ant to be real strong. Frum de fust
drink she fell off. Place of walkin' off, she jes stumbled an' got
wo'ser an' wo'ser till she plum los' her min'. Fer a long time, dey had
to tie her to a tree. Den afte' de War, she lef Mr. Davenpo't's an' jes
traveled 'bout over de country. I stayed on wid Miss Margurite he'pin'
her jes lak I'd been doin'. One day mammy come afte' me an' I run an'
hid under a pile of quilts an' laked to smothered to death waitin' fer
her to go on off.

"Nex' time she come, she brung a written letter to Miss Margurite frum
de Free Man's Board an' taken me wid her. We jes went frum place to
place 'til I got mar'ied an' settled down fer myself. I had three
chullun, but ain't none livin' now."

Mississippi Federal Writers
Slave Autobiographies

[TOM WILSON
near New Zion Church, Mississippi]

[Illustration: Tom Wilson]

"My name is Tom Wilson an' I'se eighty fo' years old. My mammy was name
Ca'line an' my pappy was Jeff Wilson. Us lived right out on de old Jim
Wilson place, right by New Zion Chu'ch. I lives thar now--owns me a plot
of groun' an' farms.

"Well, us b'longed to Marse Jim an' Miss Nancy Wilson. I was born right
out thar, but my mammy was brung down frum Ten'see. She come by heir to
Marse Jim but 'fo that her was sol' for ten hun'erd dollars. My mammy
was a big sportly woman an' brung a lot er money an' my pappy, he brung
nine hun'erd. Marse Jim bought him offen de block, but I don't know jes
whar frum. I jes 'members 'bout hearin' him tell 'bout bein' sol'.

"Bofe of dem was fiel' han's. Law, mammy could plow jes lak a man all
day long; den milk twen'y head er cows afte' she quit de fiel' at night.

"De Big House was made out'n logs an' reckin hit had 'bout seben er
eight rooms in hit, an' de kitchen sot a piece frum de mainest house.
Thar was one brick chimbly an' one dirt one to hit, an' a great big wide
po'ch 'cross de front of de house. I 'member Mis Nancy an' white folks
'ud set out thar of an evenin' an' mek us li'l cullud chullun dance an'
sing an' cut capers fer to 'muse 'em. Den dey had a trough, built 'bout
lak a pig trough, an' dey would mek de cook bake a gre't big slab er
co'n bread an' put hit in de trough an' po' milk or lasses over hit,
an' tu'n us li'l cullud chullun loose on hit. An' I'se tell'n y' as much
of hit went in our hair an' eyes an' years[FN: ears] as went in our
moufs[FN: mouths].

"I reckin thar was' bout two er three hun'erd acres in Marse J