an, 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.

Dey be on'y one sto' here when I come to Tampa. Hit b'long t' ol' man
Mugge. Dey be a big cotton patch where Plant City is now. I picked some
cotton dere, den I come to Tampa, an' atter a while I got a job nussin'
Mister Perry Wall's chillen. Cullud folks jes' mek out de bes'