an’ pray wid us an’ when he’d git through us went on ’bout us own business.

“At Chris’mus de Marster give de slaves a heap o’ fresh meat an’ whiskey for treats.  But you better not git drunk.  No-sir-ree!  Den on Chris’mus Eve dey was a big dance an’ de white folks would come an’ see de one what dance de bes’.  Marster an’ Mistis laugh fit to kill at de capers us cut.  Den sometimes dey had big weddin’s an’ de young white ladies dressed de brides up lak dey was white.  Sometimes dey sont to N’awleans for a big cake.  De preacher married’ em wid de same testimony[FN:  ceremony] dey use now.  Den ever’body’d have a little drink an’ some cake.  It sho’ was larrupin’[FN:  very good][HW:?].  Den ever’body’d git right.  Us could dance near ’bout all night.  De old-time fiddlers played fas’ music an’ us all clapped han’s an’ tromped an’ sway’d in time to de music.  Us sho’ made de rafters ring.

“Us slaves didn’ pay no ’tention to who owned us, leastways de young ones didn’.  I was raised by a marster what owned a heap o’ lan’s.  Lemme see, dey is called Artonish, Lockdale, an’ Lockleaven.  Dey is plantations ’long de river in Wilkinson County, where I was raised.  Dey is all ’long together.

“I’s sho’ my firs’ marster was Marse Jim Stamps an’ his wife was Miss Lucindy.  She was nice an’ sof’-goin’.  Us was glad when she stayed on de plantation.

“Nex’ thing I knowed us all b’longed to Marse Withers.  He was from de nawth an’ he didn’ have no wife. (Marsters wid-out wives was de debbil.  I knows a-plenty what I oughtn’ tell to ladies.  Twant de marsters whut was so mean.  Twas dem po’ white trash overseers an’ agents.  Dey was mean; dey was meaner dan bulldogs.  Yes’m, wives made a big diffe’nce.  Dey was kin’ an’ went ‘bout mongst de slaves a-lookin’ after ’em.  Dey give out food an’ clo’es an’ shoes.  Dey doctered de little babies.) When things went wrong de wimmins was all de time puttin’ me up to tellin’ de Mistis.  Marse D.D.  Withers was my young marster.  He was a little man, but ever’body stepped when he come ‘roun’.

“Don’ rightly know how it come ‘bout.  Lemme see!  De bes’ I ’member my nex’ Marster was Pres’dent Jefferson Davis hisse’f.  Only he warnt no pres’dent den.  He was jus’ a tall quiet gent’man wid a pretty young wife what he married in Natchez.  Her name was Miss Varina Howell, an’ he sho’ let her have her way.  I spec I’s de only one livin’ whose eyes ever seed ’em bofe.  I talked wid her when dey come in de big steamboat.  ’Fore us got to de big house, I tol’ her all ’bout de goins’-on on de plantations.  She was a fine lady.  When I was a boy ’bout thirteen years old dey took me up de country toward Vicksburg to a place call Briarsfield.  It mus’-a been named for her old home in Natchez what was called ‘de Briars.’  I didn’ b’long to Marse Jeff no great while, but I aint never fo’git de look of ‘im.  He was always calm lak an’ savin’ on his words.  His wife was jus’ de other way.  She talked more dan a-plenty.