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Often we were reminded that if we were not good the white people would sell us to Georgia, which place we dreaded above all others on earth. Brent, our owner, held some office in the Government, and he removed to Washington when I was about seven or eight years old.
His mother and mine, with others, were crying, and all seemed very sad. Whenever we saw a white man looking over the fence as we were at play, we would run and hide, sometimes getting near our mothers, ignorantly thinking they could protect us.
White children were free--"free born"--but black children were slaves and could be sold for money.
What seemed worse than all was the discovery that our mothers, whom we looked upon as our only protectors, could not help us.
My father died when I was nine years old, he left money for me to purchase my freedom when I became a man, but the money got into other people's hands and never reached me.
I can well remember when others little children and I were very happy, not knowing that we were slaves.