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THE UPWARD PATH
A READER FOR COLORED
CHILDREN
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ROBERT R. MOTON
PRINCIPAL OF TUSKEGEE INSTITUTE
COMPILED BY
MYRON T. PRITCHARD
PRINCIPAL, EVERETT SCHOOL, BOSTON
AND
MARY WHITE OVINGTON
CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD OF THE NATIONAL ASSOCIATION FOR THE
ADVANCEMENT OF COLORED PEOPLE
NEW YORK
HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Boy and the Bayonet]
FOREWORD
To the present time, there has been no collection of stories and poems
by Negro writers, which colored children could read with interest and
pleasure and in which they could find a mirror of the traditions and
aspirations of their race. Realizing this lack, Myron T. Pritchard,
Principal of the Everett School, Boston, and Mary White Ovington,
Chairman of the Board of the National Association for the Advancement of
Colored People, have brought together poems, stories, sketches and
addresses which bear eloquent testimony to the richness of the literary
product of our Negro writers. It is the hope that this little book will
find a large welcome in all sections of the country and will bring good
cheer and encouragement to the young readers who have so largely the
fortunes of their race in their own hands.
The editors desire to express thanks to the authors who have generously
granted the use of their work. Especial acknowledgement is due to Mrs.
Booker T. Washington for the selection from _Up from Slavery_; to _The
Crisis_ for "The Rondeau," by Jessie Fauset, "The Brave Son," by Alston
W. Burleigh, "The Black Fairy," by Fenton Johnson, "The Children at
Easter," by C. Emily Frazier, "His Motto," by Lottie B. Dixon, "Negro
Soldiers," by Roscoe C. Jamison, "A Legend of the Blue Jay," by Ruth
Anna Fisher; to the American Book Company for "The Dog and the Clever
Rabbit," from _Animal Tales_, by A. O. Stafford; to Frederick A. Stokes
and Company for "A Negro Explorer at the North Pole," by Matthew A.
Henson; to A. C. McClurg and Company for the selection from _Souls of
Black Folk_, by W. E. B. DuBois; to Henry Holt and Company for the
selection from _The Negro_, by W. E. B. DuBois; to the Cornhill Company
for the selections from The _Band of Gideon_, by Joseph F. Cotter, Jr.,
and _The Menace of the South_, by William J. Edwards; to Dodd, Mead and
Company for "Ere Sleep Comes Down" and the "Boy and the Bayonet"
(copyright 1907), by Paul Laurence Dunbar.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE BOY AND THE BAYONET _Paul Laurence Dunbar_ 1
BEGINNINGS OF A MISSISSIPPI SCHOOL _William H. Holtzclaw_ 13
UP FROM SLAVERY _Booker T. Washington_ 15
BOOKER T. WASHINGTON _William H. Holtzclaw_ 20
ANNA-MARGARET _Augusta Bird_ 22
CHARITY _H. Cordelia Ray_ 28
MY FIRST SCHOOL _W. E. B. DuBois_ 29
ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN _Paul Laurence Dunbar_ 38
THE LAND OF LAUGHTER _Angelina W. Grimke_ 40
THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE _Charles W. Chesnutt_ 47
IS THE GAME WORTH THE CANDLE? _James E. Shepard_ 48
O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS _James Weldon Johnson_ 54
THE GREATEST MENACE OF THE SOUTH _William J. Edwards_ 56
THE ENCHANTED SHELL _H. Cordelia Ray_ 63
BEHIND A GEORGIA MULE _James Weldon Johnson_ 66
HAYTI AND TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE _W. E. B. DuBois_ 72
HIS MOTTO _Lottie Burrell Dixon_ 77
THE MONTHS _H. Cordelia Ray_ 86
THE COLORED CADET AT WEST POINT _Lieut. Henry Ossian
Flipper, U.S.A._ 90
AN HYMN TO THE EVENING _Phyllis Wheatley_ 95
GOING TO SCHOOL UNDER DIFFICULTIES _William H. Holtzclaw_ 96
THE BRAVE SON _Alston W. Burleigh_ 101
VICTORY _Walter F. White_ 102
THE DOG AND THE CLEVER RABBIT _A. O. Stafford_ 109
THE BOY AND THE IDEAL _Joseph S. Cotter_ 112
CHILDREN AT EASTER _C. Emily Frazier_ 114
ABRAHAM LINCOLN _William Pickens_ 117
RONDEAU _Jessie Fauset_ 120
HOW I ESCAPED _Frederick Douglass_ 121
FREDERICK DOUGLASS _W. H. Crogman_ 128
INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS 134
ANIMAL LIFE IN THE CONGO _William Henry Sheppard_ 135
COOPERATION AND THE LATIN CLASS _Lillian B. Witten_ 143
THE BAND OF GIDEON _Joseph F. Cotter, Jr._ 148
THE HOME OF THE COLORED GIRL BEAUTIFUL _Azalia Hackley_ 150
THE KNIGHTING OF DONALD _Lillian B. Witten_ 153
A NEGRO EXPLORER AT THE NORTH POLE _Matthew A. Henson_ 159
BENJAMIN BANNEKER _William Wells Brown_ 166
THE NEGRO RACE _Charles W. Anderson_ 168
PAUL CUFFE _John W. Cromwell_ 169
THE BLACK FAIRY _Fenton Johnson_ 175
IT'S A LONG WAY _William Stanley
Braithwaite_ 181
NEGRO MUSIC THAT STIRRED FRANCE _Emmett J. Scott_ 182
NOVEMBER 11, 1918 187
SEA LYRIC _William Stanley
Braithwaite_ 189
A NEGRO WOMAN'S HOSPITALITY _Leila A. Pendleton_ 190
RECORD OF "THE OLD FIFTEENTH" IN FRANCE _Emmett J. Scott_ 192
NEGRO SOLDIERS _Roscoe C. Jamison_ 194
THE "DEVIL BUSH" AND THE "GREEGREE BUSH" _George W. Ellis_ 195
EVENING PRAYER _H. Cordelia Ray_ 199
THE STRENUOUS LIFE _Silas X. Floyd_ 200
O LITTLE DAVID, PLAY ON YOUR HARP _Joseph F. Cotter, Jr._ 202
A DAY AT KALK BAY, SOUTH AFRICA _L. J. Coppin_ 203
BISHOP ATTICUS G. HAYGOOD _W. H. Crogman_ 205
HOW TWO COLORED CAPTAINS FELL _Ralph W. Tyler_ 207
THE YOUNG WARRIOR _James Weldon Johnson_ 208
WHOLE REGIMENTS DECORATED _Emmett J. Scott_ 209
ON PLANTING ARTICHOKES _Daniel A. Rudd and
Theodore Bond_ 210
A SONG OF THANKS _Edward Smyth Jones_ 214
OUR DUMB ANIMALS _Silas X. Floyd_ 216
A LEGEND OF THE BLUE JAY _Ruth Anna Fisher_ 218
DAVID LIVINGSTONE _Benjamin Brawley_ 220
IRA ALDRIDGE _William J. Simmons_ 224
FIFTY YEARS _James Weldon Johnson_ 228
A GREAT KINGDOM IN THE CONGO _William Henry Sheppard_ 233
PILLARS OF THE STATE _William C. Jason_ 249
OATH OF AFRO-AMERICAN YOUTH _Kelly Miller_ 250
NOTES 251
INTRODUCTION
The Negro has been in America just about three hundred years and in that
time he has become intertwined in all the history of the nation. He has
fought in her wars; he has endured hardships with her pioneers; he has
toiled in her fields and factories; and the record of some of the
nation's greatest heroes is in large part the story of their service and
sacrifice for this people.
The Negro arrived in America as a slave in 1619, just one year before
the Pilgrims arrived at Plymouth in search of freedom. Since then their
lot has not always been a happy one, but nevertheless, in spite of
difficulties and hardships, the race has learned many valuable lessons
in its conflict with the American civilization. As a slave the lessons
of labor, of constructive endeavor, of home-life and religion were
learned, even if the opportunity was not always present to use these
lessons to good advantage.
After slavery other lessons were learned in their order. Devoted
self-sacrificing souls--soldiers of human brotherhood--took up the task
in the schoolroom which their brothers began on the battlefield. Here it
was that the Negro learned the history of America, of the deeds of her
great men, the stirring events which marked her development, the ideals
that made America great. And so well have they been learned, that to-day
there are no more loyal Americans than the twelve million Negroes that
make up so large a part of the nation.
But the race has other things yet to learn: The education of any race is
incomplete unless the members of that race know the history and
character of its own people as well as those of other peoples. The Negro
has yet to learn of the part which his own race has played in making
America great; has yet to learn of the noble and heroic souls among his
own people, whose achievements are praiseworthy among any people. A
number of books--poetry, history and fiction--have been written by Negro
authors in which the life of their own people has been faithfully and
attractively set forth; but until recently no effort has been made on a
large scale to see that Negro boys and girls became acquainted with
these books and the facts they contained concerning their people.
In this volume the publishers have brought together a number of
selections from the best literary works of Negro authors, through which
these young people may learn more of the character and accomplishments
of the worthy members of their race. Such matter is both informing and
inspiring, and no Negro boy or girl can read it without feeling a deeper
pride in his own race. The selections are each calculated to teach a
valuable lesson, and all make a direct appeal to the best impulses of
the human heart.
For a number of years several educational institutions for Negro youths
have conducted classes in Negro history with a similar object in view.
The results of these classes have been most gratifying and the present
volume is a commendable contribution to the literature of such a course.
ROBERT R. MOTON
TUSKEGEE INSTITUTE, ALA.,
June 30, 1920
To the man in the tower the world below him is likely to look very
small. Men look like ants and all the bustle and stir of their hurrying
lives seems pitifully confused and aimless. But the man in the street
who is looking and striving upward is in a different situation. However
poor his present plight, the thing he aims at and is striving toward
stands out clear and distinct above him, inspiring him with hope and
ambition in his struggle upward. For the man who is down there is always
something to hope for, always something to be gained. The man who is
down, looking up, may catch a glimpse now and then of heaven, but the
man who is so situated that he can only look down is pretty likely to
see another and quite different place.
BOOKER T. WASHINGTON
THE UPWARD PATH
THE BOY AND THE BAYONET
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
It was June, and nearing the closing time of school. The air was full of
the sound of bustle and preparation for the final exercises, field day,
and drills. Drills especially, for nothing so gladdens the heart of the
Washington mother, be she black or white, as seeing her boy in the blue
cadet's uniform, marching proudly to the huzzas of an admiring crowd.
Then she forgets the many nights when he has come in tired out and dusty
from his practice drill, and feels only the pride and elation of the
result.
Although Tom did all he could outside of study hours, there were many
days of hard work for Hannah Davis, when her son went into the High
School. But she took it upon herself gladly, since it gave Bud the
chance to learn, that she wanted him to have. When, however, he entered
the Cadet Corps it seemed to her as if the first steps toward the
fulfilment of all her hopes had been made. It was a hard pull to her,
getting the uniform, but Bud himself helped manfully, and when his
mother saw him rigged out in all his regimentals, she felt that she had
not toiled in vain. And in fact it was worth all the trouble and expense
just to see the joy and pride of "little sister," who adored Bud.
As the time for the competitive drill drew near there was an air of
suppressed excitement about the little house on "D" Street, where the
three lived. All day long "little sister," who was never very well and
did not go to school, sat and looked out of the window on the
uninteresting prospect of a dusty thoroughfare lined on either side with
dull red brick houses, all of the same ugly pattern, interspersed with
older, uglier, and viler frame shanties. In the evening Hannah hurried
home to get supper against the time when Bud should return, hungry and
tired from his drilling, and the chore work which followed hard upon its
heels.
Things were all cheerful, however, for as they applied themselves to the
supper, the boy, with glowing face, would tell just how his company "A"
was getting on, and what they were going to do to companies "B" and "C."
It was not boasting so much as the expression of a confidence, founded
upon the hard work he was doing, and Hannah and the "little sister"
shared that with him.
The child often, listening to her brother, would clap her hands or cry,
"Oh, Bud, you're just splendid an' I know you'll beat 'em."
"If hard work'll beat 'em, we've got 'em beat," Bud would reply, and
Hannah, to add an admonitory check to her own confidence, would break in
with, "Now, don't you be too sho'; dey ain't been no man so good dat dey
wasn't somebody bettah." But all the while her face and manner were
disputing what her words expressed.
The great day came, and it was a wonderful crowd of people that packed
the great baseball grounds to overflowing. It seemed that all of
Washington's colored population was out, when there were really only
about one-tenth of them there. It was an enthusiastic, banner-waving,
shouting, hallooing crowd. Its component parts were strictly and frankly
partisan, and so separated themselves into sections differentiated by
the colors of the flags they carried and the ribbons they wore. Side
yelled defiance at side, and party bantered party. Here the blue and
white of company "A" flaunted audaciously on the breeze beside the very
seats over which the crimson and gray of "B" were flying and they in
their turn nodded defiance over the imaginary barrier between themselves
and "C's" black and yellow.
The band was thundering out Sousa's "High School Cadet's March," the
school officials, the judges, and reporters, and some with less purpose
were bustling about discussing and conferring. Altogether doing nothing
much with beautiful unanimity. All was noise, hurry, gaiety, and
turbulence.
In the midst of it all, with blue and white rosettes pinned on their
breasts, sat two spectators, tense and silent, while the breakers of
movement and sound struck and broke around them. It seemed too much to
Hannah and "little sister" for them to laugh and shout. Bud was with
company "A," and so the whole program was more like a religious
ceremonial to them. The blare of the brass to them might have been the
trumpet call to battle in old Judea, and the far-thrown tones of the
megaphone the voice of a prophet proclaiming from the hill-top.
Hannah's face glowed with expectation, and "little sister" sat very
still and held her mother's hand save when amid a burst of cheers
company "A" swept into the parade ground at a quick step, then she
sprang up, crying shrilly, "There's Bud! there's Bud! I see him!" and
then settled back into her seat overcome with embarrassment. The
mother's eyes danced as soon as the sister's had singled out their dear
one from the midst of the blue-coated boys, and it was an effort for her
to keep from following her little daughter's example even to echoing her
words.
Company "A" came swinging down the field toward the judges in a manner
that called for more enthusiastic huzzas that carried even the Freshmen
of other commands "off their feet." They were, indeed, a set of
fine-looking young fellows, brisk, straight, and soldierly in bearing.
Their captain was proud of them, and his very step showed it. He was
like a skilled operator pressing the key of some great mechanism, and at
his command they moved like clockwork. Seen from the side it was as if
they were all bound together by inflexible iron bars, and as the end man
moved all must move with him.
The crowd was full of exclamations of praise and admiration, but a tense
quiet enveloped them as company "A" came from columns of four into line
for volley firing. This was a real test; it meant not only grace and
precision of movement, singleness of attention and steadiness, but
quickness tempered by self-control. At the command the volley rang forth
like a single shot. This was again the signal for wild cheering and the
blue and white streamers kissed the sunlight with swift impulsive
kisses. Hannah and "little sister" drew closer together and pressed
hands.
The "A" adherents, however, were considerably cooled when the next
volley came out, badly scattering, with one shot entirely apart and
before the rest. Bud's mother did not entirely understand the sudden
quieting of the adherents; they felt vaguely that all was not as it
should be, and the chill of fear laid hold upon their hearts. What if
Bud's company (it was always Bud's company to them), what if his company
should lose. But, of course, that couldn't be. Bud himself had said that
they would win. Suppose, though, they didn't; and with these thoughts
they were miserable until the cheering again told them that the company
had redeemed itself.
Someone behind Hannah said, "They are doing splendidly, they'll win,
they'll win yet in spite of the second volley."
Company "A," in columns of four, had executed the right oblique in
double time, and halted amid cheers; then formed left front into line
without halting. The next movement was one looked forward to with much
anxiety on account of its difficulty. The order was marching by fours to
fix or unfix bayonets. They were going at a quick step, but the boys'
hands were steady--hope was bright in their hearts. They were doing it
rapidly and freely, when suddenly from the ranks there was the bright
gleam of steel lower down than it should have been. A gasp broke from
the breasts of company "A's" friends. The blue and white dropped
disconsolately, while a few heartless ones who wore other colors
attempted to hiss. Someone had dropped his bayonet. But with muscles
unquivering, without a turned head, the company moved on as if nothing
had happened, while one of the judges, an army officer, stepped into the
wake of the boys and picked up the fallen steel.
No two eyes had seen half so quickly as Hannah and "little sister's" who
the blunderer was. In the whole drill there had been but one figure for
them, and that was Bud,--Bud, and it was he who had dropped his
bayonet. Anxious, nervous with the desire to please them, perhaps with a
shade too much of thought of them looking on with their hearts in their
eyes, he had fumbled, and lost all he was striving for. His head went
round and round and all seemed black before him.
He executed the movements in a dazed way. The applause, generous and
sympathetic, as his company left the parade ground, came to him from
afar off, and like a wounded animal he crept away from his comrades, not
because their reproaches stung him, for he did not hear them, but
because he wanted to think what his mother and "little sister" would
say, but his misery was as nothing to that of the two who sat up there
amid the ranks of the blue and white, holding each other's hands with a
despairing grip. To Bud all of the rest of the contest was a horrid
nightmare; he hardly knew when the three companies were marched back to
receive the judges' decision. The applause that greeted company "B" when
the blue ribbons were pinned on the members' coats meant nothing to his
ears. He had disgraced himself and his company. What would his mother
and his "little sister" say?
To Hannah and "little sister," as to Bud, all of the remainder of the
drill was a misery. The one interest they had had in it failed, and not
even the dropping of his gun by one of company "E" when on the march,
halting in line, could raise their spirits. The little girl tried to be
brave, but when it was all over she was glad to hurry out before the
crowd got started and to hasten away home. Once there and her tears
flowed freely; she hid her face in her mother's dress, and sobbed as if
her heart would break.
"Don't cry, Baby! don't cry, Lammie, dis ain't da las' time da wah goin'
to be a drill. Bud'll have a chance anotha time and den he'll show 'em
somethin'; bless you, I spec' he'll be a captain." But this consolation
of philosophy was nothing to "little sister." It was so terrible to her,
this failure of Bud's. She couldn't blame him, she couldn't blame anyone
else, and she had not yet learned to lay all such unfathomed
catastrophes at the door of fate. What to her was the thought of another
day; what did it matter to her whether he was a captain or a private?
She didn't even know the meaning of the words, but "little sister," from
the time she knew Bud was a private, thought that was much better than
being a captain or any other of those things with a long name, so that
settled it.
Her mother finally set about getting the supper, while "little sister"
drooped disconsolately in her own little splint-bottomed chair. She sat
there weeping silently until she heard the sound of Bud's step, then
sprang up and ran away to hide. She didn't dare to face him with tears
in her eyes. Bud came in without a word and sat down in the dark front
room.
"Dat you, Bud?" asked his mother.
"Yassum."
"Bettah come now, supper's puty 'nigh ready."
"I don't want no supper."
"You bettah come on, Bud, I reckon you's mighty tired."
He did not reply, but just then a pair of thin arms were put around his
neck and a soft cheek was placed close to his own.
"Come on, Buddie," whispered "little sister," "Mammy an' me know you
didn't mean to do it, an' we don't keer."
Bud threw his arms around his little sister and held her tightly.
"It's only you an' ma I care about," he said, "though I am sorry I
spoiled the company's drill; they say "B" would have won anyway on
account of our bad firing, but I did want you and ma to be proud."
"We is proud," she whispered, "we's mos' prouder dan if you'd won," and
pretty soon she led him by the hand to supper.
Hannah did all she could to cheer the boy and to encourage him to hope
for next year, but he had little to say in reply, and went to bed early.
In the morning, though it neared school time, Bud lingered around and
seemed in no disposition to get ready to go.
"Bettah git ready fer school," said Hannah cheerily.
"I don't believe I want to go any more," Bud replied.
"Not go any more? Why, ain't you 'shamed to talk that way! O' cose you
goin' to school."
"I'm ashamed to show my face to the boys."
"What you say about de boys? De boys ain't a-goin' to give you an
edgication when you need it."
"Oh, I don't want to go, ma; you don't know how I feel."
"I'm kinder sorry I let you go into dat company," said Hannah musingly,
"'cause it was de teachin' I wanted you to git, not the prancin' and
steppin'; but I did t'ink it would make mo' of a man of you, an' it
ain't. Yo' pappy was a po' man, ha'd wo'kin', an' he wasn't high-toned
neither, but from the time I first see him to the day of his death, I
nevah seen him back down because he was afeared of anything," and Hannah
turned to her work.
"Little sister" went up and slipped her hand in his. "You ain't a-goin
to back down, is you, Buddie?" she said.
"No," said Bud stoutly, as he braced his shoulders, "I'm a-goin'."
But no persuasion could make him wear his uniform.
The boys were a little cold to him, and some were brutal. But most of
them recognized the fact that what had happened to Tom Harris might have
happened to any one of them. Besides, since the percentage had been
shown, it was found that "B" had outpointed them in many ways, and so
their loss was not due to the one grave error.
Bud's heart sank when he dropped into his seat in the Assembly Hall to
find seated on the platform one of the blue-coated officers who had
acted as judge the day before. After the opening exercises were over he
was called upon to address the school. He spoke readily and pleasantly,
laying especial stress upon the value of discipline; toward the end of
his address he said "I suppose company 'A' is heaping accusations upon
the head of the young man who dropped his bayonet yesterday." Tom could
have died. "It was most regrettable," the officer continued, "but to me
the most significant thing at the drill was the conduct of that cadet
afterward. I saw the whole proceeding; I saw that he did not pause for
an instant, that he did not even turn his head, and it appeared to me as
one of the finest bits of self-control I had ever seen in any youth; had
he forgotten himself for a moment and stopped, however quickly, to
secure the weapon, the next line would have been interfered with and
your whole movement thrown into confusion." There were a half hundred
eyes glancing furtively at Bud, and the light began to dawn in his face.
"This boy has shown what discipline means, and I for one want to shake
hands with him, if he is here."
When he had concluded the Principal called Bud forward, and the boys,
even his detractors, cheered as the officer took his hand.
"Why are you not in uniform, sir?" he asked.
"I was ashamed to wear it after yesterday," was the reply.
"Don't be ashamed to wear your uniform," the officer said to him, and
Bud could have fallen on his knees and thanked him.
There were no more jeers from his comrades, and when he related it all
at home that evening there were two more happy hearts in that South
Washington cottage.
"I told you we was more prouder dan if you'd won," said "little sister."
"An' what did I tell you 'bout backin' out?" asked his mother.
Bud was too happy and too busy to answer; he was brushing his uniform.
THE BEGINNINGS OF A MISSISSIPPI SCHOOL
WILLIAM H. HOLTZCLAW
I had been unable to get permission to teach in the little church, so I
started my school in the open air. We were out under the big trees
amidst the shrubbery. This would have made a very good schoolhouse but
for its size. In such a schoolhouse one could get along very well, if he
could keep his pupils close enough to him, but the chances are, as I
have found, that they will put bugs down one another's collars, and
while you are hearing one class the other children will chase one
another about. Their buoyant spirits will not permit them to keep quiet
while they are in the open. It is pretty hard to hear a class reciting
and at the same time to witness a boxing-match, but those who teach in
the open air must be prepared for such performances. These annoyances
were accentuated by the fact that some of my pupils were forty years old
while others were six.
After a while we moved into an abandoned house, which we used for a
schoolhouse, but it was little better than teaching out of doors. When
it rained the water not only came through the roof, but through the
sides as well. During cold winter rains I had to teach while standing
with my overcoat on and with arctic rubbers to protect myself against
pneumonia. During those rainy days Miss Lee, my assistant, would get up
on a bench and stand there all day to keep her feet out of the water and
would have an umbrella stretched over her to keep from getting wet from
above. The little fellows would be standing in the water below like
little ducks. They stood these conditions exceedingly well. Many of them
were not protected with overshoes or any shoes, but they came to school
each day just as if they had been properly clad.
It is impossible to describe the hardships that we suffered during that
winter, which was severe for the South. As the winter came on and grew
more and more severe a great many of the children were taken with
pneumonia, la grippe, and similar ailments. I wished, in the interest of
health, to abandon the school for a few weeks until better weather; but
neither pupils, nor teachers, nor parents would listen to this, and so
the school continued under these circumstances until the new schoolhouse
was ready for use. It is needless to say that some of the pupils never
survived those conditions; in fact, the strange thing is that any of us
did.
UP FROM SLAVERY
THE STRUGGLE FOR AN EDUCATION
Booker T. Washington
One day, while at work in the coal-mine, I happened to overhear two
miners talking about a great school for colored people somewhere in
Virginia. This was the first time that I had ever heard anything about
any kind of school or college that was more pretentious than the little
colored school in our town.
In the darkness of the mine I noiselessly crept as close as I could to
the two men who were talking. I heard one tell the other that not only
was the school established for the members of my race, but that
opportunities were provided by which poor but worthy students could work
out all or a part of the cost of board, and at the same time be taught
some trade or industry.
As they went on describing the school, it seemed to me that it must be
the greatest place on earth, and not even Heaven presented more
attractions for me at that time than did the Hampton Normal and
Agricultural Institute in Virginia, about which these men were talking.
I resolved at once to go to that school, although I had no idea where it
was, or how many miles away, or how I was going to reach it; I
remembered only that I was on fire constantly with one ambition, and
that was to go to Hampton. This thought was with me day and night.
After hearing of the Hampton Institute, I continued to work for a few
months longer in the coal-mine. While at work there, I heard of a vacant
position in the household of General Lewis Ruffner, the owner of the
salt-furnace and coal-mine. Mrs. Viola Ruffner, the wife of General
Ruffner, was a "Yankee" woman from Vermont. Mrs. Ruffner had a
reputation all through the vicinity for being very strict with her
servants, and especially with the boys who tried to serve her. Few of
them had remained with her more than two or three weeks. They all left
with the same excuse: she was too strict. I decided, however, that I
would rather try Mrs. Ruffner's house than remain in the coal-mine, and
so my mother applied to her for the vacant position. I was hired at a
salary of $5 per month.
I had heard so much about Mrs. Ruffner's severity that I was almost
afraid to see her, and trembled when I went into her presence. I had not
lived with her many weeks, however, before I began to understand her. I
soon began to learn that, first of all, she wanted everything kept clean
about her, that she wanted things done promptly and systematically, and
that at the bottom of everything she wanted absolute honesty and
frankness. Nothing must be sloven or slipshod; every door, every fence,
must be kept in repair.
I cannot now recall how long I lived with Mrs. Ruffner before going to
Hampton, but I think it must have been a year and a half. At any rate, I
here repeat what I have said more than once before, that the lessons
that I learned in the home of Mrs. Ruffner were as valuable to me as any
education I have ever gotten anywhere since. Even to this day I never
see bits of paper scattered around a house or in the street that I do
not want to pick them up at once. I never see a filthy yard that I do
not want to clean it, a paling off of a fence that I do not want to put
it on, an unpainted or unwhitewashed house that I do not want to paint
or whitewash it, or a button off one's clothes, or a grease-spot on them
or on a floor, that I do not want to call attention to it.
From fearing Mrs. Ruffner I soon learned to look upon her as one of my
best friends. When she found that she could trust me she did so
implicitly. During the one or two winters that I was with her she gave
me an opportunity to go to school for an hour in the day during a
portion of the winter months, but most of my studying was done at night,
sometimes alone, sometimes under some one whom I could hire to teach me.
Mrs. Ruffner always encouraged and sympathized with me in all my efforts
to get an education. It was while living with her that I began to get
together my first library. I secured a dry-goods box, knocked out one
side of it, put some shelves in it, and began putting into it every
kind of book that I could get my hands upon, and called it "my library."
Without any unusual occurrence I reached Hampton, with a surplus of
exactly fifty cents with which to begin my education. To me it had been
a long, eventful journey; but the first sight of the large, three-story,
brick school building seemed to have rewarded me for all that I had
undergone in order to reach the place. If the people who gave the money
to provide that building could appreciate the influence the sight of it
had upon me, as well as upon thousands of other youths, they would feel
all the more encouraged to make such gifts. It seemed to me to be the
largest and most beautiful building I had ever seen. The sight of it
seemed to give me new life. I felt that a new kind of existence had now
begun--that life would now have a new meaning. I felt that I had reached
the promised land, and I resolved to let no obstacle prevent me from
putting forth the highest effort to fit myself to accomplish the most
good in the world.
As soon as possible after reaching the grounds of the Hampton Institute,
I presented myself before the head teacher for assignment to a class.
Having been so long without proper food, a bath, and change of clothing,
I did not, of course, make a very favorable impression upon her, and I
could see at once that there were doubts in her mind about the wisdom of
admitting me as a student. I felt that I could hardly blame her if she
got the idea that I was a worthless loafer or tramp. For some time she
did not refuse to admit me, neither did she decide in my favor, and I
continued to linger about her, and to impress her in all the ways I
could with my worthiness. In the meantime I saw her admitting other
students, and that added greatly to my discomfort, for I felt, deep down
in my heart, that I could do as well as they, if I could only get a
chance to show what was in me.
After some hours had passed, the head teacher said to me, "The adjoining
recitation room needs sweeping. Take the broom and sweep it."
It occurred to me at once that here was my chance. Never did I receive
an order with more delight. I knew that I could sweep, for Mrs. Ruffner
had thoroughly taught me how to do that when I lived with her.
I swept the recitation-room three times. Then I got a dusting-cloth and
I dusted it four times. All the woodwork around the walls, every bench,
table, and desk, I went over four times with my dusting-cloth. Besides,
every piece of furniture had been moved and every closet and corner in
the room had been thoroughly cleaned. I had the feeling that in a large
measure my future depended upon the impression I made upon the teacher
in the cleaning of that room. When I was through, I reported to the head
teacher. She was a "Yankee" woman who knew just where to look for dirt.
She went into the room and inspected the floor and closets; then she
took her handkerchief and rubbed it on the wood-work about the walls,
and over the table and benches. When she was unable to find one bit of
dirt on the floor, or a particle of dust on any of the furniture, she
remarked quietly, "I guess you will do to enter this institution."
BOOKER T. WASHINGTON
A STUDENT'S MEMORY OF HIM
WILLIAM H. HOLTZCLAW
One thing about Mr. Washington that impressed me was his regularity. He
was as regular as the clock. He appeared at his office in the morning
exactly at eight o'clock, remained until twelve, very often took part in
an Executive Council meeting until one, and then went to lunch. At two
o'clock he would again be in his office and would invariably remain
there until half-past four, when he would leave and tramp across the
plantation; sometimes he would run for a mile or two, as fast as he
could go, for exercise. When he returned he would go to his library and
there would pass the time until six, when he would go to dinner. After
dinner he played with the children for a while and then returned to his
library until 8.40. He would then go to Chapel for evening prayers with
the whole student body. This prayer service was one that Mr. Washington
seldom ever missed and he always appeared on the rostrum exactly on the
minute.
Mr. Washington had a grasp of the details of the work of Tuskegee that
seemed almost incredible. I remember one evening that I was startled to
hear my name, together with that of one of my friends, called out by Mr.
Washington from the chapel platform. He simply said, "William Holtzclaw
and Charles Washington may rise." I was so weak in my knees that I could
scarcely stand, but I knew nothing else to do but to rise at the command
of that voice. After we stood up and the whole school was looking at us,
Mr. Washington said: "These young men may pass out of the Chapel and go
and pick up the tools they worked with to-day." We had been ditching and
when the work-bell rang had left our tools where we were working, when
they should have been carried to the toolhouse.
If the water main, or water pipe, had a defect in it so that it was
leaking anywhere on the grounds, Mr. Washington was almost sure to see
that something was wrong and to call the matter to the attention of the
Superintendent of Industries.
If he came into the dining-room while the students were eating their
meals, he would notice such small details as a student's pouring out
more molasses on his plate than he could eat and would stop in the
dining-room, send for the matron, have some bread brought to the
student, and wait until that student had eaten all the molasses he had
poured on his plate.
If one walked about the campus at night, he would be sure to meet Mr.
Washington almost anywhere on the grounds. For instance, he might be
found in the kitchen at two o'clock in the morning examining the method
of preparing the students' breakfast. He seldom seemed to me to take
sufficient rest for an average man.
ANNA-MARGARET
AUGUSTA BIRD
To Anna-Margaret's mind, being the baby of the family was simply awful.
This fact seemed to grow with it each day. It began in the morning when
she watched her sisters as they laughed and rollicked through their
dressing.
"Bet I'll beat, and you got on your stockings already," challenged
Edith.
"I'll bet you won't,--bet I'll be out to the pump, my face washed, and
be at the breakfast table and you won't have your shoes laced up,"
boasted Ruth, the older of the two.
"We'll see, we'll see," giggled Edith.
"Oho, I guess you will. Mother gave you new shoe strings," said Ruth
somewhat crestfallen.
"I told you so, I told you so," and Edith bounded out of the door,
closely pursued by Ruth who cried: "You didn't beat me but 'bout an
inch."
Anna-Margaret was left alone to sit and think for all the next hour how
perfectly awful it was to be the baby, until Mother Dear was able to
come and dress her.
The next morning it was the same torture all over again. It seemed to
Anna-Margaret that people never stopped to think or know what a baby was
forced to go through. There were Edith and Ruth racing again.
Anna-Margaret spied her shoes and stockings on a chair. Out of the side
of her crib she climbed.
"Look at Anna-Margaret!" screamed Edith.
"You, Anna-Margaret, get right back in that crib!" commanded Ruth
assuming her mother's tone.
"I won't!" And right over to the chair where her shoes and stockings
were, walked the baby. She seated herself on the floor and drew on her
stocking as if she had been in the habit of doing it on preceding
mornings. It was surprising to Anna-Margaret, herself, the ease with
which it went on.
"Look at that child," gasped Ruth.
Edith looked and said a little grudgingly, "I'll bet she can't put on
her shoes though." Edith remembered how long it was before she was able
to put on her shoes, and this accomplishment, in her mind, seemed to
give her a great superiority over her baby sister.
"Come on, Edith," called Ruth, "I'll beat you down to the pump and I'll
give you to the rose bush, too."
Struggling, pulling and twisting sat Anna-Margaret all alone, but the
shoe would not go on. She was just about to give up in utter despair and
burst into tears when Mother Dear appeared in the doorway.
"What is mother's angel doing? Well, well, look at Mother's smart child,
she has got on her stocking already,--here, let mother help her."
It was awful to think you were still such a baby that you couldn't do
anything yourself, but it was very nice, so Anna-Margaret thought, to
have such an adorable mother to come to your rescue.
"There now, run out and tell Ruth to wash your face and then mother will
give you your breakfast."
"Wash my face, Ruth," requested Anna-Margaret at the pump.
"Who laced up your shoes?" asked Edith suspiciously.
"I did." Anna-Margaret said it so easily that it startled herself.
"I don't believe it, I don't believe it. I am going to ask Mother."
"Hold still, will you, and let me wash your face," commanded Ruth.
As soon as she was free, away went Anna-Margaret back to the house.
"Muvver, Muvver," cried Anna-Margaret almost breathless as she entered
the big kitchen, "tell Edith I laced up my shoes, tell 'er, Muvver, will
yo', Muvver?"
Mother stopped her work at the breakfast table. "Anna-Margaret, I could
not do that because you didn't."
"But tell 'er I did, won't you, Muvver," she pleaded.
"Anna-Margaret, I can't do that because I would be telling a lie. Don't
I whip Ruth and Edith for telling lies?"
"Tell a lie, Muvver, tell a lie, _I won't whip you_."
Mother Dear was forced to smile. "Here, eat your breakfast, I can't
promise my baby I will tell a lie, even if she won't whip me."
Fortunately no one questioned Mother Dear and Anna-Margaret ate her
breakfast in silence. Then kissing her mother in a matter of fact way,
she went out to play with her sisters.
"Ah, here comes Anna-Margaret to knock down our things," moaned Edith.
"Let her come on," cried Ruth, "and we'll go down in the bottom and
build sand forts; it rained yesterday and the sand is nice and damp."
"Oh-oo, let's," echoed Edith, and off they scampered. Anna-Margaret saw
them and started after them as fast as her little chubby brown legs
could carry her, which wasn't very fast. The other children were far in
front of her. Anna-Margaret stopped suddenly,--she heard a little biddie
in distress. There was a mother hen darting through the grass after a
fleeing grasshopper, and close behind her was the whole flock save one.
Anna-Margaret watched them as the young chickens spread open their wings
and hurried in pursuit of their mother. Far behind one little black,
fuzzy biddie struggled and tripped over the tall grass stems. The baby
looked at the little chick and then at the other ones and saw that they
were different. She didn't know what the difference was. She could not
understand that the other chickens were several days older and that this
one had only been taken away from its own mother hen that morning in
order that she would remain on her nest until all her chicks were
hatched. All Anna-Margaret knew was that they were different.
"Poor l'll biddie, dey don't want you to play wif them," she
sympathized, "come, come to Anna-Margaret."
With little difficulty she captured the young chick and started back to
the house.
"Dat's all 'ight, I know what I'm gonna do," she decided, "I'm gonna
play Dod. Poor l'll biddie, just wait, Anna-Margaret'll fix yo', so you
can run and fly and keep up with the biddies. Won't dat be nice, uh?"
And she put her curly head down close to the little chick as if to catch
its answer.
Anna-Margaret went straight to the big sewing-basket and placing the
biddie on the machine extracted a threaded needle. Cutting two small
pieces of black cloth for wings, she took the chick and seated herself
on the drop-step between the sewing-room and dining-room. She then
attempted to sew one of the little black pieces of cloth to one of the
tiny wings of the young chick.
[Illustration]
"There, there, yo'll be all 'ight in dest a minute," she said amid the
distressful chirping of the chick. The biddie's cries brought Mother
Dear to the scene.
"Anna-Margaret, what on earth are you doing to the little chicken?"
Anna-Margaret turned her big brown eyes upon her mother. "I'm playin'
Dod and I'm puttin' some wings on des l'll biddie so it can run and fly
like the oo-ver ones, and so they won't run off all the time and leave
it."
"But Anna-Margaret, don't you know you are hurting the little biddie?"
"No-o, Muvver," she said slowly, "but I know what it is to be always
runned off and lef'."
Mother Dear understood what was in her baby's mind as she gathered her
up in her arms. Anna-Margaret dropped the sewing, cuddled the little
biddie close in one arm and clasped her mother's neck with the other.
Mother Dear held her closely.
"I love yo', Muvver Dear," whispered Anna-Margaret.
"I love you, baby dear," was the whispered answer.
Being the baby of the family to Anna-Margaret's mind, just now, was
awfully nice.
CHARITY
H. CORDELIA RAY
I saw a maiden, fairest of the fair,
With every grace bedight beyond compare.
Said I, "What doest thou, pray, tell to me!"
"I see the good in others," answered she.
MY FIRST SCHOOL
W. E. B. DUBOIS
Once upon a time I taught school in the hills of Tennessee, where the
broad dark vale of the Mississippi begins to roll and crumple to greet
the Alleghanies. I was a Fisk student then, and all Fisk men thought
that Tennessee--beyond the Veil--was theirs alone, and in vacation
time they sallied forth in lusty bands to meet the county
school-commissioners. Young and happy, I too went, and I shall not soon
forget that summer.
First, there was a Teachers' Institute at the county-seat; and there
distinguished guests of the superintendent taught the teachers fractions
and spelling and other mysteries,--white teachers in the morning,
Negroes at night. A picnic now and then, and a supper, and the rough
world was softened by laughter and song. I remember how--but I wander.
There came a day when all the teachers left the Institute and began the
hunt for schools. I learn from hearsay (for my mother was mortally
afraid of firearms) that the hunting of ducks and bears and men is
wonderfully interesting, but I am sure that the man who has never hunted
a country school has something to learn of the pleasures of the chase. I
see now the white, hot roads lazily rise and fall and wind before me
under the burning July sun; I feel the deep weariness of heart and limb
as ten, eight, six miles stretch relentlessly ahead; I feel my heart
sink heavily as I hear again and again, "Got a teacher? Yes." So I
walked on--horses were too expensive--until I wandered beyond railways,
beyond stage lines, to a land of "varmints" and rattlesnakes, where the
coming of a stranger was an event, and men lived and died in the shadow
of one blue hill.
Sprinkled over hill and dale lay cabins and farmhouses, shut out from
the world by the forests and the rolling hills toward the east. There I
found at last a little school. Josie told me of it; she was a thin,
homely girl of twenty, with a dark-brown face and thick, hard hair. I
had crossed the stream at Watertown, and rested under the great willows;
then I had gone to the little cabin in the lot where Josie was resting
on her way to town. The gaunt farmer made me welcome, and Josie, hearing
my errand, told me anxiously that they wanted a school over the hill;
that but once since the war had a teacher been there; that she herself
longed to learn,--and thus she ran on, talking fast and loud, with much
earnestness and energy.
Next morning I crossed the tall round hill, lingered to look at the blue
and yellow mountains stretching toward the Carolinas, then plunged into
the wood, and came out at Josie's home. It was a dull frame cottage
with four rooms, perched just below the brow of the hill, amid peach
trees. The father was a quiet, simple soul, calmly ignorant, with no
touch of vulgarity. The mother was different,--strong, bustling, and
energetic, with a quick, restless tongue, and an ambition to live "like
folks."
There was a crowd of children. Two boys had gone away. There remained
two growing girls; a shy midget of eight; John, tall, awkward, and
eighteen; Jim, younger, quicker, and better looking; and two babies of
indefinite age. Then there was Josie herself. She seemed to be the
center of the family: always busy at service, or at home, or
berry-picking; a little nervous and inclined to scold, like her mother,
yet faithful, too, like her father. She had about her a certain
fineness, the shadow of an unconscious moral heroism that would
willingly give all of life to make life broader, deeper, and fuller for
her and hers.
I saw much of this family afterwards, and grew to love them for their
honest efforts to be decent and comfortable, and for their knowledge of
their own ignorance. There was with them no affectation. The mother
would scold the father for being so "easy"; Josie would roundly berate
the boys for carelessness; and all know that it was a hard thing to dig
a living out of a rocky side-hill.