ees have set his negroes free
and he said he could not help me any more, and we would have to do the
best we could for ourselves. I gave my things to a woman to keep for
me until I could find my kinsfolk. They live about fifty miles from
here, up in the country. I am on my way there now." My mother said,
"How long will it take you to get there?" "About three days, if it
don't rain." My mother said, "Ain't you got some way to ride there?"
"No, Auntie, there is no way of riding up where my folks live, the
place where I am from."

We hoped the talk was most ended, for we were anxiously watching that
pot. Pretty soon my mother seemed to realize our existence. She
exclaimed, "My Lord! I suppose the little children are nearly starved.
Are those pease done, young ones?" She turned and said to the white
woman, "Have you-all had anything to eat?" "We stopped at a house
about dinner time, but the woman didn't have anything but some bread
and buttermilk." My mother said, "Well, honey, I ain't got but a
little, but I will divide with you." The woman said, "Thank you,
Auntie. You just give my children a little; I can do without it."

Then came the dividing. We all watched with all our eyes to see what
the shares would be. My mother broke a mouthful of bread and put it on
each of the tin plates. Then she took the old spoon and equally
divided the pea soup. We children were seated around the fire, with
some little wooden spoons. But the wooden spoons didn't quite go
round, and some of us had to eat with our fingers. Our share of the
meal, however, was so small that we were as hungry when we finished as
when we began.

My mother said, "Take that rag and wipe your face and hands, and give
it to the others and let them use it, too. Put those plates upon the
table." We immediately obeyed orders, and took our seats again around
the fire. "One of you go and pull that straw out of the corner and get
ready to go to bed." We all lay down on the straw, the white children
with us, and my mother covered us over with the blanket. We were soon
in the "Land of Nod," forgetting our empty stomachs. The two mothers
still continued to talk, sitting down on the only seats, a couple of
blocks. A little back against the wall my mother and the white woman
slept.

Bright and early in the morning we were called up, and the rest of the
hoe cake was eaten for breakfast, with a little meat, some coffee
sweetened with molasses. The little wanderers and their