My mother said to the woman, “Honey, ain’t you got no husband?” She said, “No, my husband got killed in the war.”  My mother replied, “Well, my husband died right after the war.  I have been away from my little brood for four years.  With a hard struggle, I have got them away from the Farrin plantation, for they did not want to let them go.  But I got them.  I was determined to have them.  But they would not let me have them if they could have kept them.  With God’s help I will keep them from starving.  The white folks are good to me.  They give me work, and I know, with God’s help, I can get along.”  The white woman replied, “Yes, Auntie, my husband left me on a rich man’s plantation.  This man promised to look out for me until my husband came home; but he got killed in the war, and the Yankees have set his negroes free and he said he could not help me any more, and we would have to do the best we could for ourselves.  I gave my things to a woman to keep for me until I could find my kinsfolk.  They live about fifty miles from here, up in the country.  I am on my way there now.”  My mother said, “How long will it take you to get there?” “About three days, if it don’t rain.”  My mother said, “Ain’t you got some way to ride there?” “No, Auntie, there is no way of riding up where my folks live, the place where I am from.”

We hoped the talk was most ended, for we were anxiously watching that pot.  Pretty soon my mother seemed to realize our existence.  She exclaimed, “My Lord!  I suppose the little children are nearly starved.  Are those pease done, young ones?” She turned and said to the white woman, “Have you-all had anything to eat?” “We stopped at a house about dinner time, but the woman didn’t have anything but some bread and buttermilk.”  My mother said, “Well, honey, I ain’t got but a little, but I will divide with you.”  The woman said, “Thank you, Auntie.  You just give my children a little; I can do without it.”

Then came the dividing.  We all watched with all our eyes to see what the shares would be.  My mother broke a mouthful of bread and put it on each of the tin plates.  Then she took the old spoon and equally divided the pea soup.  We children were seated around the fire, with some little wooden spoons.  But the wooden spoons didn’t quite go round, and some of us had to eat with our fingers.  Our share of the meal, however, was so small that we were as hungry when we finished as when we began.

My mother said, “Take that rag and wipe your face and hands, and give it to the others and let them use it, too.  Put those plates upon the table.”  We immediately obeyed orders, and took our seats again around the fire.  “One of you go and pull that straw out of the corner and get ready to go to bed.”  We all lay down on the straw, the white children with us, and my mother covered us over with the blanket.  We were soon in the “Land of Nod,” forgetting our empty stomachs.  The two mothers still continued to talk, sitting down on the only seats, a couple of blocks.  A little back against the wall my mother and the white woman slept.