Carrie Nation’s Childhood During Slavery – Carrie Nation, 1904

Republished from Carrie Nation’s autobiography, we found some of what’s written
pretty objectionable but we thought this was worth presenting to convey subjugation
as was then & as we experience today, we retracted some of the duller, less relevant
to her childhood, stuff but otherwise it’s presented in full.

CHAPTER I.

I was born in Garrard County, Kentucky. My father’s farm was on Dick’s River, where the cliffs rose to hundreds
of feet, with great ledges of rocks, where under which I used to sit. There were many large rocks scattered around,
some as much as fifteen feet across, with holes that held water, where my father salted his stock, and I, a little
toddler, used to follow him. On the side of the house next to the cliffs was what we called the “Long House,”
where the negro women would spin and weave. There were wheels, little and big, and a loom or two, and swifts
and reels, and winders, and everything for making linen for the summer, and woolen cloth for the winter, both
linsey and jeans. The flax was raised on the place, and so were the sheep. When a child 5 years old, I used to
bother the other spinners. I was so anxious to learn to spin. My father had a small wheel made for me by a wright
in the neighborhood. I was very jealous of my wheel, and would spin on it for hours. The colored women were
always indulgent to me, and made the proper sized rolls, so I could spin them. I would double the yarn, and then
twist it, and knit it into suspenders, which was a great source of pride to my father, who would display my work
to visitors on every occasion. The dwelling house had ten rooms, all on the ground floor, except one. I have heard
my father say that it was a hewed-log house, weather-boarded and plastered as I remember it. The room that
possessed the most attraction for me was the parlor, because I was very seldom allowed to go in it. I remember
the large gold-leaf paper on the walls, its bright brass dogirons, as tall as myself, and the furniture of red plush,
some of which is in a good state of preservation, and the property of my half-brother, Tom Moore, who lives on
“Camp Dick Robinson” in Garrard County, this Dick Robinson was a cousin of my father’s. There were two sets
of negro cabins; one in which Betsey and Henry lived, who were man and wife, Betsey being the nurse of all the
children. Then there was aunt Mary and her large family, aunt Judy and her family and aunt Eliza and her’s. There
was a water mill behind and almost a quarter of a mile from the house, where the corn was ground, and near
that was the overseer’s house.

The memories of this Kentucky home date from the time I was three years old. This seems remarkable, but my
mother said this incident occurred when I was three years old, and I remember it distinctly. I was standing in the
back yard, near the porch. Mr. Brown, the overseer, was in the door of my half-brother Richard’s room, with my
brother’s gun in his hands. At the end of the porch was a small room, called the “saddle room.” A pane of glass
was out of the window and a hen flew out, cackling. Aunt Judy, the colored woman, went in to get the egg, and
walked in front of Mr. Brown, who raised the gun and said: “Judy, I am going to shoot you,” not thinking the gun
was loaded. It went off, and aunt Judy fell. Mr. Brown began to wring his hands and cry in great agony. I screamed
and kept running around a small tree near by. This was Sunday morning. Runners were sent for the doctor, and
for my parents, who were at church. Aunt Judy got well, but had one eye out; we could always feel the shot in
her forehead. She was one of the best servants, and a dear good friend to me. She used to bring two of her
children and come up to my room on Sundays and sit with me, saying, she did not want to be in the cabin when
“strange negroes were there.” This misfortune had disfigured her face and she always avoided meeting people.
I can see her now, with one child at the breast, and another at her knee, with her hand on its head, feeling for
“buggars.” I was very much attached to this woman and wanted to take care of her in her old age. I went to
Southern Texas to get her in 1873. I found some of her children in Sherman, Texas, but aunt Judy had been
dead six months. She always said she wanted to live with me. My mother always left her small children in the
care of the servants. I was quite a little girl before I was allowed to eat at “white folk’s table.” Once my mother
had been away several days and came home bringing a lot of company with her. I ran out when I saw the
carriages driving up, and cried: “Oh, ma, I am so glad to see you.

I don’t mind sleeping with aunt Eliza, but I do hate to sleep with uncle Josh,” think I was quite dirty, and some of
the colored servants snatched me out of sight. Aunt Eliza was aunt Judy’s half-sister, her father was a white man.
She was given to my father by my grandmother, was very bright and handsome, and the mother of seventeen
children. My grandmother remembered aunt Eliza in her will, giving her some linen sheets, furniture, and other
things. One of aunt Eliza’s sons was named Newton. My father had a mill and store up in Lincoln County, near
Hustonville. Newton used to do the hauling for my father with a large wagon and six-mule team. He would often
do the buying for the store and take measurements of grain, and my father trusted him implicitly. Once a friend
of my father said to him, as Newton was passing along the street with his team: “George, I’ll give you seventeen
hundred dollars for that negro.” My father said: “If you would fill that wagon-bed full of gold, you could not get him.”
A few weeks after that Newton died. I remember seeing my father in the room weeping, and remember the chorus
of the song the negroes sang on that occasion: “Let us sit down and chat with the angels.” The husband of aunt
Eliza was “uncle Josh,” a small Guinea negro, as black as coal and very peculiar. I always stood in awe of him,
as all the children did. I remember one expression of his was: “Get out of the way, or I’ll knock you into a cocked
hat.” We left that home, when I was about five years old, for a place about two miles from Danville, Kentucky.
The house had a flat roof, the first one built in that county; it had an observatory on top. Our nearest neighbors
were Mr. Banford’s family, Mr. Caldwell, and Mr. Spears. Dr. Jackson and Dr. Smith were both our physicians, and
my father used to hire his physicians by the year. Dr. Jackson was a bachelor and said he was going to wait for
me, and I believed him. I remember visiting Dr. Smith in Danville and seeing a human skeleton for the first time.
I also saw leeches he used in bleeding. I remember when one of my little brothers was born, they told me Dr.
Smith found him in a hollow stump. After that I spent hours out in the woods looking in hollow stumps for babies.

Every morning my grandfather would put in a glass some sugar, butter and brandy, then pour hot water over it,
and, while the family were sitting around the room, waiting for breakfast, he would go to each, and give to those
who wished, a spoonful of this toddy, saying: “Will you have a taste, my daughter, or my son?” He never gave
but one spoonful, and then he drank what was left himself. This custom was never omitted. I remember the closet
where the barrel of spirits was kept. He used to give it out to the colored people in a pint cup on Saturdays.
Persons have often said to me: “Our grandfathers used it, and they did not get drunk.” Truly, we are reaping
what they have strewn. They sowed to the wind and we are reaping the whirlwind. After breakfast, the colored
man, Patrick, who waited on my grandfather, would bring out a horse and grandfather would ride around the
place. He was very fond of hunting, and always kept hounds. My father would tell this joke on him. When
“Daddy” Rice was baptising him in Dick’s River grandpa said: “Hold on, Father Rice, I hear Sounder barking
on the cliffs.” Sounder was his favorite hound. There was a Mr. Britt who was a great fox hunter, who lived near
my grandfather, and whose wife was opposed to his hunting. One morning my grandfather went by Mr. Britt’s
house winding his hunter’s horn. Mr. Britt jumped for his trousers and so did Mrs. Britt, who got them first and
threw them into the fire. Another time, quite a party of ladies and gentlemen had gathered at my grandfather’s
place, to go on a fox hunt. Grandfather went upstairs hurriedly to put on his buckskin suit. He jumped across
the banisters to facilitate matters, lost his balance and tumbled down into the hall, where the company was
waiting. He did not get hurt, it was a great joke on him. When he was a young man he learned carpentering
in company with Buckner Miller, who was of the same trade.

Mark Antony, in his memorial address over the body of Caesar, said that Brutus was Caesar’s angel. If I ever
had an angel on earth, it was my father. I have met many men who had lovable characters, but none equaled
him in my estimation. He was not a saint, but a man–one of the noblest works of God. He was impetuous,
quick, impatient, but never nervous, could collect himself in a moment and was always master of the situation.
I have seen him in many trying places but never remember to have seen him in a condition of being afraid.
When he lived in Cass County, Mo., during the war, we saw Quantrell’s men coming up to the house. These
men were dressed in slouch hats, gray suits, and had their guns and haversacks roped to their saddles. My
father was a union man, but a southern sympathizer. He cried like a child when he heard the south had seceded
and taken another flag. He did not know to what extent he was disliked by this gang of bushwhackers, and
we were very much alarmed; fully expected some harm was meant. Men on both sides were frequently taken
out and shot down. When the Bushwhackers would kill a union man then the Jayhawkers would kill “a secesh.”
My father said to us: “You stay in the house and keep quiet. I will meet them.” I watched him through a window.
He was tall and straight as an Indian. He walked up to them, taking off his hat and called “Good morning” to them
in a friendly tone. Asked them to get off their horses, for he had a treat for them. In the corner of the yard was
the carriage house and under that was a rock spring house, through which a living stream of water ran around
the pans of milk. He took them to the door, gave them seats, then went in this milkhouse and brought out a jar
of buttermilk. I have heard it said that buttermilk is one of the greatest treats to a soldier. He talked with these
men as if they had been friends; brought out fruit; loaded them with bread, butter and milk; and they left without
even taking a horse from us. I fully believe it was their intention to do some harm, but by the tact of my father
they were disarmed. “A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up strife.”

He was a thorough business man, but his social qualities exceeded all others. He often had to pay security debts,
one for Mr. Key, his brother-in-law, of five thousand dollars. Just before the election of Lincoln, he took a large
drove of mules to Natchez, Miss., twenty-two of these mules were of his own raising. While there Lincoln was
elected, which threw the south into war. He sold the mules on time and never got a dollar for them. To the honor
of my father be it said, he gave up all his property to pay his debts, never withholding, where he could have done
so. A short while before he died there was one debt of a few hundred dollars he could not pay. He wept and told
me of this. A year ago I settled up with Mr. Wills’ heirs and paid this debt to his children, who live near Peculiar
in Cass county, Mo. It would be such a joy to my father to know that I did this to save his honor. When I see him,
in our heavenly home, he will bless me for this. “Love knows no sacrifice.” I can not call to mind when the thought
of self, governed any of my father’s actions. It was his delight to provide for the comfort of others. Devoted to his
family and friends, and such a friend to the poor; I have heard my mother say that he made every one rich who
worked for him. When I first remember him he was a “Trader” and left his farm to an overseer. My father drove
hogs to Cincinnati before there were any railways. I was always at his heels, when I could be. He was standing
on the stile one day giving directions to have a drove of hogs meet him at a certain place on Sunday. I said: “Pa,
you will lose on those hogs. You ought not to do that on Sunday.” He gave me a quick, light, playful slap, saying:
“Stop that, every time you say that, I do lose.” I can see that a responsibility to God was the fundamental principle
in my father’s life.

After the negroes were freed, and we lived on the farm, there was so much to do, especially for him, but there
was always a conveyance prepared to take his family to church and Sunday School–I took the “New York Ledger”.
Mrs. Southworth wrote for it then. ‘Capitola’, The Wrecker’s Son, with other thrilling stories, were so fascinating to
me–The paper came late Saturday and I would rather read it Sunday morning than go anywhere. One morning
I took my paper and went to the back of the orchard, thinking to get out of the sound of my father’s voice when
he would call me to get ready for church. I could just hear him but did not move. After reading my paper, I returned
to the house, Pa was just coming back with the rest of the family from church. He looked at me with grief and
anger in his glance and said, “Never mind, you ungrateful girl, you cannot say at the judgment Day, that your
father did not provide a way for you to go to church.” I never did this again and never was free from remorse
for this ingratitude. I know how Dr. Johnson felt when he was seen standing on a corner of the street with the
sun beaming down upon his bare head, when asked why he did that he said, “My father had a book stand on
this corner, when I was a boy once he asked me to stand here in his place as he was sick. I would not, now I
would expiate that by blistering my bare head in the sun if I could. To this day I weep to think of grieving so
noble a parent. My mother was a very handsome woman. My father was what you might call good looking. I
was very anxious to look like him; used to try to wear off my teeth on the right side, because his were worn off.
About two years before he died, he came to Texas to visit me. I was then in the hotel business. During the first
meal he ate at the hotel, he looked up and seeing me waiting on the table, he got up and began waiting on the
table himself. I had to work very hard then and it was a grief to him to have no means to give me. One morning
he came into my room while I was dressing and said: “Daughter, I have not slept all night for thinking of you.

The last thing last night was you in the kitchen and the first thing this morning. I have always hoped to have
something to leave you, and it is such a grief to me that I can not help you. Carry, it seems the Lord has been
so hard on you.” I said: “No, Pa; I thank God for all my sorrows. They have been the best for me, and don’t you
worry about not leaving me money, for you have left me something far better.” He looked up surprised and
said: “What is it?” I answered: “The memory of a father who never did a dishonorable act.” My father’s eyes
filled with tears, and after that he seemed to be happier than I had ever seen him; everything seemed to go
right. My father was a very indulgent master to his colored servants, who loved him like a father. They always
called him “Mars George.” The negro women would threaten to get “Mars George” to whip their bad children,
and when he whipped them, I have heard them say: “Served you right. Did not give you a lick amiss.” This
was proving their great confidence, they being willing for some one else to whip their children. They were very
sensitive in this matter and were not willing for my mother to do this. My father would lay in a supply, while in
Cincinnati, of boxes of boots and shoes, arid get combs, head handkerchiefs, and Sunday dresses, which
would greatly delight his colored people. Happy, indeed, would the negroes have been if all their masters had
been as my father was. When we moved to Mercer County from Garrard, we had a sale. It was customary then
at such a time to have a barbecue and a great dinner. The tables were set in the yard. I remember Mr. Jones
Adams, a neighbor and great friend of my father, brought over a two bushel sack of turnip greens and a ham.
I remember seeing him shake them out of the bag. At this sale for the first, and only time, I saw a negro put
on a block and sold to the highest bidder. I can’t understand how my father could have allowed this.

His name was “Big Bill,” to distinguish him from another “Bill”. He was a widower or a batchelor and had no
family. There was one colored man my father valued highly, and wanted to take with him, but this man, Tom,
had a wife, who belonged to a near neighbor. After we got in the carriage to go to our new home, Tom followed
us crying: “Oh, Mars George, don’t take me from my wife.” My father said: “Go and get some one to buy you.”
This Tom did, the buyer being a Mr. Dunn. Oh! What a sad sight! It makes the tears fill my eyes to write it.
But a worse slavery is now on us. I would rather have my son sold to a slave-driver than to be a victim of a
saloon. I could, in the first case, hope to see him in heaven; but no drunkard can inherit eternal life. The
people of the south said no power could take from them their slaves, but ’tis a thing of the past. People now
say, you can’t shut up saloons. But our children will know them as a thing of the past. My father was glad
when the slaves were free. He felt the responsibility of owning them. Have heard him say, after having some
-trouble with them: “Those negroes will send me to hell yet.” He would gather them in the dining-room
Sunday evenings and read the Bible to them and have prayer. He would first call aunt Liza and ask her
to have them come in. The negroes would sing, and it is a sweet memory to me.

CHAPTER II.

The colored race, as I knew them, were generally kind to the white children of their masters. Their sympathy
was great in childish troubles. They were our nurses around our sick beds. Their lullabyes soothed us to
sleep. Very frequently my nurse would hold me in her arms until both of us would fall asleep, but she would
still hold me secure. When any of my misdoings came to the ears of my parents, and I was punished their
testimony would, as far as possible, shield me, and not until I would try their patience out of all bounds
would they tell my mother on me. I never heard an infidel negro express his views, even if very wicked.
They had firm belief in God and a devil. I always liked their meetings, their songs and shoutings. They
always told me that no one could help shouting. The first time I ever heard a white woman shout was in
Northern Texas, during the war. I did not wish the spirit to cause me to jump up and clap my hands that
way, for these impulses were not in my carnal heart, so, for fear I should be compelled to do so, I held
my dress down tight to the seat on each side, to prevent such action. The negroes are great readers of
character; despise stingy people or those who were afraid of them. These colored friends taught me the
fear of God. The first time I ever attended church, I rode behind on horseback, and sat with them in the
gallery. 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. 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. I would
listen until my teeth would chatter with fright, and would shiver more and more, as they would tell of the sights
in grave-yards, and the spirits of tyrannical masters, walking at night, with their chains clanking and the, sights
of hell, where some would be on gridirons, some hung up to baste and the devil with his pitchfork would toss
the poor creatures hither and thither. They would say: “Carry, you must go to the house,” and I would not go
with one, but have two, one on each side of me. I remember seeing the negro men laugh at me, but the women
would shake their heads and say: “You better quit skeering that chile.” But there was one pleasure above all
the rest, it was to hear any one tell “tales.” When my mother would have a visitor, very frequently the lady
would bring a nurse to care for one child or children, she might bring with her. Oh, how pleased the black
and white children would be to see such visitors. We would gather around and in every way made our pleasure
known. Would give them doll-rags, nuts, or apples, and in many ways express our delight at having them
come. As soon as they were made comfortable, the next thing was: “Tell us a tale.” And seating ourselves
around on the floor, or in a close group, we would be all attention. Of course there would be some raw heads
and bloody bones, but not so much as the stories told at night in the cabins. A positive indication of a corrupt
age is the lack of respect children have for parents. This is largely owing to the neglect of teachers. I am
heartily thankful I was taught to say ‘Yes Ma’am, and ‘No, ma’am,’ ‘Yes, Sir, and No, Sir.’ Now it is–‘Yah! Yes,
No, What, etc. Nothing is a greater letter of credit than politeness and it costs nothing. T’is not the child’s
fault but the parents and teachers. I was, when a child, always doing something; was very fond of climbing;
seemed to have a mania for it. I never saw a tall tree that I did not try to climb, or wish I could.

I used to run bareheaded over the fields and woods with the other children, lifting up rocks and logs to look
at the bugs and worms. When we found a dead chicken, bird, rat or mouse, we would have a funeral. I would
usually be the preacher and we would kneel down and while one prayed, the rest would look through their
fingers, to see what the others were doing. We would sing and clap our hands and shake hands, then we
would play: “Come and see.” I never had but one doll, bought out of a store, it was given to me by Dr. Jackson
for taking my medicine, when I was sick. We made rag dolls out of dresses. My delight was to have one of
the colored women’s babies. We would go visiting and take our dolls, and would tell of the dreadful times
we had and of how mean our husbands were to the children; sometimes one would tell of how good instead.
And then we would catch bees in the althea blooms. One of the delightful pastimes was to make mud cakes
and put them on boards to dry. We had some clay that we could mould anything out of–all kind of animals,
and, indeed, there were shapes worked out by little fingers never seen before. The race question is a serious
one. The kindly feeling between black and white is giving place to bitterness with the rising generations. One
reason of this seems to be a jealousy of the whites for fear the negroes will presume to be socially equal with
them. The negro race should avoid this, should not desire it, it would be of no real value to them. They are a
distinct race with characteristics which they need not wish to exchange. When a negro tries to imitate white
folks, he is a mongrel. I will say to my colored brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus; Never depart from your
race lines and bearings, keep true to your nature, your simplicity, and happy disposition–and above all
come back to the ‘Oldtime’ religion, you will never strand on that rock.

CHAPTER III.

In 1854, we moved to Woodford County, Kentucky, and bought a farm from Mr. Hibler, on the pike, between
Midway and Versailles. Mr. Warren Viley was our nearest neighbor. My father was one of the trustees in
building the Orphans’ Home at Midway. Here in Midway I attended Sunday school and I had a very faithful
teacher who taught me the Word of God. I have forgotten her name but I can see her sweet face now, as
she planted seed in my heart that are still bringing forth fruit. A minister came to our house one day and
gave me a book to read, which made a very deep impression on me. As well as I can remember it was
called: “The Children of the Heavenly King.” This story represented three brothers, one, the youngest,
was named Ezra, the other Ulrich, the third I forget. These three were intrusted with watching certain passes
in the mountains during the warfare between a great, good king, and a bad one, and in proportion as these
boys were faithful, the good king was victorious in battle, but when they neglected their duty, he would suffer
loss. The character of little Ezra was a sweet, unselfish one. He tried so hard to help, and have his brothers
do right. He would run from his post to wake them up, and tried to make up for their neglect; would do
without rest and food for himself, and plead with them to do their duty. At last, when the king came, little
Ezra was richly rewarded; Ulrich barely passed, and the unfaithful one was taken out amidst weeping,
wailing and gnashing of teeth, and the door was shut. The minister did not know what good he had done.

“Only a thought, but the work it wrought,
Could never by tongue or pen be taught;
For it ran thro’ a life, like a thread of gold,
And the life bore fruit, an hundred fold.
Only a word, but it was spoken in love,
With a whispered prayer to the Lord above;
And the angels in heaven rejoiced once more
For a new-born soul entered in, at the door.”

I resolved to be like little Ezra as near as I could. When I was a child I fought against my selfish nature. I would
often give away my doll clothes and other things that I wanted to keep myself. Some of the strongest characteristics
of my life were awakened in my childhood. I would often blush with shame, when committing sins, and I had
a great fear of the judgement day; it would terrify me when hearing of Jesus coming to the earth. I would often
ask myself: “Where can I hide?” If the public knew of the smashing God gave me the strength to do in my heart,
they would not wonder at my courage in smashing the murder-shops of our land. “He that ruleth his own spirit,
is greater than he that taketh a city.” In 1855, we moved to Missouri, just a year before the trouble broke out
between Kansas and Missouri. Missouri determined to make Kansas a slave state; but Kansas said she would
not have a slave upon her soil. Squads of men in Missouri would often go into Kansas and commit depredations.
At one time they burned Lawrence, Kansas, and killed many people. This trouble continued to grow worse until
it brought on the great Civil War. When we moved from Kentucky to Missouri, I took a severe cold on the boat,
which made me an invalid for years. I was not a truthful child, neither was I honest. My mother was very strict
with me in many ways and I would often tell her lies to avoid restraint or punishment. If there was anything I
wanted about the house, especially something to eat, I would steal it, if I could. The colored servants would
often ask me to steal things for them. My nurse Betsy, would say: “Carry get me a cup of sugar, butter, thread
or needles,” and many other things. This would make me sly and dishonest. I used to go and see my aunts
and stay for months. I would open their boxes and bureau drawers and steal ribbons and laces and make
doll clothes out of them. I would steal perfumery and would run out of the room to prevent them from smelling
it. I am telling this for a purpose.

Many little children may be doing what I did, not thinking of what a serious thing it is, and I write this to show
them how I was cured of dishonesty: I got a little book at Sunday school and it told the way people became
thieves, by beginning to take little things naming them, and some of these were the very things I had been
taking. I was greatly shocked to see myself a thief; it had never occurred to me that I was as bad as that. I
thought one had to steal something of great value to be a thief. My repentance was sincere, and I was made
honest by this blessed book, so much so that even after I became grown, if any article was left in my house
I would give it away, unless I could find the owner. I was perfectly delighted when I was entirely free. I asked
for everything I wanted, even a pin. After that, I could show my doll clothes, and it was not necessary for me
to be sly or tell stories any more. It was about this time I was converted. There was a protracted meeting at
a place called Hickman’s Mill, Jackson County, Missouri. The minister was gray haired and belonged to the
Christian or Disciples church, the one my father belonged to. I was at this time ten years old and went with
my father to church on Lord’s Day morning. At the close of the sermon, and during the invitation, my father
stepped to the pulpit and spoke to the minister and he looked over in my direction. At this I began to weep
bitterly, seemed to be taken up, and sat down on the front bench. I could not have told any one what I wept
for, except it was a longing to be better. I had often thought before this that I was in danger of going to the
“Bad place,” especially I would be afraid to think of the time that I should see Jesus come. I wanted to hide
from Him. My father had a cousin living at Hickman’s Mill, Ben Robertson.

His wife, cousin Jennie, came up to me at the close of the service, and said: “Carry, I believe you know what
you are doing.” But I did not. Oh, how I wanted some one to explain to me. The next day I was taken to a
running stream about two miles away, and, although it was quite cold and some ice in the water, I felt no fear.
It seemed like a dream. I know God will bless the ordinance of baptism, for the little Carry that walked into
the water was different from the one who walked out. I said no word. I felt that I could not speak, for fear
of disturbing the peace that is past understanding. Kind hands wrapped me up and I felt no chill. I felt the
responsibility of my new relation and tried hard to do right. A few days after this I was at my aunt Kate
Doneghy’s. Uncle James, or “Jim,” we called him, her husband, was not a Christian. He shocked me one
day by saying: “So those Campbellites took you to the creek, and soused you, did they ‘Cal’?” (A nick name.)
What a blow! My aunt seemed also shocked to have him speak thus to me. I left the room and avoided
meeting him again. How he crushed me! It had the effect to make me feel like a criminal. When I was fifteen,
the war broke out between the north and the south. My father saw that Missouri would be the battle ground
and he, with many others, took their families and negroes and went south, taking what they could in wagons,
for there were no railroads then in that section. There was quite a train with the droves of cattle, mules and
horses. One wagon had six yoke of oxen to it; had to get into it by a ladder, the kind that was used to freight
across the plains. The family went in the family carriage that my father brought from Kentucky. I remember
the time when this carriage was purchased, with the two dapple gray horses, and silver mounted harness,
and when my mother would drive out she had a driver in broadcloth, with a high silk hat, and a boy rode on
a seat behind, to open the gates. This was one of the ways of traveling in Kentucky in those days. My mother
was an aristocrat in her ideas, but my father was not. He liked no display. He was wise enough to see the sin
and folly of it. After being on the road six weeks, we stopped in Grayson County, Texas, and bought a farm.

As we started from Missouri one of the colored women took sick with typhoid fever. This spread so that ten
of the family, white, and black, were down at one time. As soon as we could travel, my father left the colored
people south, and took his family back to Missouri. That winter south was a great blessing to me, for I recovered
from a disease that had made me an invalid for five years–consumption of the bowels. Poor health had keep
me out of school a great deal. My father at one time sent me to Mrs. Tillery’s boarding school in Independence,
Mo., but I was not in the recitation room more than half of the time. After I recovered my health in Texas, it
was my delight to ride on horseback with a girl friend. The southern boys were preparing to go to war. Many
a sewing did we attend, where the mothers had spun and woven the gray cloth that they were now working
up so sorrowfully for their sons to be buried in, far away from home. They thought their cause was right. There
were many good masters. And again there were bad ones. Whiskey is always a cruel tyrant and is a worse
evil than chattel slavery. We were often stopped on our trip by southern troops, in the Territory and Texas,
and then again by northerners. We passed over the Pea Ridge battle ground shortly after the battle. Oh!
the horrors of war. We often stopped at houses where the wounded were. We let them have our pillows and
every bit of bedding we could spare. We went to our home in Cass County, Missouri. Shortly after this we,
with all families living in that country, were commanded by an order from Jim Lane, to move into an army
post. This reached several counties in Missouri. It was done to depopulate the country, so that the “Bush
whackers” would be forced to leave, because of not being able to get food from the citizens. This caused
much suffering. But such is war. We moved to Kansas City. I was in Independence, Mo., during the battle,
when Price came through. I went with a good woman to the hospital to help with the wounded. My duty
was to comb the heads of the wounded. I had a pan of scalding water near and would use the comb
and shake off the animated nature into the hot water. The southern and northern wounded were in the
same rooms. In health they were enemies, but I only saw kindly feeling and sympathy.

Mothers ought to give their daughters the experience of sitting with the sick; of preparing food for them; of
binding up wounds. It is a pitiful sight to see a helpless woman in the sick room, ignorant through lack of
experience and education, of ways to be useful at the time and place where these characteristics of woman
adorn her the most of all others. After we returned from Texas, being the oldest child and the servants all
gone, my mother sick, and the younger children going to school, I had the house work, cooking and most
of the washing to do. It was a new experience for me, and it was twice as hard as it ought to have been.
I exposed my health; would slop up myself when I washed, and almost ruined my health, because I had
not been properly educated. Herein was the curse of slavery. My father saw this, and I don’t believe he
had a regret when the slaves were free. Mother, it matters not what else you teach your daughters, if they
have not an experience in doing the work themselves about a home, they are sadly deficient. It is not the soft,
palefaced, painted, fashionable lady we want, for the world would be better without her; but the woman capable
of knowing how, and willing to take a place in the home affairs of life. It is an ambition of mine to establish a
Preparatory College in Topeka, Kansas, where girls may be taught, as women should be, that they in turn may
teach others, how to wash, cook, scrub, dress and talk, to counteract the idea that woman is a toy, pretty doll,
with no will power of her own, only a parrot, a parasite of a man. To be womanly, means strength of character,
virtue and a power for good. Let your women be teachers of good things, says the Holy Spirit.