e with the older members of the
family, and in later years we have kept in touch with those who were the
younger members. We were several weeks making the trip, and most of
the time we slept in the open air and did our cooking over a log fire
out-of-doors. One night I recall that we camped near an abandoned log
cabin, and my mother decided to build a fire in that for cooking, and
afterward to make a "pallet" on the floor for our sleeping. Just as the
fire had gotten well started a large black snake fully a yard and a half
long dropped down the chimney and ran out on the floor. Of course we at
once abandoned that cabin. Finally we reached our destination--a little
town called Malden, which is about five miles from Charleston, the
present capital of the state.

At that time salt-mining was the great industry in that part of West
Virginia, and the little town of Malden was right in the midst of
the salt-furnaces. My stepfather had already secured a job at a
salt-furnace, and he had also secured a little cabin for us to live
in. Our new house was no better than the one we had left on the
old plantation in Virginia. In fact, in one respect it was worse.
Notwithstanding the poor condition of our plantation cabin, we were at
all times sure of pure air. Our new home was in the midst of a cluster
of cabins crowded closely together, and as there were no sanitary
regulations, the filth about the cabins was often intolerable. Some of
our neighbours were coloured people, and some were the poorest and most
ignorant and degraded white people. It was a motley mixture. Drinking,
gambling, quarrels, fights, and shockingly immoral practices were
frequent. All who lived in the little town were in one way or another
connected with the salt business. Though I was a mere child, my
stepfather put me and my brother at work in one of the furnaces. Often I
began work as early as four o'clock in the morning.

The first thing I ever learned in the way of book knowledge was while
working in this salt-furnace. Each salt-packer had his barrels marked
with a certain number. The number allotted to my stepfather was "18."
At the close of the day's work the boss of the packers would come around
and put "18" on each of our barrels, and I soon learned to recognize
that figure wherever I saw it, and after a while got to the point where
I could make that figure, though I knew nothing about any other figures
or letters.

From the time that I can remember ha