plantation to bother his slaves.  I have known pregnant women to go ten miles to help do some devilment.  My mother was a very strong woman (as I told you she helped build a railroad), and felt that she could whip any ordinary man, would not get a passport unless she felt like it; once when caught on another plantation without a passport, she had all of us with her, made all of the children run, but wouldn’t run herself—­somehow she went upstream, one of the men’s horse’s legs was broken and she told him “come and get me” but she knew the master allowed no one to come on his place to punish his slaves.

“My father was a blacksmith and made the chains used for stocks, (like handcuffs), used on legs and hands.  The slaves were forced to lay flat on their backs and were chained down to the board made for that purpose; they were left there for hours, sometimes through rain and cold; he might ‘holler’ and groan but that did not always get him released.

“The Race became badly mixed then; some Negro women were forced into association, some were beaten almost to death because they refused.  The Negro men dare not bother or even speak to some of their women.

“In one instance an owner of a plantation threatened a Negro rider’s sweetheart; she told him and he went crying to this owner who in turned threatened him and probably did hit the woman; straight to his master this sweetheart went and when he finished his story, his master immediately took his team and drove to the other plantation—­drove so fast that one of his horses’ dropped dead; when the owner came out he levelled his double-barrel shotgun at him and shot him dead.  No, suh; some masters did not allow you to bother their slaves.

“A peculiar case was that of Old Jim who lived on another plantation was left to look out for the fires and do other chores around the house while ‘marster’ was at war.  A bad rumor spread, and do you know those mean devils, overseers of nearby plantations came out and got her dug a deep hole, and despite her cries, buried her up to her neck—­nothing was left out but her head and hair.  A crowd of young ‘nigger boys’ saw it all and I was one among the crowd that helped dig her out.

“Oh, there’s a lots more I know but just cant get it together.  My mother’s name was Caroline and my father Patrick; all took the name of Davis from our master.  There were thirteen children—­I am the only one alive.”

Mr. Davis appears well preserved for his age; he has most of his teeth and is slightly gray; his health seems to be good, although he is a cripple and uses a cane for walking always; this condition he believes is the result of an attack of rheumatism.

He is a preacher and has pastored in Alabama, Texas and Florida.  He has had several years of training in public schools and under ministers.

He has lived in Jacksonville since 1918 coming here from Waycross, Georgia.

He was married for the first and only time during his 62 years of life to Mrs. Lizzie P. Brown, November 19, 1935.  There are no children.  He gives no reason for remaining single, but his reason for marrying was “to give some lady the privilege and see how it feels to be called husband.”