There is no dialect in the world that has the original characteristics so pleasing to the ear as the negro.  There is a softness and music in the voice of a negro not to be found in any other race on earth.  No one can sing a child to sleep so soothingly as a negro nurse.  After I left Texas and went to Medicine Lodge, Kansas, when I had a headache or was otherwise sick, I would wish for the attendance around my bed of one of the old-fashioned colored women, who would rub me with their rough plump hands and call me “Honey Chile,” would bathe my feet and tuck the cover around me and sit by me, holding my hand, waiting until I fell asleep.  I owe much to the colored people and never want to live where there are none of the negro race.  I would feel lonesome without them.  After I came to Medicine Lodge, I did not see any for some time.  One day, while looking out, I saw one walking up the street toward the house.  I ran to the kitchen, cut an apple pie, and ran out and said:  “Here, Uncle, is a piece of pie.”  He was gray-headed, one of the old slaves.  He seemed so glad to see my friendly face and took the pie with a happy courtesy.  I watched for his return, as he came in on the train, and was going out.  At last he came.  I asked him in the kitchen, fixed a meal for him, and waited on him myself.  Before eating, he folded his hands, closed his eyes, with his face toward heaven, thanked God for the meal, as I had often seen them do in slave time.  As a race, the negroes have not the characteristics of treachery.  They are faithful and grateful.

In my hotel experience, I would often ask Fannie, my cook:  “What kind of a man is that?” Fannie would say:  “Don’t trust him too far Mrs. Nation, he steps too light.”  When a child my playmates were a lot of colored children.  Betsy came to the table with the children and ate with us.  But the sweetest food was that left in the skillets, both black and white children would go around the house, sit down and “sop” the gravy with the biscuits the cooks would give us.  I was fond of hearing ghost stories and would, without the knowledge of my mother, stay in the cabin late at night listening to the men and women telling their “experiences.”  The men would be making ax handles and beating the husk off of the corn in a large wooden hopper with a maul.  The women would be spinning with the little wheel, sewing, knitting and combing their children’s heads.  I would listen until my teeth would chatter with fright, and would shiver more and more, as they would tell of the sights in grave-yards, and the spirits of tyrannical masters, walking at night, with their chains clanking and the, sights of hell, where some would be on gridirons, some hung up to baste and the devil with his pitchfork would toss the poor creatures hither and thither.  They would say:  “Carry, you must go to the house,” and I would not go with one, but have two, one on each side of me.  I remember seeing the negro men laugh at me, but the women would shake