“Dat you, Mammy” she say, sweet as pie, when gran’mammy knock on de do’.

“Dont you nevah call me ‘Mammy’ no mo’,” gran’mammy tol’ ’er.  “Any woman what’d leave a po’ li’l mite lak dat to perish to death ain’t fitten t’ be no dotter o’ mine.”

So gran’mammy tuk me to raise, an’ I ain’t nevah wanted no mammy but her.  Nevah knowed who my daddy was, an’ I reckon my mammy didn’t know, neithah.  I bawn at Richard, Vahjinny.  My sistah an’ brothah be’n dead too many years to count; I de las’ o’ de fam’ly.

I kin remember ’fore de fust war start.  I had three chillen, boys, taller’n me when freedom come.  Mah fust mastah didn’t make de li’l chillen wuk none.  All I done was play.  W’en I be ol’ enough t’ wuk, dey tuk us to Pelman, Jawjah.  I never wukked in de fiel’s none, not den.  Dey allus le me nuss de chillens.

Den I got married.  Hit wa’nt no church weddin’; we got married in gran’mammy’s kitchen, den we go to our own log house.  By an’ by mah mahster sol’ me an’ mah baby to de man what had de plantation nex’ to ours.  His name was John Lee.  He was good to me, an’ let me see my chillens.

I nevah got no beatin’s.  Onliest thing I evah got was a li’l slap on de han’, lak dat.  Didn’t hurt none.  But I’se seen cullud men on de Bradley plantation git tur’ble beatin’s.  De whippin’ boss was Joe Sylvester, a white man.  He had pets mongst de wimmen folks, an’ used t’ let ’em off easy, w’en dey desarved a good beatin’.  Sometimes ‘e jes’ bop ’em crost de ear wid a battlin’ stick, or kick ’em in de beehind.

You don’t know what’s a battlin’ stick?  Well, dis here be one.  You use it fer washin’ close.  You lif’s de close outa de wash pot wid dis here battlin’ stick; den you tote ’em to de battlin’ block—­dis here stump.  Den you beat de dirt out wid de battlin’ stick.

De whippin’ boss got pets ’mongst de mens, too, but dey got it a li’l wusser’n de wimmens.  Effen dey wan’t too mean, he jes’ strap ’em ‘crost de sharp side of a bar’l an’ give ’em a few right smaht licks wid a bull whip.

But dey be some niggahs he whip good an’ hard.  If dey sass back, er try t’ run away, he mek ’em cross dey han’s lak dis; den he pull ’em up, so dey toes jes’ tetch de ground’; den he smack ’em crost de back an’ rump wid a big wood paddle, fixed full o’ holes.  Know what dem holes be for?  Ev’y hole mek a blister.  Den he mek ’em lay down on de groun’, whilst he bus’ all dem blisters wid a rawhide whip.

I nevah heard o’ nobody dyin’ f’m gittin’ a beatin’.  Some couldn’t wuk fer a day or so.  Sometimes de whippin’ boss th’ow salt brine on dey backs, or smear on turpentine, to mek it well quicker.

I don’t know, ’zackly, how old I is.  Mebbe—­wait a minute, I didn’t show you my pitcher what was in de paper.  I cain’t read, but somebody say dey put down how old I is undah mah pitcher.  Dar hit—­don’t dat say a hunndrt an’ nine?  I reckon dat be right, seein’ I had three growed-up boys when freedom come.