commissioner's house with a pleasant young white fellow who wanted the
white school. The road ran down the bed of a stream; the sun laughed
and the water jingled, and we rode on. "Come in," said the
commissioner,--"come in. Have a seat. Yes, that certificate will do.
Stay to dinner. What do you want a month?" "Oh," thought I, "this is
lucky"; but even then fell the first awful shadow of the Veil, for they
ate first, then I--alone.
The schoolhouse was a log hut, where Colonel Wheeler used to shelter his
corn. It sat in a lot behind a rail fence and thorn bushes, near the
sweetest of springs. There was an entrance where a door once was, and
within, a massive rickety fireplace; great chinks between the logs
served as windows. Furniture was scarce. A pale blackboard crouched in
the corner. My desk was made of three boards, reinforced at critical
points, and my chair, borrowed from the landlady, had to be returned
every night. Seats for the children--these puzzled me much. I was
haunted by a New England vision of neat little desks and chairs, but,
alas! the reality was rough plank benches without backs, and
at times without legs. They had the one virtue of making naps
dangerous,--possibly fatal, for the floor was not to be trusted.
It was a hot morning late in July when the school opened. I trembled
when I heard the patter of little feet down the dusty road, and saw the
growing row of dark solemn faces and bright eager eyes facing me. First
came Josie and her brothers and sisters. The longing to know, to be a
student in the great school at Nashville, hovered like a star above this
child-woman amid her work and worry, and she studied doggedly. There
were the Dowells from their farm over toward Alexandria,--Fanny, with
her smooth black face and wondering eyes; Martha, brown and dull; the
pretty girl-wife of a brother, and the younger brood.
There were the Burkes,--two brown and yellow lads, and a tiny
haughty-eyed girl. Fat Reuben's little chubby girl came, with golden
face and old-gold hair, faithful and solemn. 'Thenie was on hand
early,--a jolly, ugly, good-hearted girl, who slyly dipped snuff and
looked after her little bow-legged brother. When her mother could spare
her, 'Tildy came,--a midnight beauty, with starry eyes and tapering
limbs; and her brother, correspondingly homely. And then the big
boys,--the hulking Lawrences; the lazy Neills, unfathered sons of mother
and daughter; Hickman, with a stoop in his shoulders; and the rest.
There they sat, nearly thirty of them, on the rough benches, their faces
shading from a pale cream to a deep brown, the little feet bare and
swinging, the eyes full of expectation, with here and there a twinkle of
mischief, and the hands grasping Webster's blue-back spelling-book. I
loved my school, and the fine faith the children had in the wisdom of
their teacher was truly marvelous. We read and spelled together, wrote
a little, picked flowers, sang, and listened to stories of the world
beyond the hill.
At times the school would dwindle away, and I would start out. I would
visit Mun Eddings, who lived in two very dirty rooms, and ask why little
Lugene, whose flaming face seemed ever ablaze with the dark-red hair
uncombed, was absent all last week, or why I missed so often the
inimitable rags of Mack and Ed. Then the father, who worked Colonel
Wheeler's farm on shares, would tell me how the crops needed the boys;
and the thin, slovenly mother, whose face was pretty when washed,
assured me that Lugene must mind the baby. "But we'll start them again
next week." When the Lawrences stopped, I knew that the doubts of the
old folks about book-learning had conquered again, and so, toiling up
the hill, and getting as far into the cabin as possible, I put Cicero
"pro Archia Poeta" into the simplest English with local applications,
and usually convinced them--for a week or so.
On Friday nights I often went home with some of the children,--sometimes
to Doc Burke's farm. He was a great, loud, thin Black, ever working, and
trying to buy the seventy-five acres of hill and dale where he lived;
but people said that he would surely fail, and the "white folks would
get it all." His wife was a magnificent Amazon, with saffron face and
shining hair, uncorseted and barefooted, and the children were strong
and beautiful. They lived in a one-and-a-half-room cabin in the hollow
of the farm, near the spring. The front room was full of great fat white
beds, scrupulously neat; and there were bad chromos on the walls, and a
tired center-table. In the tiny back kitchen I was often invited to
"take out and help" myself to fried chicken and wheat biscuit, "meat"
and corn pone, string-beans and berries.
At first I used to be a little alarmed at the approach of bedtime in the
lone bedroom, but embarrassment was very deftly avoided. First, all the
children nodded and slept, and were stowed away in one great pile of
goose feathers; next, the mother and the father discreetly slipped away
to the kitchen while I went to bed; then, blowing out the dim light,
they retired in the dark. In the morning all were up and away before I
thought of awaking. Across the road, where fat Reuben lived, they all
went out-doors while the teacher retired, because they did not boast the
luxury of a kitchen.
I liked to stay with the Dowells, for they had four rooms and plenty of
good country fare. Uncle Bird had a small, rough farm, all woods and
hills, miles from the big road; but he was full of tales,--he preached
now and then,--and with his children, berries, horses, and wheat he was
happy and prosperous. Often, to keep the peace, I must go where life
was less lovely; for instance, 'Tildy's mother was incorrigibly dirty,
Reuben's larder was limited seriously, and herds of untamed insects
wandered over the Eddingses' beds. Best of all I loved to go to Josie's,
and sit on the porch, eating peaches, while the mother bustled and
talked: how Josie had bought the sewing-machine; how Josie worked at
service in winter, but that four dollars a month was "mighty little"
wages; how Josie longed to go away to school, but that it "looked like"
they never could get far enough ahead to let her; how the crops failed
and the well was yet unfinished; and, finally, how "mean" some of the
white folks were.
For two summers I lived in this little world; it was dull and humdrum.
The girls looked at the hill in wistful longing, and the boys fretted
and haunted Alexandria. Alexandria was "town,"--a straggling, lay
village of houses, churches, and shops, and an aristocracy of Toms,
Dicks, and Captains. Cuddled on the hill to the north was the village of
the colored folks, who lived in three- or four-room unpainted cottages,
some neat and homelike, and some dirty. The dwellings were scattered
rather aimlessly, but they centered about the twin temples of the
hamlet, the Methodist and the Hard-Shell Baptist churches. These, in
turn, leaned gingerly on a sad-colored schoolhouse. Hither my little
world wended its crooked way on Sunday to meet other worlds, and gossip,
and wonder, and make the weekly sacrifice with frenzied priest at the
altar of the "old-time religion." Then the soft melody and mighty
cadences of Negro song fluttered and thundered.
I have called my tiny community a world, and so its isolation made it;
and yet there was among us but a half-awakened common consciousness,
sprung from common joy and grief, at burial, birth, or wedding; from a
common hardship in poverty, poor land, and low wages; and above all,
from the sight of the Veil that hung between us and Opportunity. All
this caused us to think some thoughts together; but these, when ripe for
speech, were spoken in various languages. Those whose eyes twenty-five
or more years before had seen "the glory of the coming of the Lord," saw
in every present hindrance or help a dark fatalism bound to bring all
things right in His own good time. The mass of those to whom slavery was
a dim recollection of childhood found the world a puzzling thing: it
asked little of them, and they answered with little, and yet it
ridiculed their offering. Such a paradox they could not understand, and
therefore sank into listless indifference, or shiftlessness, or reckless
bravado. There were, however, some--such as Josie, Jim and Ben--to whom
War, Hell, and Slavery were but childhood tales, whose young appetites
had been whetted to an edge by school and story and half-awakened
thought. Ill could they be content, born without and beyond the World.
And their weak wings beat against their barriers,--barriers of caste,
of youth, of life; at last, in dangerous moments, against everything
that opposed even a whim.
ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought
The magic gold which from the seeker flies;
Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,
And make the waking world a world of lies,--
Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,
That say life's full of aches and tears and sighs,--
Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
Now all the griefs and heartaches we have known
Come up like pois'nous vapors that arise
From some base witch's caldron, when the crone,
To work some potent spell, her magic plies.
The past which held its share of bitter pain,
Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,
Comes up, is lived and suffered o'er again,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;
What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise
Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.
What echoes great of sad and soul-sick cries,
And pangs of vague inexplicable pain
That pay the spirit's ceaseless enterprise,
Come thronging through the chambers of the brain,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?
Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies
Tends her far course to lands of mystery?
To lands unspeakable--beyond surmise,
Where shapes unknowable to being spring,
Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies
Much wearied with the spirit's journeying,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
Now questioneth the soul that other soul--
The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,
But self exposes unto self, a scroll
Full writ with all life's acts unwise or wise,
In characters indelible and known;
So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,
The soul doth view its awful self alone,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.
When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,
The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,
And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize
For kissing all our passions into calm,
Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world's cries,
Or seek to probe th' eternal mystery,
Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,
At glooms through which our visions cannot see,
When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.
THE LAND OF LAUGHTER
ANGELINA W. GRIMKE
Once upon a time there were two dear little boys, and they were all
alone in the world. They lived with a cruel old man and old woman, who
made them work hard, very hard--all day, and beat them when they did not
move fast enough, and always, every night, before they went to bed. They
slept in an attic on a rickety, narrow bed, that went screech! screech!
whenever they moved. And, in the summer, they nearly died with the heat
up there; and in the winter with the cold.
One wintry night, when they were both weeping very bitterly after a
particularly hard beating, they suddenly heard a pleasant voice saying:
"Why are you crying, little boys?"
They looked up, and there in the moonlight, by their bed, was the
dearest little old lady. She was dressed all in grey, from the peak of
her little pointed hat to her little, buckled shoes. She held a black
cane much taller than her little self. Her hair fell about her ears in
tiny, grey corkscrew curls; and they bobbed about as she moved. Her eyes
were black and bright--as bright as--well, as that lovely, white light
in the fire. And her cheeks were as red as an apple.
"Why are you crying, little boys?" she asked again, in a lovely, low,
little voice.
"Because we are tired and sore and hungry and cold; and we are all alone
in the world; and we don't know how to laugh any more. We should so like
to laugh again."
"Why, that's easy," she said, "it's just like this," and she laughed a
little, joyous, musical laugh. "Try!" she commanded.
They tried, but their laughing boxes were very rusty and they made
horrid sounds.
"Well," she said, "I advise you to pack up, and go away, as soon as you
can, to the Land of Laughter. You'll soon learn there, I can tell you."
"Is there such a land?" they asked doubtfully.
"To be sure there is," she answered, the least bit sharply.
"We never heard of it," they said.
"Well, I'm sure there must be plenty of things you never heard about,"
she said just the "leastest" bit more sharply. "In a moment you'll be
telling me the flowers don't talk together, and the birds."
"We never heard of such a thing," they said in surprise, their eyes like
saucers.
"There!" she said, bobbing her little curls. "What did I tell you. You
have much to learn."
"How do you get to the Land of Laughter?" they asked.
"You go out of the eastern gate of the town, just as the sun is rising;
and you take the highway there, and follow it; and if you go with it
long enough, it will bring you to the gate of the Land of Laughter. It
is a long, long way from here; and it will take you many days."
The words had scarcely left her mouth when, lo! the little lady
disappeared, and where she had stood was the white square of
moonlight--nothing else.
And without more ado these two little boys put their arms round each
other, and fell fast asleep. And in the grey, just before daybreak, they
awoke and dressed; and putting on their little ragged caps and mittens,
for it was a wintry day, they stole out of the house, and made for the
eastern gate. And just as they reached it and passed through, the whole
east leapt into fire.
[Illustration: The Land of Laughter]
All day they walked, and many days thereafter; and kindly people, by the
way, took them in and gave them food and drink and sometimes a bed at
night. Often they slept by the roadside; but they didn't mind that for
the climate was delightful--not too hot, and not too cold. They soon
threw away their ragged little mittens.
They walked for many days; and there was no Land of Laughter. Once they
met an old man, richly dressed, with shining jewels on his fingers, and
he stopped them and asked:
"Where are you going so fast, little boys?"
"We are going to the Land of Laughter," they said very gravely.
"That," said the old man, "is a very foolish thing to do. Come with me
and I will take you to the Land of Riches. I will cover you with
beautiful garments, and give you jewels and a castle to live in with
servants and horses and many things besides."
And they said to him, "No, we wish to learn how to laugh again; we have
forgotten how, and we are going to the Land of Laughter."
"You will regret not going with me. See if you don't," he said, and he
left them in quite a huff.
And they walked again, many days, and again they met an old man. He was
tall and imposing-looking and very dignified. And he said:
"Where are you going so fast, little boys?"
"We are going to the Land of Laughter," they said together very
seriously.
"What!" he said, "that is an extremely foolish thing to do. Come with
me, and I will give you power. I will make you great men; generals,
kings, emperors. Whatever you desire to accomplish will be permitted
you."
And they said politely:
"Thank you, very much, but we have forgotten how to laugh; and we are
going there to learn how."
He looked upon them haughtily, without speaking, and disappeared.
And they walked and walked more days; and they met another old man. And
he was clad in rags; and his face was thin; and his eyes were unhappy.
And he whispered to them:
"Where are you going so fast, little boys?"
"We are going to the Land of Laughter," they answered, without a smile.
"Laughter! laughter! that is useless. Come with me and I will show you
the beauty of life through sacrifice, suffering for others. That is the
only life. I come from the Land of Sacrifice."
And they thanked him kindly, but said:
"We have suffered enough. We have forgotten how to laugh. We would learn
again." And they went on; and he looked after them wistfully.
They walked more days; and at last they came to the Land of Laughter.
And how do you suppose they knew this? Because they could hear, over the
wall, the sound of joyous laughter--the laughter of men, women and
little children.
And one sat guarding the gate, and they went to her.
"We have come a long, long distance; and we would enter the Land of
Laughter."
"Let me see you smile, first," she said gently. "I sit at the gate and
no one who does not know how to smile may enter into the Land of
Laughter."
And they tried to smile, but could not.
"Go away and practise," she said kindly, "and come back tomorrow."
And they went away, and practised all night how to smile; and, in the
morning, they returned. And the gentle lady at the gate said:
"Dear little boys, have you learned how to smile?"
And they said: "We have tried. How is this?"
"Better," she said, "much better. Practise some more, and come back
tomorrow."
And they went away obediently and practised.
And they came the third day. And she said:
"Now, try again."
And tears of delight came into her lovely eyes.
"Those were very beautiful smiles," she said. "Now you may enter."
And she unlocked the gate and kissed them both, and they entered the
beautiful Land of Laughter.
Never had they seen such blue skies, such green trees and grass; never
had they heard such bird song.
And people, men, women and children, laughing softly, came to meet them,
and took them in, and made them at home; and soon, very soon, they
learned to laugh. All day they laughed, and even in their sleep. And
they grew up here, and married, and had laughing, happy children. And
sometimes they thought of the Land of Riches, and said, "Ah! well"; and
sometimes of the Land of Power, and sighed a little; and sometimes of
the Land of Sacrifice--and their eyes were wistful. But they soon
forgot, and laughed again. And they grew old, laughing. And when they
died--a laugh was on their lips. Thus are things in the beautiful Land
of Laughter.
THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE
CHARLES W. CHESNUTT
Some time, we are told, when the cycle of years has rolled around, there
is to be another golden age, when all men will dwell together in love
and harmony, and when peace and righteousness shall prevail for a
thousand years. God speed the day, and let not the shining thread of
hope become so enmeshed in the web of circumstance that we lose sight of
it; but give us here and there, and now and then, some little foretaste
of this golden age, that we may the more patiently and hopefully await
its coming!
IS THE GAME WORTH THE CANDLE?
JAMES E. SHEPARD
A man's life depends upon his emotions, his aspirations, his
determinations.
A young man, somebody's son, starts out with the determination that the
world is indebted to him for a good time. "Dollars were made to spend. I
am young, and every man must sow his wild oats and then settle down. I
want to be a 'hail fellow well met' with every one."
With this determination uppermost in his life purpose he starts out to
be a good-timer. Perhaps some mother expects to hear great things of her
boy, some father's hopes are centered in him, but what does that matter?
"I am a good-timer." From one gayety to another, from one glass to
another, from one sin to another, and the good-timer at last is broken
in health, deserted by friends, and left alone to die. Thus the "man
about town" passes off the stage. When you ask some of his friends about
him, the answer is, "Oh, John was all right, but he lived too fast. I
like good times as well as anyone, but I could not keep up with John."
Was the game worth the candle?
Two pictures came before my mind: two cousins, both of them young men.
One started out early in life with the determination of getting along
"easy," shirking work, and looking for a soft snap. His motto was, "The
world owes me a living, and I am going to get mine." He was employed
first by one firm and then by another; if anything that he considered
hard came along, he would pay another fellow to do the work and he "took
things easy." It was not long before no one would hire him. He continued
to hold the idea that the world was indebted to him and furthermore, he
arrogated a belief that what another man had accumulated he could borrow
without his knowledge. He forged another man's name, was detected, and
sentenced to the penitentiary and is now wearing the badge of felony and
shame--the convict's stripes. Is the game worth the candle?
The other cousin started out with a determination altogether different.
He believed with Lord Brougham, that if he were a bootblack he would
strive to be the best bootblack in England. He began in a store as a
window-cleaner, and washed windows so well that they sparkled like
diamonds under the sun. As a clerk, no customer was too insignificant to
be greeted with a smile or pleasant word; no task was too great for him
to attempt. Thus step by step, he advanced, each day bringing new duties
and difficulties but each day also bringing new strength and
determination to master them, and today that cousin is a man of wealth
and an honored citizen, blessed, too, with a happy home.
Some young men start life with the idea that every dollar made requires
that one dollar and a half shall be spent; in order to be noticed they
must make a big show, give big dinners, carriage drives, and parties,
invite friends to the theaters, and have a "swell" time; must do like
Mr. "So-and-So." They forget in their desire to copy, that Mr.
"So-and-So," their pattern, has already made his fortune; that he began
to save before he began to spend. But no, his name appears often in the
papers and they think also that theirs must. So they begin their
careers. A few years pass. The young men marry; their debts begin to
accumulate and to press them, their countenances are always woe-begone;
where once were smiles, now are frowns, and the homes are pictures of
gloom and shadows. The lesson is plain.
Debt is the greatest burden that can be put upon man; it makes him
afraid to look honest men in the face. No man can be a leader in the
fullest sense who is burdened by a great debt. If there is any young man
who is spending more than he is making, let him ask himself the
question, Is the game worth the candle?
I know another young man who believed he could be happy by spending
one-third of what he made and saving the other portion. He said to me,
"some day I want to marry and I want to treat my wife better, if
possible, than she was treated at home. I want to respect my fellow
man, I want to be a leader, and I know I can only do so by saving a part
of what I make." It was my good pleasure, a few weeks ago, to visit the
city where this young man is practising medicine. He carried me over
that town in an automobile, he entertained me in his $5000 home, he
showed me other property which he owned. Ah, his indeed was a happy
home. Life to him was blessedly real.
A young man starts out in life with the determination to fight his way
by physical force to the front ranks. Bruised, disfigured, or killed, he
is forced back even beyond the lines again. A religiously inclined youth
asked his pastor, "Do you think it would be wrong for me to learn the
noble art of self-defense?" "Certainly not," replied the pastor, "I
learned it in youth myself, and I have found it of great value in my
life." "Indeed, sir, did you learn the Old English system or the
Sullivan system" "Neither; I learned Solomon's system!" replied the
minister. "Yes, you will find it laid down in the first verse of the
fifteenth chapter of Proverbs, 'A soft answer turneth away wrath'; it is
the best system of self-defense I know."