ng in the morning, even before I would have my breakfast, and my dear white mother would save it for me as she knew that I would have that ride first; for it always made her feel proud to see how well I had learned to ride, and she was the one that had taught me how to ride, for she had me on the horse when I was three years old and from that time until she went home to come out no more forever.
I was two and a half years, as near as I can remember, when my own slave mother's house was burned to the ground, and I shall never forget that Saturday night. My mother's husband had gone to a dance and mother was there alone with her little ones, and we all came near getting burned up. We were all asleep when I awoke and found the house in a blaze. I did not know enough or I was so much scared that I did not call to my mother, but I think that she heard me when I rolled out of the bed, and she was out of the bed quick as could be and getting the feather beds she threw them out of the door and got the children
An account that is almost impossible to read. The author was 3 when the Civil War ended and her family emigrated North. I think.
Time is not linear in this book. Her mother and brother die in the first chapter, only to appear again and die again, then appear again. There is no way to tell where she is in her story at any time. It it not stream-of-consciousness, it is simply bad writing. The word "lovely" is worn to death.
The most grating part of the book is that easily half of each page is a testimony to Jesus, usually in the same words, over and over.