a ruddy looking young fellow approached me and asked if I wanted 
to pick cotton, and I told him I did. “Well,” he says, “I have lots 
of cotton to pick and I will pay 75 cents per hundred and charge $2.50 
per week for hoard. My wagon is here and if you want to go out 
with me' pile in.” This I did and within an hour we had arrived at 
what was known as Dr. Shrell’s farm. There were nigger cabins by 
the dozens. The niggers all seemed to be happy, some were singing 
and some were blowing quills; it was about night and they were 
coming in from their day’s work. 
Everything looked good to me. There was plenty of house room 
and a large barn for the stock and a gin house to gin the cotton. 
The fellow who had employed me was named A. J. Climan and was 
a Kentucky boy managing his uncle’s farm, who was Dr. Shrell. 
I was given a comfortable room and made to feel at home. 
Andrew, which was Mr. Climan’s name and which I will call him here¬ 
after, asked me how much cotton T could pick in a day. I told him 
about 200 pounds, so he gave me a sufficient number of sacks to hold 
200 pounds of cotton and after breakfast I went to it. I worked 
hard that day and when I came in had quite a little over 200 pounds, 
for which T received commendation, as it was more than a cotton 
picker could ordinarily pick. 
