s, up at Blackstock. De money roll
in when someone pass 'round de hat and say: 'De fiddler?' Ellen had more
beaux 'round her than her could shake a stick at but de beau she lak
best was de bow dat could draw music out of them five strings, and draw
money into dat hat, dat jingle in my pocket de nex' day when I go to see
her.

"I 'members very little 'bout de war, tho' I was a good size boy when de
Yankees come. By instint, a nigger can make up his mind pretty quick
'bout de creed of white folks, whether they am buckra or whether they am
not. Every Yankee I see had de stamp of poor white trash on them. They
strutted 'round, big Ike fashion, a bustin' in rooms widout knockin',
talkin' free to de white ladies, and familiar to de slave gals,
ransackin' drawers, and runnin' deir bayonets into feather beds, and
into de flower beds in de yards.

"What church I b'long to? None. Dat fiddle draws down from hebben all de
sermons dat I understan'. I sings de hymns in de way I praise and
glorify de Lord.

"Cotton pickin' was de biggest work I ever did, outside of drivin' a
wagon and playin' de fiddle. Look at them fingers; they is supple. I
carry two rows of cotton at a time. One week I pick, in a race wid
others, over 300 pounds a day. Commencin' Monday, thru Friday night, I
pick 1,562 pounds cotton seed. Dat make a bale weighin' 500 pounds, in
de lint.

"Ellen and me have one child, Sallie Ann. Ellen 'joy herself; have a
good time nussin' white folks chillun. Nussed you; she tell me 'bout it
many time. 'Spect she mind you of it very often. I knows you couldn't
git 'round dat woman; nobody could. De Lord took her home fifteen years
ago and I marry a widow, Ida Belton, down on de Kershaw County side.

"You wants me to tell 'bout dat 'lection day at Woodward, in 1878? You
wants to know de beginnin' and de end of it? Yes? Well, you couldn't wet
dis old man's whistle wid a swallow of red liquor now? Couldn't you or
could you? Dis was de way of it: It was set for Tuesday. Monday I drive
de four-hoss wagon down to dis very town. Marse John McCrory and Marse
Ed Woodward come wid me. They was in a buggy. When us got here, us got
twenty, sixteen shooters and put them under de hay us have in de wagon.
Bar rooms was here. I had fetched my fiddle 'long and played in Marse
Fred Habernick's bar 'til dinner time. Us leave town 'bout four o'clock.
Roads was bad but us got home 'bout dark. Us put de guns in Marse Andy
Mobley's store. Marse Ed