I imbibed some of their superstitions.
They consider it bad to allow a sharp tool, as a spade, hoe or ax, to be
taken through the house; to throw salt in the fire, for you would have to
pick it out after death. They would kill a hen if she crowed; looked for
a death, if a dog howled; or, if one broke a looking-glass, it meant
trouble of some kind for seven years. They believed that persons had
power to put a "spell" on others, would, if taken sick, frequently speak of
having "stepped on something" put in their way or buried in their dooryard.
There is no dialect in the world that has the original characteristics so
pleasing to the ear as the negro. There is a softness and music in the
voice of a negro not to be found in any other race on earth. No one can
sing a child to sleep so soothingly as a negro nurse. After I left Texas
and went to Medicine Lodge, Kansas, when I had a headache or was
otherwise sick, I would wish for the attendance around my bed of one of
the old-fashioned colored women, who would rub me with their rough
plump hands and call me "Honey Chile," would bathe my feet and tuck
the cover around me and sit by me, holding my hand, waiting until I
fell asleep. I owe much to the colored people and never want to live
where there are none of the negro race. I would feel lonesome without
them. After I came to Medicine Lodge, I did not see any for some
time. One day, while looking out, I saw one walking up the street
toward the house.
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