Two colored women, middle aged, sat basking in the mild January sunlight on a back porch.  “I beg your pardon,” said the interviewer, approaching the step, “is this the home of Peach Sinclair, and will I find Mrs. Lou Fergusson here?”

“It sure is,” the voice was cheerful.  “My mother is in the house.  Come around to the front,” (the interviewer couldn’t have reached the back steps, even if she had wanted to—­the back yard was fenced from the front) “she’s in the parlor.”

Mrs. Lou turned out to be an incredibly black, unbelievably plump-cheeked, wide smiling “motherly” person.  She seemed an Aunt Jemimah grown suddenly old, and even more mellow.  “Mamma, this young lady’s come to see you.  She wants to talk to you and ask you some questions, about when—­about before the war.” (The situation is always delicate when an ex-slave is asked for details.  Somehow both interviewer and interviewee avoid the ugly word whenever possible.  The skillful interviewer can generally manage to pass it by completely, as well as any variant of the word negro.  The informant is usually less squeamish.  “Black folks,” “colored folks”, “black people”, “Master’s people”, “us” are all encountered frequently.)

Five minutes of pleasant chatter preceeded the formal interview.  Both Mrs. Sinclair and her guest (unintroduced) sat in on the conference and made comments frequently.  “Law, child, we bought this place from your father.  He was a mighty fine man.”  Mrs. Sinclair was delighted to find her guest to be “Jack Hudgins daughter.”  And later in the chat, “You done lost everything?  Even your home—­that’s going?  Too bad.  But then I guess at that you’re better off than we are.  I’ve been trying for nearly a year to get my mother on the old age pension.  They say she has passed.  That was way along last March.  Here it is January and she hasn’t got a penny.  No, I know you can’t help.  Yes, I see what you’re doing.  But if ever you does get on the pensions work—­I’m going to ’hant’[A] you.” (a wide grin) [Footnote A:  “Hant” was an intentional barbarism.]

The old woman rocked and smiled.  “Yes, ma’am.  I’m her oldest, alive.  She had 17 and 15 of them lived to grow up.  But I’m about as old as she is, looks like.  She never did have glasses—­and today she can thread the finest needle.  She can make as pretty a quilt as you’d hope to see.  Makes fine stitches too.  Seems like they made them stronger in her day.”  A nod of delighted approval from Mrs. Fergusson.

“I was born in Hempstead County, right here in this state.  The town we were nearest was Columbus.  I lived around there all of my life until I come here to be with my daughter.  That was 15 years ago.  Yes, I was born on a farm.  From what I know, I’m over ninety.  I was around 20 when the war ceaseted.

The man what owned us was named Ed Johnson.  Yes, ma’am he had lots of folks.  Was he good to us?  Well, he was and he wasn’t.  He was good himself, wouldn’t never have whipped us—­but he had a mean wife.  She’d dog him, and dog him until he’d tie us down and whip us for the least little thing.  Then they put overseers over us.  They was most generally mean.  They’d run us out way fore day—­even in the sleet—­run us out to the field.