I ran to the kitchen, cut an apple pie, and ran out
and said: "Here, Uncle, is a piece of pie." He was gray-headed, one of
the old slaves. He seemed so glad to see my friendly face and took the
pie with a happy courtesy. I watched for his return, as he came in on
the train, and was going out. At last he came. I asked him in the
kitchen, fixed a meal for him, and waited on him myself. Before eating,
he folded his hands, closed his eyes, with his face toward heaven, thanked
God for the meal, as I had often seen them do in slave time. As a
race, the negroes have not the characteristics of treachery. They are
faithful and grateful.
In my hotel experience, I would often ask Fannie, my cook: "What
kind of a man is that?" Fannie would say: "Don't trust him too far
Mrs. Nation, he steps too light." When a child my playmates were a
lot of colored children. Betsy came to the table with the children and
ate with us. But the sweetest food was that left in the skillets, both
black and white children would go around the house, sit down and "sop"
the gravy with the biscuits the cooks would give us. I was fond of
hearing ghost stories and would, without the knowledge of my mother,
stay in the cabin late at night listening to the men and women telling
their "experiences." The men would be making ax handles and beating
the husk off of the corn in a large wooden hopper with a maul. The
women would be spinning with the little wheel, sewing, knitting and
combing their children's heads.
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