tree and the old coon climbed to the extreme top branches of the tree, 
I followed to within a few feet of him and began to shake the tree. I 
would shake and shake until my strength was exhausted and w T hen I 
would stop to rest the coon would 
look down, ring his tail and make 
a chattering noise, as if to say, “I 
have a good notion to jump on 
your head. ’ ’ 
After I had gained my wind I 
gave the tree another vigorous 
shake which shook the coon loose, 
all except one foot, but I couldn’t 
hold out, I had to stop for another 
breath, which gave the coon an 
opportunity to regain his footing, 
and he scampered down the tree, 
jumped on my head, down my 
back and to the ground. The 
minute he touched the ground the 
dogs were on him. I could hear 
him squealing and the dogs growl¬ 
ing as I slid down the tree, but I 
could hear nothing of Jim. 
By the time I reached the 
ground the dogs had the coon 
almost killed, I called Jim and he 
answered from about 50 yards 
away. I asked him what he was 
doing out there, he replied: 
“I is up dis tree, dats where I 
is; do you think I is goin’ to stay 
on de groun’ where dem dogs and 
coon am fightin’?” 
This was our first coon, but not 
our last one; we often caught all 
the coons and opossums we could 
carry. 
When I was about 12 years old 
my father moved from Marshall 
County, Tennessee, to Murray County, near Columbia. This, of course, 
separated me and my nigger Jim, which was a sad affair for both of us. 
My father owned and operated what was known as the White 
Spring Distillery. This thing ran day and night and I had to carry 
the night crew their suppers, about one-half mile distance, through 
pitch darkness usually. A large oak tree stood by the side of the 
trail I had to travel, under which, at one time, an old tramp had 
stopped to rest and the next morning was found dead, due of course 
to heart failure, but the negroes claimed they had seen some fearful 
haunts or ghosts under this tree and such weird tales had been told 
— 4 — 
