Vais,--in fact, of most of the tribes in Liberia. It is a secret
organization, and its operations are carried on in an unknown place. The
penalty for divulging its secrets is said to be death. I know that it is
very difficult to ascertain much information regarding it.
The aim of this society is to train young boys for African life. The
boys are taught the industrial trades, native warfare, religious duties,
tribal laws and customs, and the social arts.
[Illustration]
The bow and arrow may be called the Vai alphabet. Every morning the
small boys are taught first to use skilfully this weapon. In addition
they are taught to throw the spear and to wield the sword. In the
afternoon they are taken on a hunt for small game, and later are given
practice in target shooting and throwing the spear. After supper the
boys take up singing and dancing. At this period they are taught also
their duties to the gods, to whom a certain portion of their meals is
said to be offered. Each boy is taught the sacrificial ceremony; they
all clap, dance, and sing their song of praise.
When the boys have attained a certain advancement among other things
they have sham battles, with 200 or 150 boys on a side. A district is
given to one side to be captured by the other. Each side has a captain,
and at this stage of their development emphasis is placed upon the
display of bravery. And sometimes the contests assume aspects of
reality. When one side repulses another six times it is said to be
victorious.
[Illustration]
In addition to being taught the methods of warfare, the boys are taught
the civil and military laws governing the Vai people. Every Vai man must
know the law. And as the penalties for violating the laws covering
military expeditions are so severe, the customs and laws relating
thereto are of paramount importance to every Vai man.
The members of the "Devil Bush" are not only taught everything
pertaining to practical war, but they are taught hunting as well. They
are first taught to capture small game and later the larger and
dangerous animals like the leopard, elephant, and buffalo. What the
Africans call a real hunt requires about a month's work in preparation.
The boys dig a large pit and surround the ends and sides with the trunks
of large trees. With the pit of the apex, in triangular form, two fences
are built about a mile long, and with a mile between the two
extremities. The surrounding country is encircled by the hunters and the
animals are driven into the pit. The smaller animals are eaten and the
larger ones are sent to the king. As the valuable skins are preserved,
the boys are taught to skin animals neatly. The ivories belong to the
king, and various small horns are kept for amulets, and so on. These
hunts are usually accompanied with much singing and dancing, after the
cooking and eating of the game.
[Illustration]
The "Greegree Bush" is a society for the training of girls for future
life, just as the "Devil Bush" is for boys. It is death for a man to be
found within the limits of the "Greegree Bush," no matter what his
purpose may be. The sessions of the society are held near some town, yet
few in that town know the exact place. No one is permitted to approach
the scene.
Usually girls are admitted at seven or eight years of age, although
women may be admitted.
The "Greegree Bush" has both an industrial and an educational purpose.
The girls are taught to embroider with gold and silver thread the tunics
and togas of kings and chiefs. Some of them become very artistic in
working palm-trees, golden elephants, moons, half-moons, running vines,
and other objects and scenes of nature in various articles of apparel.
[Illustration]
The girls are taught hair-dressing in order that they may plait, beside
their own, the hair of the richer Vais, some of whom have their hair
oiled and plaited two or three times a week.
Instruction is given in cutting inscriptions on shields, breastplates,
and the like, and in housekeeping, singing, dancing, farming, sewing,
weaving cotton, dyeing, making nets and mats and many other articles of
domestic utility, decoration, and dress. I have seen Vai women making
some of the most beautiful fancy baskets of various kinds to be found
along the coast.
[Illustration]
EVENING PRAYER
H. CORDELIA RAY
Father of Love!
We leave our souls with Thee!
Oh! may Thy Holy Spirit to us be
A peaceful Dove!
Now when day's strife
And bitterness are o'er,
Oh! in our hearts all bruised gently pour
The dew of life.
So as the rose--
Though fading on the stem--
Awakes to blush when morning's lustrous gem
Upon it glows;--
May we awake,
Soothed by Thy priceless balm,
To chant with grateful hearts our morning psalm,
And blessings take.
Or let it be,
That where the palm trees rise,
And crystal streams flow, we uplift our eyes
To Thee!--to Thee!
THE STRENUOUS LIFE
SILAS X. FLOYD
They were having a rough-and-tumble time of it and Pansy was getting
some pretty hard blows. She took them all good-naturedly, nevertheless,
and tried to give as good as she received, much to the delight of her
little boy friends. A lady who was standing near, afraid for the little
girl, chided the boys and said:
"You shouldn't handle Pansy so roughly--you might hurt her."
And then Pansy looked up in sweet surprise and said with amusing
seriousness:
"No; they won't hurt me. I don't break easy."
It was a thoroughly childlike expression, but it had more wisdom in it
than Pansy knew. She spoke of a little girl's experience with dolls,
some of which, as she had learned, broke very easily. Pansy knew how
delightful it was to have a doll that didn't break so easily. Though she
was not a homely girl by any means, yet she wanted it understood that
she was not like a piece of china. That was why the other children liked
her so much--because she knew how to rough it without crying or
complaining at every turn. Pansy was not a cry-baby.
There is all the time, my dear boys and girls, a great demand everywhere
all through life for people who don't break easily--people who know how
to take hard knocks without going all to pieces. The game of life is
sometimes rough, even among those who mean to play fair. It is very
trying when we have to deal with people who break easily, and are always
getting hurt and spoiling the game with their tears and complaints. It
is so much better when we have to deal with people who, like little
Pansy, do not break easily. Some of them will laugh off the hardest
words without wincing at all. You can jostle them as you will, but they
don't fall down every time you shove them, and they don't cry every time
they are pushed aside. You can't but like them, they take life so
heartily and so sensibly. You don't have to hold yourself in with them
all the time. You can let yourself out freely without being on pins as
to the result. Young people of this class make good playmates or good
work-fellows, as the case may be.
So, boys and girls, you must learn to _rough_ it a little. Don't be a
china doll, going to smash at every hard knock. If you get hard blows
take them cheerily and as easily as you can. Even if some blow comes
when you least expect it, and knocks you off your feet for a minute,
don't let it _floor_ you long. Everybody likes the fellow who can get up
when he is knocked down and blink the tears away and pitch in again.
Learning to get yourself accustomed to a little hard treatment will be
good for you. Hard words and hard fortune often make us--if we don't let
them break us. Stand up to your work or play courageously, and when you
hear words that hurt, when you are hit hard with the blunders or
misdeeds of others, when life goes roughly with you, keep right on in a
happy, companionable, courageous, helpful spirit, and let the world know
that you don't break easily.
O LITTLE DAVID, PLAY ON YOUR HARP
JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR.
O Little David, play on your harp,
That ivory harp with the golden strings;
And sing as you did in Jewry land,
Of the Prince of Peace and the God of Love
And the Coming Christ Immanuel.
O Little David, play on your harp.
O Little David, play on your harp,
That ivory harp with the golden strings;
And psalm anew your songs of Peace,
Of the soothing calm of a Brotherly Love,
And the saving grace of a Mighty God.
O Little David, play on your harp.
A DAY AT KALK BAY, SOUTH AFRICA
L. J. COPPIN
Summer in Cape Town begins with November and lasts until March. This may
seem strange to those living in North America, but a moment's reflection
will suffice to remind them that during these months the sun is south of
the equator, hence this natural result. The strong southeast winds,
which are prevalent during the summer months, often make it very
unpleasant in Cape Town on account of the dust, and one finds it most
desirable occasionally to run out to one of the suburbs where "Cape
Doctor" does not make such frequent and violent visits.
Of the chain of beautiful and pleasant suburban towns following the
railway north, the most important as a summer resort, is Kalk Bay. One
who has visited the beach at Newport, R. I., in the United States, will,
upon visiting Kalk Bay, see a resemblance. Unlike the long sweep of
ocean at Atlantic City, the beach is narrow, being rather a bay than an
open ocean front. Instead of the cliffs as at Newport, we have the
massive mountains standing almost perpendicularly on the east side, at
the foot of which the town is situated.
The principal vocation among the laboring men there is fishing. In this
respect it is very much like Bermuda. They go to sea and return
according to the tide. Some days they are out by two and three o'clock
in the morning. When they go this early they may be expected to return
by noon or even before noon.
I was told that of the sixty-five fishing boats on the Bay fifty-six are
owned by colored men. There are six men to a crew, five beside the
captain, who is the owner of the boat. They sail out to sea, drop
anchor, and fish with hook and line. Half of what is caught belongs to
the captain, and the other half is equally divided among the other five
men. They can scarcely supply the market, so great is the demand for
fish at the Bay and in Cape Town. We were informed that a captain has
been known to make as much as eight pounds in a single day; that is
nearly forty dollars. Of course, there are days when they have poorer
luck. Some days the wind blows such a gale that they are unable to go to
sea at all.
It is a beautiful sight to see the little fleet return. Hundreds of
people will gather about the landing and await their coming.
Farther up the bay, a drag net is used. On the day of our visit we were
fortunate in being just in time to see a net land "full of great
fishes." As the net is hauled near the shore, the fishermen all get
around it, holding the lower portion of it down to keep the fish from
escaping under it and holding the upper portion above the water to keep
them from jumping over it. As the fish are drawn into shallow water
they become very active, and notwithstanding the vigilance of the crew,
some will make their escape. The captain would shout impulsively to the
men; I could not understand him as he expressed himself in "Cape Dutch,"
but from the contortions of his face and the frightened look of the men,
I guess he must have been using language that would not have been
suitable in a church service. "A good haul," some one remarked when the
net was finally landed.
BISHOP ATTICUS G. HAYGOOD
W. H. CROGMAN
It is indeed the peculiar glory of the truly great man, that he cannot
be restricted within the State lines or race lines. Wide as the sweep of
his sympathies is the empire of hearts over which he rules. To those of
us, therefore, whose good fortune it was to be personally acquainted
with Bishop Haygood, it was never a surprise that his influence in both
sections of country and among all classes of people was so large and so
commanding. He was a man of large sympathy, that royal quality in the
human breast which invariably distinguishes the generous person from the
mean, that divine quality which, despite our prejudices and
antipathies, "makes the whole world kin," and is at the bottom of all
Christian and philanthropic endeavor.
A thousand instances of kindness on the part of the good bishop to
persons of all sorts and colors might, I suppose, be cited here in
support of the statement made with reference to his sympathetic
disposition. Many of these little acts of pure benevolence, never
intended for the light, are fast coming to light under the shadow cast
by his death. For as dark nights best reveal the stars, so the gloom
that at times envelopes a human life discovers to us its hidden virtues.
This much, however, the world knows in common of Bishop Haygood: He was
not a man who passed through life inquiring, "Who is my neighbor?" His
neighbor was the ignorant that needed to be instructed, the vicious that
needed to be reclaimed, the despondent that needed to be encouraged.
Wherever honest effort was being made for a noble purpose, there he
found his neighbor, and his neighbor found a helper. Like "The Man of
Galilee," he was abroad in the land, studying the needs of the people
and striving to reach and influence individual lives.
HOW TWO COLORED CAPTAINS FELL
RALPH W. TYLER
A colored unit was ordered to charge, and take, if possible, a very
difficult objective held by the Germans. Captains Fairfax and Green, two
colored officers, were in command of the detachments. They made the
charge, running into several miles of barb-wire entanglements, and
hampered by a murderous fire from nests of German machine guns which
were camouflaged.
Just before charging, one of the colored sergeants, running up to
Captain Fairfax, said: "Do you know there is a nest of German machine
guns ahead?"
The Captain replied: "I only know we have been ordered to go forward,
and we are going."
Those were the last words he said, before giving the command to charge,
"into the jaws of death." The colored troops followed their intrepid
leader with all the enthusiasm and dash characteristic of patriots and
courageous fighters. They went forward, they obeyed the order, and as a
result sixty-two men and two officers were listed in the casualties
reported.
Captain Fairfax's last words, "I only know we have been ordered to go
forward, and we are going," are words that will forever live in the
memory of his race; they are words that match those of Sergeant Carney,
the color sergeant of the 54th Massachusetts during the Civil War, who,
although badly wounded, held the tattered, shot-pierced Stars and
Stripes aloft and exclaimed, "The old flag never touched the ground!"
Men who have served under Captains Fairfax and Green say two braver
officers never fought and fell.
THE YOUNG WARRIOR
JAMES WELDON JOHNSON
Mother, shed no mournful tears,
But gird me on my sword;
And give no utterance to thy fears,
But bless me with thy word.
The lines are drawn! The fight is on!
A cause is to be won!
Mother, look not so white and wan;
Give Godspeed to thy son.
Now let thine eyes my way pursue
Where'er my footsteps fare;
And when they lead beyond thy view,
Send after me a prayer.
But pray not to defend from harm,
Nor danger to dispel;
Pray, rather that with steadfast arm
I fight the battle well.
Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep
My heart and purpose strong,
My sword unsullied and ready to leap
Unsheathed against the wrong.
WHOLE REGIMENTS DECORATED
EMMETT J. SCOTT
Four Negro regiments won the signal honor of being awarded the _Croix de
Guerre_ as a regiment. These were the 365th, the 369th, the 371st and
the 372d. The 369th (old 15th New York National Guard) was especially
honored for its record of 191 days on the firing line, exceeding by five
days the term of service at the front of any other American regiment.
ON PLANTING ARTICHOKES
FROM THE LIFE OF SCOTT BOND
DANIEL A. RUDD AND THEODORE BOND
I was living at one time on a farm, which I had bought near Forrest
City, known as the Neely farm. It was also known as a fine fruit farm.
The land being upland was of a poor nature. I bought the farm mainly on
account of the health of my wife and children. I paid old man Neely $900
for 120 acres. This farm was two and a half miles from my main bottom
farm. After moving on the Neely place and getting straight, I looked
over the farm and finding that the land was far from fertile, I decided
to sow the whole farm in peas, knowing peas were a legume and hence fine
to put life into the soil. I excepted several small spots that I planted
in corn.
I got a fine stand of peas, and looked as if I would make worlds of pea
hay. When the peas were ripe I took my mower and rake to harvest my hay
crop. This was the first time I had undertaken to cultivate this class
of land. I prepared to house the hay and after the hay was cut and
raked, I only got one-tenth of the amount of hay I counted on. I
prepared the land that fall and sowed it down in clover. I got a fine
stand. The clover grew and did well. The next year I took two
four-horse wagons and hauled from the Allen farm large loads of
defective cotton seed. I turned all this under and planted the land the
next year in corn. I made and gathered a large corn crop that year.
I was at that time taking a farm paper and I would usually sit at night
and entertain my wife, while she was sewing. I read an article, where a
party in Illinois had claimed that he had gathered 900 bushels of
artichokes from one acre of land. That did not look reasonable to me at
that time. I said to my wife: "Listen to what a mistake this fellow has
made. He claims to have gathered 900 bushels of artichokes from one acre
of land." This seemed impossible to me.
In the next issue of this paper I read where another man claimed to have
raised 1,100 bushels to the acre. This put me at a further wonder as to
the artichoke crop. I decided to try a crop of artichokes. I had a very
nice spot of land that I thought would suit me for this purpose. I
prepared it as I would prepare land for Irish potatoes, knowing that
artichokes were, like the Irish potato, a tuber. I took a four-horse
wagon and hauled one and a half tons of rotten cotton seed, and of this
I put a double handful every 18 inches apart in the drill; I then
dropped the artichokes between the hills. I cultivated first as I would
Irish potatoes. The plants grew luxuriantly and were all the way from 8
to 12 feet tall.
About the 10th of August I noticed the plants were blooming and it
occurred to me that there must be artichokes on the roots. I got my
spade and began to dig. I could not find a single artichoke. I took my
spade back home and decided within myself that both parties were
mistaken when they claimed to have grown so many hundreds of bushels to
the acre. After a few days I went to my lower farm and started picking
cotton, and was as busy as busy could be all that fall gathering and
housing my cotton crop as usual.
Just before Christmas I promised my wife that I would be at home on
Christmas Eve in order to accompany her to our church conference. I was
on time according to my promise, helped her to get her household affairs
straight and the children settled. I had bought my wife a beautiful
cape. She took the cape, I took my overcoat and off we went. In order to
take a near route we decided to climb the fence and go through the
artichoke patch. As we had none of the children along I, helping her
over the fence, recalled our old days when we were courting. I remarked
to her:
"Gee whiz, wife, you certainly look good under that cape!"
She said, "Do you think so?"
"Yes, I have always thought that you looked good."
By this time we had gotten to the middle of the artichoke patch. I
grabbed an artichoke stalk and tried to pull it up. I made one or two
surges and it failed to come, but in bending it over I found a great
number of artichokes attached to the tap root. I asked my wife to wait a
few minutes. She asked me what I was going to do. I told her I would run
back and get the grubbing hoe and see what is under these artichokes.
She said, "Doesn't this beat the band? Stop on your way to church to go
to digging artichokes."
"All right, I will be back in a few minutes."
I came with my grubbing hoe and went to work. I dug on all sides of the
stalk, then raised it up. I believe I am safe in saying there was a half
bushel of artichokes on the roots of this stalk. I then noticed that the
dirt in the drills, the sides of the rows, and the middles were all
puffed up. One could not stick the end of his finger in the ground
without touching an artichoke. I found that the whole earth was matted
with artichokes. I really believe that had I had a full acre in and
could have gathered all the artichokes, I would have gotten at least
1,500 bushels.
I told my wife that now I could see that those people had told the truth
when they said they had gathered 900 bushels and 1,100 bushels to the
acre.
When I returned from church, I at once turned my hogs into the artichoke
patch. I then climbed up on the fence and took a seat to watch the hogs
root and crush artichokes. I looked around and saw my clover had made a
success, the little artichoke patch had turned out wonderfully. I said
to myself: "Just think of millions and millions of dollars deposited in
all these lands, both rich and poor soils. And just to think how easy
this money could be obtained if one would think right and hustle."
A SONG OF THANKS
EDWARD SMYTH JONES
For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring,
For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,
For the verdant robe of the grey old earth,
For her coffers filled with their countless worth,
For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,
For the rippling streams which turn the mills,
For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,
For the songs of gladness on the gale,--
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the farmer reaping his whitened fields,
For the bounty which the rich soil yields,
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,
For the sun which ripens the golden grains,
For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine,
For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine,
For the tubers large and cotton white,
For the kid and the lambkin, frisk and blithe,
For the swan which floats near the river-banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam,
For the corn and beans and the sugared ham,
For the plum and the peach and the apple red,
For the clustering nut trees overhead.
For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn,
And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn,
For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks,
For the game which hides in the shady nooks,--
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines,
For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines,
For the silver ores of a thousand fold,
For the diamond bright and the yellow gold,
For the river boat and the flying train,
For the fleecy sail of the rolling main,
For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl,
For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,--
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' Banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the lowly cot and the mansion fair,
For the peace and plenty together share,
For the Hand which guides us from above,
For Thy tender mercies, abiding love,
For the blessed home with its children gay,
For returnings of Thanksgiving Day,
For the bearing toils and the sharing cares,
We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,--
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
OUR DUMB ANIMALS
SILAS X. FLOYD
Domestic animals--like horses, cats and dogs--seem to be almost as
dependent upon kind treatment and affection as human beings. Horses and
dogs especially are the most keenly intelligent of our dumb friends, and
are alike sensitive to cruelty in any form. They are influenced to an
equal degree by kind and affectionate treatment.
If there is any form of cruelty that is more blameworthy than another,
it is abuse of a faithful horse who gives his life to the service of the
owner. When a horse is pulling a heavy load with all his might, doing
the best he can to move under it, to strike him, spur him, or swear at
him is barbarous. To kick a dog around or strike him with sticks just
for the fun of hearing him yelp or seeing him run, is equally barbarous.
No high-minded man, no high-minded boy or girl, would do such a thing.
We should never forget how helpless, in a large sense, dumb animals
are--and how absolutely dependent upon the humanity and kindness of
their owners. They are really the slaves of man, having no language by
which to express their feelings or needs.
The poet Cowper said: