rly ever seed. He brung
her up to de house and all de niggers and boys and girls and cats and
dogs and sech come and salute her. Dere she stand on de gallery, with a
purty white dress on with red stripes runnin' up and down. Marse say to
her, 'Honey, see all de black folks, dey 'longs to you now.' She wave to
us and smile on us and nex' day she give her weddin' dress to my ma. Dat
de fines' dress I ever seen. It was purple and green silk and all de
nigger gals wear dat dress when dey git marry. My sister Sidney wore it
and Sary and Mary.

"Miss Cornelia was de fines' woman in de world. Come Sunday mornin' she
done put a bucket of dimes on de front gallery and stand dere and throw
dimes to de nigger chillen jes' like feedin' chickens. I sho' right here
to test'fy, 'cause I's right dere helpin' grab. Sometime she done put da
washtub of buttermilk on de back gallery and us chillen bring us gourds
and dip up dat good, old buttermilk till it all git drunk up. Sometime
she fotch bread and butter to de back gallery and pass it out when it
don't even come mealtime.

"Miss Cornelia set my ma to cuttin' patterns and sewin' right away. She
give all de women a bolt or linsey to make clothes and ma cut de
pattern. Us all have de fine drawers down to de ankle, buttoned with
pretty white buttons on de bottom. Lawsy, ma sho' cut a mite of drawers,
with sewin' for her eleven gals and four boys, too. In de summertime we
all git a bolt of blue cloth and white tape for trimmin', to make Sunday
dresses. For de field, all de niggers git homespun what you make jumpers
out of. I 'lect how Marse say, 'Don't go into de field dirty Monday
mornin'. Scrub youself and put on de clean jumper.'

"Marse sho' good to dem gals and bucks what cuttin' de cane. When dey
git done makin' sugar, he give a drink call 'Peach 'n Honey' to de women
folk and whiskey and brandy to de men. And of all de dancin' and
caperin' you ever seen! My pa was fiddler and we'd cut de pigeon wing
and cut de buck and every other kind of dance. Sometime pa git tired and
say he ain't gwineter play no more and us gals git busy and pop him corn
and make candy, so to 'tice him to play more.

"Marse sho' turn over in he grave did he know 'bout some dat 'lasses.
Dem black boys don't care. I seen 'em pull rats out de sugar barrel and
dey taste de sugar and say, 'Ain't nothin' wrong with dat sugar. It
still sweet.' One day a pert one pull a dead scorpion out de syrup
kettle and he jes'