Name: Shepherd, Robert

Address: 386 Arch Street Athens, Georgia

Age: 91

Written by: Grace McCune (White) Athens

Edited by: Sarah H. Hall (Athens), Leila Harris (Augusta), and John N. Booth (District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7.)

Citation: Federal Writers' Project: Slave Narrative Project, Vol. 4, Part 3, Kendricks-Styles (1936), Library of Congress, Manuscript/Mixed Material. https://www.loc.gov/item/mesn043/

Interview

Robert lives in a small house so old and in such bad repair that a strong wind
would no doubt tumble it down. Large holes in the roof can be plainly seen from the
gateway. The neat yard, filled with old-fashioned flowers, is enclosed by a makeshift
fence of rusty wire sagging to the ground in places, and the gate rocks on one hinge.
There was some evidence that a porch had extended across the front of the cottage, but it
is entirely gone now and large rocks serve as steps at the doorway.

Knocks and calls at the front of the house were unanswered and finally Robert
was found working in his garden behind the house. He is a tiny old man, and his large sun
hat made him seem smaller than he actually was. He wore a clean but faded blue shirt and
shabby gray pants much too large for him. His shoes, bound to his feet with strips of
cloth, were so much too large that it was all he could do to shuffle along. He removed his
hat and revealed white hair that contrasted with his black face, as he smiled in a friendly
way. "Good morning, Missy! How is you?" was his greeting. Despite his advanced age,
he keeps his garden in excellent condition. Not a blade of grass was to be seen. Asked
how he managed to keep it worked so efficiently he proudly answered: "Well Miss, I jus'
wuks in it some evvy day dat comes 'cept Sundays and, when you keeps right up wid it
dat way, it ain't so hard. Jus' look 'round you: Don't you see I got de bestest beans and
squashes 'round here, and down under dem 'tater vines, I kin tell you, dem roots is jus'
full of 'taters. My Old Marster done larnt me how to gyarden. He allus made us raise lots
of gyarden sass such as: beans, peas, roas'in' ears, collards, turnip greens, and ingons
(onions). For a fact, dere was jus' 'bout all de kinds of veg'tables us knowed anything
'bout dem days right dar in our Marster's big old gyarden. Dere was big patches of 'taters,
and in dem wheatfields us growed enough to make bread for all de folks on dat dere
plantation. Us sho' did have plenty of mighty good somepin t'eat.

"I would ax you to come in and set down in my house to talk," he said, "but I
don't 'spect you could climb up dem dere rocks to my door, and dem's all de steps I got."
When Robert called to his daughter, who lived next door, and told her to bring out some
chairs, she suggested that the interview take place on her porch. "It's shady and cool on
my porch," she said, "and Pa's done been a-diggin' in his gyarden so long he's plum
tuckered out; he needs to set down and rest." After making her father comfortable, she
drew up a bucket of water from the well at the edge of the porch and, after he had
indulged in a long drink of the fresh water, he began his story.

"I was borned on Marster Joe Echols' plantation in Oglethorpe County. 'bout 10
miles from Lexin'ton, Georgy. Mammy was Cynthia Echols 'fore she married up wid my
daddy. He was Peyton Shepherd. Atter Pappy and Mammy got married, Old Marse
Shepherd sold Pappy to Marse Joe Echols so as dey could stay together.

"Marse Joe, he had three plantations, but he didn't live on none of 'em. He lived in
Lexin'ton. He kept a overseer on each one of his plantations and dey had better be good to
his Niggers, or else Marse Joe would sho' git 'em 'way from dar. He never 'lowed 'em to
wuk us too hard, and in bad or real cold weather us didn't have to do no outside wuk 'cept
evvyday chores what had to be done, come rain or shine, lak milkin', tendin' de stock,
fetchin' in wood, and things lak dat. He seed dat us had plenty of good somepin t'cat and
all de clothes us needed. Us was lots better off in dem days dan us is now.

"Old Marster, he had so many Niggers dat he never knowed 'em all. One day he
was a-ridin' 'long towards one of his plantations and he met one of his slaves, named
William. Marse Joe stopped him and axed him who he was. William said; 'Why Marster,
I'se your Nigger. Don't you know me?' Den Marster, he jus' laughed and said: 'Well,
hurry on home when you gits what you is gwine atter.' He was in a good humor dat way
most all de time. I kin see him now a-ridin' dat little hoss of his'n what he called Button,
and his little fios dog hoppin' 'long on three legs right side of de hoss. No Ma'am, ders
warn't, nothin' de matter wid dat little dog; walkin' on three legs was jus' his way of gittin'
'round.

"Marster never let none of de slave chillun on his plantation de no wuk 'til dey got
fifteen - dat was soon 'nough, he said. On all of his plantations dere was one old 'oman
dat didn't have nothin' else to do but look atter and cook for de nigger chillun whilst dey
mammies was at wuk in de fields. Aunt Viney tuk keer of us. She had a big old horn what
she blowed when it was time for us to eat, and us knowed better dan to git so fur off us
couldn't hear dat horn, for Aunt Viney would sho' tear us up. Marster had done told her
she better fix us plenty t'eat and give it to us on time. Dere was a great long trough what
went plum 'cross de yard, and dat was whar us et. For dinner us had peas or some other
sort of veg'tables, and cornbread. Aunt Viney crumbled up dat bread in de trough and
poured de veg'tables and pot-likker over it. Den she blowed de horn and chillun come arunnin'
from evvy which away. If us et it all up, she had to put more victuals in de trough.
At nights, she crumbled de cornbread in de trough and poured buttermilk over it. Us
never had nothin' but cornbread and buttermilk at night. Sometimes dat trough would be a
sight, 'cause us never stopped to wash our hands, and 'fore us had been eatin' more dan a
minute or two what was in de trough would look lak de red mud what had come off of
our hands. Sometimes Aunt Viney would fuss at us and make us clean it out.

"Dere was a big sand bar down on de crick what made a fine place to play, 'and
wadin' in de branches was lots of fun. Us frolicked up and down dem woods and had all
sorts of good times - anything to keep away from Aunt Viney 'cause she was sho' to have
us fetchin' in wood or sweepin' de yards if us was handy whar she could find us. If us was
out of her sight she never bothered 'bout dem yards and things. Us was skeered to answer
dat horn when us got in Marster's 'bacco. He raised lots of 'bacco and rationed it out to
mens, but he never 'lowed chillun to have none 'til dey was big enough to wuk in de
fields. Us found out how to git in his 'bacco house and us kept on gittin' his 'bacco 'fore it
was dried out 'til he missed it. Den he told Aunt Viney to blow dat horn and call up all de
chillun. I'se gwine to whup evvy one of 'em, he would 'clare. atter us got dere and he seed
dat green 'bacco had done made us so sick us couldn't eat, he jus' couldn't beat us. He jus'
laughed and said: 'It's good enough for you.'

"Aunt Martha, she done de milkin' and helped Aunt Nancy cook for de slaves.
Dey had a big long kitchen up at de big house whar de overseer lived. De slaves what
wuked in de field never had to do deir own cookin'. It was all done for 'em in dat big old
kitchen. Dey cooked some of de victuals in big old washpots and dere was sho' a plenty
for all. All de cookin' was done in big fireplaces what had racks made inside to hang pots
on and dey had big old ovens for bakin', and thick iron skillets, and long-handled fryin'
pans. You jus' can't 'magine how good things was cooked dat way on de open fire.
Nobody never had no better hams and other meat dan our Marster kept in dem big old
smokehouses, and his slaves had meat jus' lak white folks did. Dem cooks knowed dey
had to cook a plenty and have it ready when it was time for de slaves to come in from de
fields. Miss Ellen, she was de overseer's wife, went out in de kitchen and looked over
evvything to see that it was all right and den she blowed de bugle. When de slaves heared
dat bugle, dey come in a-singin' from de fields. Dey was happy 'cause dey knowed Miss
Ellen had a good dinner ready for 'em.

"De slave quarters was long rows of log cabins wid chimblies made out of sticks
and red mud. Dem chimblies was all de time ketchin' fire. Dey didn't have no glass
windows. For a window, dey jus' out a openin' in a log and fixed a piece of plank 'cross it
so it would slide when dey wanted to open or close it. Doors was made out of rough
planks, beds was rough home-made frames nailed to de side of de cabins, and mattresses
was coarse, home-wove ticks filled wid wheat straw. Dey had good home-made kivver.
Dem beds slept mighty good.

"Dere warn't many folks sick dem days, 'specially 'mongst de slaves. When one
did die, folks would go 12 or 15 miles to de buryin'. Marster would say: 'Take de mules
and wagons and go but, mind you, take good keer of dem mules.' He never seemed to
keer if us went - fact was, he said us ought to go. If a slave died on our place, nobody
went to de fields 'til atter de buryin'. Marster never let nobody be buried 'til dey had been
dead 24 hours, and if dey had people from some other place, he waited 'til dey could git
dar. He said it warn't right to hurry 'em off into de ground too quick atter dey died. Dere
warn't no undertakers dem days. De homefolks jus' laid de corpse out on de coolin' board
'til de coffin was made. Lordy Miss! Ain't you never seed one of dem coolin' boards? A
coolin' board was made out of a long straight plank raised a little at de head, and had legs
fixed to make it set straight. Dey wropt 'oman corpses in windin' sheets. Uncle Squire, de
man what done all de wagon wuk and buildin' on our place, made coffins. Dey was jus'
plain wood boxes what dey painted to make 'em look nice. White preachers conducted de
funerals, and most of de time our own Marster done it, 'cause he was a preacher hisself.
When de funeral was done preached, dey sung Harps From De Tomb, den dey put de
coffin in a wagon and driv slow and keerful to de graveyard. De preacher prayed at de
grave and de mourners sung, I'se Born To Die and Lay Dis Body Down. Dey never had
no outside box for de coffin to be sot in, but dey put planks on top of de coffin 'fore dey
started shovellin' in de dirt.

"Fourth Sundays was our meetin' days, and evvybody went to church. Us went to
our white folks' church and rid in a wagon 'hind deir car'iage. Dere was two Baptist
preachers - one of 'em was Mr. John Gibson and de other was Mr. Patrick Butler. Marse
Joe was a Methodist preacher hisself, but dey all went to de same church together. De
Niggers sot in de gallery. When dey had done give de white folks de sacrament, dey
called de Niggers down from de gallery and give dem sacrament too. Church days was
sho' 'nough big meetin' days 'cause evvybody went. Dey preached three times a day; at
eleven in de mornin', at three in de evenin', and den again at night. De biggest meetin'
house crowds was when dey had baptizin', and dat was right often. Dey dammed up de
crick on Sadday so as it would be deep enough on Sunday, and dey done de baptizin' 'fore
dey preached de three o'clock sermon. At dem baptizin's dere was all sorts of shoutin',
and dey would sing Roll Jordan, Roll, De Livin' Waters, and Lord I'se Comin' Home.

"When de craps was laid by and most of de hardest wuk of de year done up, den
was camp-meetin' time, 'long im de last of July and sometimes in August. Dat was when
us had de biggest times of all. Dey had great big long tables and jus' evvything good t'eat.
Marster would kill five or six hogs and have 'em carried dar to be barbecued, and he
carried his own cooks along. Atter de white folks et dey fed de Niggers, and dere was
allus a plenty for all. Marster sho' looked atter all his Niggers good at dem times. When
de camp-meetin' was over, den come de big baptizin': white folks fust, den Niggers. One
time dere was a old slave 'oman what got so skeered when dey got her out in de crick dat
somebody had to pull her foots out from under her to git her under de water. She got out
from dar and testified dat it was de devil a-holdin' her back.

"De white ladies had nice silk dresses to wear to church. Slave 'omans had new
calico dresses what dey wore wid hoopskirts dey made out of grapevines. Dey wore poke
bonnets wid ruffles on 'em and, if de weather was sort of cool, dey wore shawls. Marster
allus wore his linen duster. Dat was his white coat, made cutaway style wid long tails. De
cloth for most all of de clothes was made at home. Marse Jos raised lots of sheep and de
wool was used to make cloth for de winter clothes. Us had a great long loom house whar
some of de slaves didn't do nothin' but weave cloth. Some cyarded bats, some done de
spinnin', and dere was more of 'em to do de sewin'. Miss Ellen, she looked atter all dat,
and she out most of de clothes. She seed dat us had plenty to wear. Sometimes Marster
would go to de sewin' house, and Mist'ess would tell him to git on 'way from dar and look
atter his own wuk, dat her and Aunt Julia could run dat loom house. Marster, he jus'
laughed den and told us chillun what was hangin' round de door to jus' listen to dem
'omans cackle. Oh, but he was a good old boss man.

"Us had water buckets, called piggens, what was made out of cedar and had
handles on de sides. Sometimes us sawed off little vinegar kegs and put handles on 'em.
Us loved to drink out of gourds. Dere was lots of gourds raised evvy year. Some of 'em
was so big dey was used to keep eggs in and for lots of things us uses baskets for now.
Dem little gourds made fine dippers.

"Dem cornshuckin's was sho' 'nough big times. When us got all de corn gathered
up and put in great long piles, den de gittin' ready started. Why dem 'omans cooked for
days, and de mens would git de shoats ready to barbecue. Marster would send us out to
git de slaves from de farms 'round about dar.

"De place was all lit up wid light'ood-knot torches and bonfires, and dere was
'citement a-plenty when all de Niggers got to singin' and shoutin' as dey made de shucks
fly. One of dem songs went somepin lak dis: 'Oh! my haid, my pore haid, Oh! my pore
haid is 'fected.' Dere wern't nothin' wrong wid our haids - dat was jus' our way of lettin'
our overseer know us wanted some likker. Purty soon he would come 'round wid a big
horn of whiskey, and dat made de 'pore haid' well, but it warn't long 'fore it got wuss
again, and den us got another horn of whiskey. When de corn was all shucked den us at
all us could and, let me tell you, dat was some good eatin's. Den us danced de rest of de
night.

"Next day when us all felt so tired and bad, Marster he would tell us 'bout stayin'
up all night, but Mist'ess tuk up for us, and dat tickled Old Marster. He jus' laughed and
said: 'Will you listen to dat 'oman?' Den he would make some of us sing one of dem
songs us had done been singin' to dance by. It goes sort of lak dis: 'Turn your pardner
'round! Steal 'round de corner, 'cause dem Johnson gals is hard to beat! Jus' glance 'round
and have a good time! Dem gals is hard to find!' Dat's jus' 'bout all I can ricollect of it
now.

"Us had big 'possum hunts, and us sho' cotched a heap of 'em. De gals cooked 'em
wid 'taters and dey jus' made your mouth water. I sho' wish I had one now. Rabbits was
good too. Marster didn't 'low no huntin' wid guns, so us jus' took dogs when us want
huntin'. Rabbits was kilt wid sticks and rocks 'cept when a big snow come. Dey was easy
to track to dey beds den, and us could jus' reach in and pull 'em out. When us cotch
'nough of 'em, us had big rabbit suppers.

"De big war was 'bout over when dem yankees come by our place and jus' went
through evvything. Dey called all de slaves together and told 'em dey was free and didn't
b'long to nobody no more, and said de slaves could take all dey wanted from de
smokehouses and barns and de big house, and could go when and whar dey wanted to go.
Dey tried to hand us out all de meat and hams, but us told 'em us warn't hongry, 'cause
Marster had allus done give us all us wanted. When dey couldn't make none of us take
nothin', dey said it was de strangest thing dey had done ever seed, and dat dat man Echols
must have sho' been good to his Niggers.

"When dem yankees had done gone off Marster come out to our place. He blowed
de bugle to call us all up to de house. He couldn't hardly talk, 'cause somebody had done
told him dat dem yankees couldn't talk his Niggers into stealin' nothin'. Marster said he
never knowed 'fore how good us loved him. He told us he had done tried to be good to us
and had done de best he could for us and dat he was mighty proud of de way evvy one of
us had done 'haved ourselfs. He said dat de war was over now, and us was fres and could
go anywhar us wanted to, but dat us didn't have to go if us wanted to stay dar. He said he
would pay us for our wuk and take keer of us if us stayed or, if us wanted to wuk on
shares, he would 'low us to wuk some land dat way. A few of dem Niggers drifted off,
but most of 'em stayed right dar 'til dey died."

A sad note had come into Robert's voice and he seemed to be almost overcome by
the sorrow aroused by his reminiscences. His daughter was quick to perceive this and
interrupted the conversation: "Please Lady," she said. "Pa's too feeble to talk any more
today. Can't you let him rest now and come back again in a day or two? Maybe he will be
done 'membered things he couldn't call back today."

The front door was open when Robert's house was next visited, and a young girl
answered the knock. "Come in," she said. The little house was as dilapidated in the
interior as it was on the outside. Bright June sunshine filtered through the many gaps in
the roof arousing wonder as to how the old man managed to remain inside this house
during heavy rains. The room was scrupulously clean and neat. In it was a very old iron
bed, a dresser that was minus its mirror, two chairs, and a table, all very old and
dilapidated. The girl laughed when she called attention to a closet that was padlocked.

"Dat's whar Grandpa keeps his rations," she said, and then volunteered the information:

"He's gone next door to stay wid Ma, whilst I colean up his house. He can't stand no dust,
and when I sweeps, I raises a dust." The girl explained a 12 inch square aperture in the
door, with a sliding board fastened on the inside by saying: "Dat's Grandpa's peep-hole.
He allus has to see who's dar 'fore he unfastens his door."

Robert was sitting on the back porch and his daughter was ironing just inside the
door. Both seemed surprised and happy to see the interviewer and the daughter placed a
comfortable chair for her as far as the dimensions of the small porch would permit from
the heat of the charcoal bucket and irons. Remembering that his earlier recollections had
ended with the close of the Civil War, Robert started telling about the days "atter freedom
had done come."

"Me, I stayed right on dar 'til atter Marster died. He was sick a long, long time,
and one morning Old Mist'ess, she called to me. 'Robert,' she said, 'you ain't gwine to
have no Marster long, 'cause he's 'bout gone.' I called all de Niggers up to de big house
and when dey was all in de yard, Mist'ess, she said: 'Robert, you been wid us so long, you
kin come in and see him 'fore he's gone for good.' When I got in dat room I knowed de
Lord had done laid His hand on my good Old Marster, and he was a-goin' to dat Home he
used to preach to us Niggers 'bout, and it 'peared to me lak my heart would jus' bust.
When de last breath was done gone, I went back out in de yard and told de other Niggers,
and dere was sho' oryin' and prayin' 'mongst 'em, 'cause all of 'em loved Marster. Dat was
sho' one big funeral. Mist'ess said she wanted all of Marster's old slaves to go, 'cause he
loved 'em so, and all of us went. Some what had done been gone for years come back for
Marster's funeral.

"Next day, atter de funeral was over, Mist'ess, she said: 'Robert, I want you to stay
on wid me 'cause you know how he wanted his wuk done.' Den Mist'ess' daughter and her
husband, Mr. Dickenson, come dar to stay. None of de Niggers laked dat Mr. Dickenson
and so most of 'em left and den, 'bout 2 years atter Marster died, Mist'ess went to 'Lanta
(Atlanta) to stay wid another of her daughters, and she died dar. When Mist'ess left, I left
too and come on here to Athens, and I been here ever since.

"Dere warn't much town here den, and 'most all 'round dis here place was woods.
I wuked 'bout a year for Mr. John McCune's fambly on de old Pitner place, den I went to
wuk for Mr. Manassas B. McGinty. He was a cyarpenter and built most of de fine houses
what was put up here dem days. I got de lumber from him to build my house. Dere warn't
but two other houses 'round here den. My wife, Julie, washed for de white folks and
helped 'em do deir housewuk. Our chillun used to come bring my dinner. Us had dem
good old red peas cooked wid side meat in a pot in de fireplace, and ashcake to go wid
'em. Dat was eatin's. Julie would rake out dem coals and kivver 'em wid ashes, and den
she would wrop a pone of cornbread dough in collard or cabbage leaves and put it on
dem ashes and rake more ashes over it. You had to dust off de bread 'fore you et it, but
ashcake was mighty good, folks what lived off of it didn't git sick lak dey does now aeatin"
dis white flour bread all de time. If us had any peas left from dinner and supper,
Julie would mash 'em up right soft, make little cakes what she rolled in corn meal, and fry
'em for breakfast. Dem sausage cakes made out of left-over peas was mighty fine for
breakfast.

"When de chillun started out wid my dinner, Julie allus made two of 'em go
together and hold hands all de way so dey wouldn't git lost. Now, little chillun jus' a few
years old goes anywhar dey wants to. Folks don't lock atter dey chillun lak dey ought to,
and t'ain't right. Den, when night come, chillun went right off to bed. Now, dey jus' runs
'round 'most all night, and it sho' im a-ruinin' dis young genrayshun (generation). Dey
don't take no keer of deirselfs. My own grandchillun is de same way.

"I left Mr. McGinty and went to wuk for Mr. Bloomfield in de mill. Mr. Bill
Dootson was our boss, and he was sho' a good man. Dem was good times. I wuked inside
de mill and 'round de yard too, and sometimes dey sont me to ride de boat wid de cotton
or sometimes wid cloth, whatever dey was sendin'. Dere was two mills den. One was
down below de bridge on Oconee Street, and de old check factory was t'other side of de
bridge on Broad Street. Dey used boats to carry de cotton and de cloth from one mill to
de other.

"Missy, can you b'lieve it? I wuked for 68cents a day and us paid for our home
here. Dey paid us off wid tickets what us tuk to de commissary to git what us needed.
Dey kept jus' evvything dat anybody could want down dar at de comp'ny store. So us
raised our nine chillun, give 'em plenty to eat and wear too and a good roof over deir
haids, all on 68 a day and what Julie could make wukin' for de white folks. 'Course things
warn't high-priced lak dey is now, but de main diff'unce is dat folks didn't have to have so
many kinds of things to eat and wear den lak dey does now. Dere warn't nigh so many
ways to throw money 'way den.

"Dere warn't so many places to go; jus' church and church spreads, and Sundays,
folks went buggy ridin'. De young Niggers, 'specially dem what was a-sparkin', used to
rent buggies and hosses from Mr. Selig Bernstein. He kept a big livery stable den and he
had a hoss named Buckskin. Dat was de hoss what evvybody wanted 'cause he was so
gentle and didn't skeer de 'omans and chilluns. Mr. Bernstein is a-livin' yit, and he is sho'
a good man to do business wid. Missy, dere was lots of good white folks den. Most of
dem old ones is done passed on. One of de best of 'em was Mr. Robert Chappell. He done
passed on, but whilst he lived he was mighty good to evvybody and de colored folks sho'
does miss him. He b'lieved in helpin' 'em and he give 'em several churches and tried his
best to git 'em to live right. If Mr. Robert Chappell ain't in Neb'en, dere ain't no use for
nobody else to try to git dar. His granddaughter married Jedge Matthews, and folks says
she is most as good as her granddaddy was."

Robert chuckled when he was asked to tell about his wedding "Miss," he said, "I
didn't have no sho' 'nough weddin'. Me and Julie jus' jumped over de broom in front of
Marster and us was married. Dat was all dere was to it. Dat was de way most of de slave
folks got married dem days. Us knowed better dan to ax de gal when us wanted to git
married. Us jus' told our Marster and he done de axin'. Den, if it was all right wid de gal,
Marster called all de other Niggers up to de big house to see us jump over de broom. If a
slave wanted to git married to somebody on another place, den he told Marster and his
Marster would talk to de gal's Marster. Whatever dey 'greed on was all right. If neither
one of 'em would sell one of de slaves what wanted to git married, den dey let 'em go
ahead and jump over de broom, and de man jus' visited his wife on her Marster's place,
mostly on Wednesday and Sadday nights. If it was a long piece off, he didn't git dar so
often. Dey had to have passes den, cause de patterollers would git 'em sho' if dey didn't.
Dat meant a thrashin', and dey didn't miss layin' on de stick, when dey cotch a Nigger.

"Dese days, de boys and gals jus' walks off and don't say nothin' to nobody, not
even to dey mammies and daddies. Now take his daughter of mine - Callie is her name -
she runned away when she was 'bout seventeen. Dat day her mammy had done sont her
wid de white folks' clothes. She had on brass-toed brogan shoes, a old faded cotton dress
dat was plum up to her knees, - dem days, long dresses was stylish - and she wore a old
bonnet. She was totin' de clothes to Mrs. Reese and met up wid dat Davenport boy. Dey
traips'd up to de courthouse, got a license, and was married 'fore me and Julie knowed
nothin' 'bout it. Julie sho' did light out from hyar to go git Callie. She brung her back and
kept her locked up in de house a long time 'fore she would let her live wid dat Nigger.

"Us had our troubles den, but dey warn't lak de troubles us has now. Now, it
seems lak dem was mighty good days back when Arch Street was jus' a path through de
woods. Julie, she's done been gone a long time, and all of our chillun's daid 'cept three,
and two of 'em is done gone up north. Jus' me and my Callie and de grandchillun is all
dat's left here. Soon I'se gwine to be 'lowed to go whar Julie is and I'se ready any time,
'cause I done been here long 'nough."

When the visitor arose to take her departure Robert said: "Good-bye Missy, come
back to see me and Callie again 'cause us laked your 'pearments (appearance) de fust time
you was here. Jus' trust in de Lord, Miss, and He will take keer of you wharever you is."

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