American Social History

by Edward Winslow Martin, 1874

“Yes,” replied the farmer. “We’ve no reapers in this part of the country, and we farm in the oldfashioned way.”

“That’s a pity,” said the stranger. “A reaper would work beautifully on this land. Why it would be no trouble at all to get your wheat in with a good reaper.” …

“Can’t afford it; haven’t got the money to spare,” said the farmer.

“See here, now,” said the stranger, in a more confidential tone. “I’m selling a patent reaper — a first-class machine, and dirt-cheap at the money asked for it. You’d better let me sell you one.”

“It’s no use to talk about it, my friend. I haven’t the money to spare.”

“I don’t want your money now,” said the man, temptingly. “I’ll sell you one at a bargain, and wait till it has paid for itself.”

And with that the agent produced pencil and paper, and went into a calculation, showing the farmer how much it would cost him to cut his crop that year, and how much the reaper would save him, as well as a calculation of the amount of grain he could cut for other farmers in the vicinity. …

Farmer Green’s better judgment bade him refuse the terms thus offered, liberal as they seemed. He knew the evil consequences of running into debt, and his conscience bade him put the temptation behind him. He wanted a reaper, however; he had always wanted one; and here was an opportunity of purchasing one upon terms which would enable him to pay for it out of its actual earnings. There was not a reaper in the county, and he felt confident that he would be able to keep it busy on his neighbors’ farms, all through the season, after he had cut his own crop.

The agent was a smooth tongued, plausible fellow, and he plied the farmer with every argument he was master of. The result was that the farmer bought the reaper. He had not the money to pay for it, but he gave what is called in Iowa “an iron-clad note” for it. In plainer English, he gave his note accompanied with a statement of property. By the laws of lowa such a note is equivalent to a mortgage. And so, in order to purchase the reaper, the farmer had imperilled his property, and had placed the safety of his home upon the turn of a chance.

The machine arrived in due time, and was found to be all the agent had claimed for it. It was a capital reaper, and a very handsome machine withal. Farmer Green could not help feeling a little downhearted as he remembered the risk he had incurred in order to obtain it; but he consoled himself with the hope that he would be able to make it pay for itself. When the harvest came around, the machine proved itself a good worker. Farmer Green soon had his crop cut and stacked, and then began to look about him for engagements for cutting his neighbors’ grain. Some were willing to make the trial, and a few jobs of this kind enabled him to earn something with his reaper. But the work was less in amount than he had looked forward to, for the agent who had sold him the reaper had found other customers in the vicinity, and the demand for Farmer Green’s machine was very much less than he had anticipated. The reaper stood idle under its shed during the better portion of the harvest season, and the farmer was doomed to a severe disappointment. When the crop was sold there was another disappointment.

There had been a heavy decline in the price of wheat, and the farmer did not receive as much as he had expected for his grain. All this while the day upon which the note must be paid was drawing near, and the farmer’s chances of meeting it were rapidly diminishing. …

He paid the interest once or twice, but the burden was too heavy for him, and at last, in sheer despair, he mortgaged the farm, paid the note, and got rid of the Reaper Company. But he had only shifted his burdens. The mortgage proved as troublesome as the note had been, and instead of being able to decrease it, he was obliged to increase it as time passed on. By the first false step he had placed the farm of which he was so proud in danger. He had voluntarily incurred a useless debt, and the rest of his bad luck was simply the logical consequence of a reckless and foolish act. He ran behind steadily, and at length his difficulties increased to such an extent that in order to rid himself of the debts he had no hope of paying in any other way, he sold his farm, discharged the mortgage, and bidding adieu to his old home and friends, went farther West, …

The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 42, October 1878

By the modern cultivator the labor of cultivating corn after it is planted is reduced twenty per cent. But it is in shelling the corn that labor is most aided by invention. By the old hand method, a man could shell only five bushels a day, whereas now, two men, with a shelling machine driven by steam or horse power, can shell fifteen hundred bushels a day. To shell by the hand method the thirteen hundred million bushels of corn produced in the United States last year would require over eight hundred and sixty thousand men working three hundred days in a year.

The principal implements or machines employed in the production of wheat, rye, oats, and barley are the seeder, the harvester, and the thresher. In planting grain, the seeder has great advantages over the old mode of broadcast sowing and harrowing. It sows the seed and covers it with soil at one operation; and by distributing the seed more evenly and covering it at a more uniform depth than can be done by the old mode of planting, the crop is rendered more certain and the yield increased from ten to twelve per cent. In harvesting grain, a man with a common sickle can barely reap half an acre in a day, laying the grain in parcels to be bound into sheaves afterwards. With the best harvester a man driving two horses can cut and bind the crop of fifteen acres a day.

Formerly grain was threshed with the flail, and freed from its chaff by a fanning mill operated by hand. The modern thresher, propelled by steam or horse power, performs both of these operations at once. It receives the grain in masses, separates the kernel from its stalk, deposits the chaff and straw in a pile, and delivers the clean grain into sacks ready for the market. Some idea of the extent to which these machines aid labor in the production of grain may be derived from the fact that last year, in this country alone, eight hundred and twenty-two million bushels of wheat, rye, oats, and barley were produced. In cutting and curing hay, the mowing machine, tedder, and horse-rake enable one man to do as much as four can do without them.

Little Rock, Arkansas

My father and mother were not exactly sold to Mississippi. My father was but my mother wasn’t. When Paul Barringer lost all of his niggers, what he first had, his sister give him my mother and a whole lot more of them.  I don’t know how many he had, but he had a great many. My father went alone, but all my mother’s people were taken - four sisters, and three brothers, They were all grown when I first seen them.  I never seen my mother’s father at all.

There was a world of yellow people then. My mother said her sister had two yellow children; they were her master’s. I know of plenty of light people who were living at that time.

My mother had two light children that belonged to her sister. They were taken from her after freedom, and were made to cook and work for their sister and brother (white).

My mammy was mother to ten children, all slaves, and my Pappy, Buck Grant, was a buck slave on the plantation of John Grant, his Mastah; my pappy was used much as a male cow is used on the stock farm and was hired out to other plantation owners for that purpose and was regarded as a valuable slave. His Mastah permitted him to visit my mother each week-end on our plantation.

Many has been the time, I have seen my mammy beaten mercilessly and for no good reason. One day, not long before the out-break of the Civil War, a nigger buyer came and I witnessed my dear Mammy and my one year old baby brother, sold, I seen er taken away, never to see her again until I found her twenty-seven years later at Clarksburg, Tennessee. My baby brother was with her, but I did not know him until Mammy told me who he was, he had grown into a large man.

Athens, Georgia

Harold and Jane Upson was my Daddy and Mammy; only folkses just called Daddy ‘Hal.’ Both of ‘em wes raised right dar on de Upson place whar dey played together whilst dey was chillun.  Mammy said she had washed and sewed for Daddy ever sinee she was big enough, and when dey got grown dey jus’ up and got married.  I was deir only boy and I was de baby chile, but dey had four gals oler’n me. …

Daddy made de shoes for all de slaves on de plantation and Mammy was called de house ‘oman. …  I was little and stayed wid Mammy up at de big ‘ouse and jus’ played all over it and all de folkese up der petted me.  Aunt Tama was a old slave too old to wuk.  She was all de time cookin’ gingerbread and hidin’ it in a little trunk what sot by de fireplace in her room.  When us chillun was good Aunt Tame give us gingerbread, but if us didn’t mind what she said, us didn’t git none. …

I ain’t never gwine to forgit dat  whuppin, my own daddy give me.  He had jus’ sharpened up a fine new axe for hisself, and I traded it off to a white boy named Roar what lived nigh us When I seed him out tryin’ to cut wood w1d a sorry old dull axe. I sold him my daddy’s fine new axe for 5 biscuits.  When he found not ‘bout dat, he ‘lowed he was gwine to gove me somepin to make me think ‘fore I done any more tradin’ of his things. Mist’ess, let ne tell you, dat beatin” he give me evermore was a-layin’ on of de rod. …

Mammy never did give me but one whuppin’ neither.  Daddy was gwine to de circus and I jus’ cut up ‘bout it ‘cause I wanted to go so bad.  Mist’ess give me some cake and I hushed long as I was eatin’, but soon as de last cake crumb was swallowed I started bawlin’ again.  She give me a sitick of candy and soon as I et dat I was squallin’ wuss den ever.  Mammy told Mist’iss den det she knowed how to quiet me and she retch under de bed for a shoe.  When she had done finished layin’ dat shoe on me and put it back what she got it, I was sho willin’ to shet my mothe and let ‘em fo to de circus widout no more racket from me.

Columbia, South Carolina

“How old was I when I done my courtin’? What’s dat? Dat courtin’ stuff is what white folks does, no nigger knows what dat fancy thing is. Us just natchally lives together; men and women mates lak de animals out dere.

Colored people don’t pay no ‘tention to what white folks call love, they just ‘sires de woman they wants, dat’s all. I married dat man of mine, Tilghman Thompson, and us got ‘long right smart, ‘til he die.