Chapter C: The Training of Children 323 (1)

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

FRONTISPIECE.

A SPELLING CLASS 20

THAT’S A VERY PRETTY WAY TO SPELL “LOVE” 21

“HOW MANY PAPERS HAVE YOU SOLD TO-DAY, TOMMY?” 23

AN EVENING AT HOME 27

BOBBY AND HIS “MAN” 30

“HERE IS THE CARPET, YOUNG MAN; I HOPE I HAVE NOT KEPT YOU
WAITING.” 34

GRACE BEFORE GOING TO SCHOOL 38

GRACE’S GRADUATION 42

BLAB-MOUTHED AND NOISY 47

MODEST AND QUIET 49

HE STUFFS BOTH HANDS IN HIS TROUSERS POCKETS 52

“HOW MUCH FOR THE MELON?” 54

“DAT’S JES’ WHAT MY ’LIGION DOES,” SAID THE OLD MAN 57

“I DON’T BREAK EASY” 62

“O, GET OUT OF THE WAY, CAN’T YOU?” 65

“MOTHER, I’M SO HAPPY. TEACHER FORGAVE ME” 74

MARY AND HER DOLLS 76

“I’M GOING OVER TO JAKY’S, MAMMA” 80

OLD MRS. GRAY 84

“PAPA I AIN’T GOT NO LITTLE BABY BROTHER TO PLAY WITH” 91

TOOTSIE 94

LITTLE JOE 97

UNCLE HAMBRIGHT 101

“YOU ALL WAIT UNTIL I COME BACK AND THEN WE’LL PLAY AT
FOX-HUNTING” 103

“LEND ME FIVE DOLLARS” 106

A HERO IN BLACK 109

THE ROAD TO SUCCESS 112

HOW TO BE HANDSOME 118

PATIENCE 120

A BITER BIT 123

KEEPING ONE’S ENGAGEMENTS 130

A MIDNIGHT MISHAP 132

OUR DUMB ANIMALS 137

“THE BOY MARCHED STRAIGHT UP TO THE COUNTER” 140

A HEART-TO-HEART TALK 142

“HUH! HUH! THERE DON’T SEEM TO BE BUT TWO OF US HERE TO-NIGHT” 145

“CHARGED WITH KISSING A GIRL ON THE STREET” 157

“I HAVE JUST FINISHED MY COURSE IN THE HIGH SCHOOL” 161

THE GAMBLER 163

THE GAMBLER IN OLD AGE 165

THE BIG BLACK BURGLAR 168

PIN-MONEY MADE WITH THE NEEDLE 172

WASHING DOLLIE’S CLOTHES 175

“SON, IT’S A MIGHTY LUCKY THING FOR YOU AND NANNIE THAT I DIDN’T
HAVE MY GUN” 182

AIMING AT SOMETHING 187

“HE CARRIED WITH HIM SOME WILD FLOWERS AND GREEN LEAVES” 190

“WELL, JOHN, I SUPPOSE SISTER IS DEAD” 194

DIRECTIONS FOR LITTLE GENTLEMEN 201

“MAMMA TOLD ME NOT TO ASK FOR ANY MORE CREAM” 203

THE BEST BOOKS FOR CHILDREN 205

“MAMMA, I HEAR OLD SANTA’S BELLS, AND OF COURSE THIS IS THE
PRESENT HE BROUGHT” 210

DRINK AND TOBACCO 212

“A QUARTER, MA’AM” 215

MONUMENT TO A BLACK MAN 217

“PLAY FANTASTIC” ON THE FOURTH OF JULY 220

THE BAD BOY—HOW TO HELP HIM 222

FRANCES 229

“I GOT IN THE HALL LAST NIGHT FOR NOTHING” 232

THE TWO PATHS 235

“SHE PUT OUT HER THIN LITTLE HAND AND FELT IT” 237

THE VELOCIPEDE RACE 240

FAULT-FINDING 242

“GOODNIS GRACIOUS! I SEE DAT OLD CYCLOOM COMIN’ BACK AG’IN. HE
LOOK BLACKAH AND WUSSAH DAN HE DONE BEFO. RUN, ISAAC, RUN!” 248

“I WISH I COULD HAVE MY WAY WITH THOSE BOYS FOR ABOUT TWO MINUTES” 251

DIRECTIONS FOR LITTLE GIRLS 265

“A LAMP UNTO MY FEET” 273

MEMBERS OF THE RAINY-WEATHER BRIGADE 276

HOME, SWEET HOME 278

“SAINT PAUL WAS A MUCH BETTER MAN DAN I IS, AN’ DEY WHUPPED HIM
MOS’ EV’YWHAR HE WENT” 285

EACH ONE OF US OF IMPORTANCE 289

THE POETRY OF LIFE 290

BEING IN EARNEST 293

TAKING OUT A POLICY 295

THE LITTLE SAILOR CAT 298

ADVICE TO LITTLE CHRISTIANS 299

A WORD TO PARENTS 301

“IS—ER—ER—MR. HOPEGOOD IN?” 305

THE “DON’T-CARE” GIRL 310

NEGRO HEROES 313

FREDERICK DOUGLASS 316

FLOYD’S FLOWERS

I.
A SPELLING LESSON.

The boys and girls of Public School No. 10 were glad to have a new girl, whose name was Bertha Dent, enter their spelling class. The little girl’s mother told the teacher that the child could probably keep up with the First Grade in spelling, because she could spell such words as “dog” and “hog” and “cat” and “rat” and “bat.”

It was not a great while before the teacher called the spelling class. She asked Bertha, the new girl, to stand with the class.

“You may spell ‘dog,’ Mary,” said the teacher to one of the girls, “and tell us what kind of noise little dogs make.”

“D-o-g, dog,” said Mary, “and our little dog says ‘bow-wow-wow!’”

“That was very well done,” said the teacher. “Now, Annie, you may spell ‘cat,’ and tell us what kind of noise little kittens make.”

“C-a-t, cat,” replied Annie, “and the little kitties sometimes say ‘mew-mew,’ and when the little doggies come ’round they bristle up and hiss at the doggies.”

“That’s very well,” responded the teacher. “Sadie, you may spell ‘bird,’ and tell us what the little birds do.”

“B-i-r-d, bird,” said Sadie. “We have a pretty mocking bird that sings for us all the time; most birds sing, but mama says there are some birds which are good to keep bugs and worms off the vegetables and flowers.”

“That is correct,” the teacher made answer. “Now, Bertha Dent, you may spell ‘love’ for us, and tell us what love does.”

“Oh,” said the new pupil, “I know very well how to spell ‘love.’” And then Bertha ran to the teacher, threw her arms around the teacher’s neck, and gave her a sweet little kiss. “That is the way mama told me to spell ‘love,’” said Bertha quietly, while the teacher and all the members of the spelling class smiled.

“That is a very pretty way to spell ‘love,’” said the teacher. “But don’t you know any other way to spell ‘love’?”

“Why, yes,” answered Bertha looking around. “I spell ‘love’ this way, too.” Then she brushed a fleck of dust from the teacher’s sleeve, picked up some papers that were scattered around on the platform and arranged them on the desk. She, also, pulled a tiny bit of thread off the teacher’s skirt. “I spell ‘love’” said Bertha, “by working for mama and papa and little brother, and trying to make everybody happy.”

The teacher drew the little girl close to her side, threw one arm around the child’s neck and said,——

“That is the very best way to spell ‘love’; but can’t you spell ‘love’ the way the book spells it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Bertha. “L-o-v-e, love.”

The teacher hugged Bertha, called her a dear little girl, and then dismissed the class.

II.
THE TRUTH ABOUT LUCK.

This is a world of order and system. There is nothing haphazard about it. The sun rises and sets according to a regular and unchanging law. The tides come in and the tides go out not by accident or chance, but in accordance with well-defined laws. Winter and Summer, sunshine and rain, follow each other in well-ordered succession. What is true in the natural world is also true in the moral and business worlds. A boy reaps that which he sows and gains the prizes for which he is willing to pay the price in labor and self-denial. A divine law controls success and defeat in this life and no strategem or trick can take the place of hard work.

Some years ago, I happened to find myself near the terminal of the great East River Bridge in New York City. Two little boys were standing near one of the large iron posts crying their afternoon papers. I tarried near them because I was waiting for a particular car. One little fellow said to the other,——

“How many papers have you sold to-day, Tommie?”

“Nearly one hundred an’ fifty,” was Tommie’s quick reply.

“Honor bright?”

“Yes; honor bright.”

“Whoopee! but ain’t you in big luck, Tommie?”

“Luck!” exclaimed Tommie, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “There ain’t no luck about it; I’ve just been everlastingly at it since four o’clock this morning—that’s all!”

And that is the _all_ of real success. Those who achieve success are “everlastingly at” what they are trying to do. Tommie was right in declining to have his hard and honest work cheapened by calling the result of it luck.

“You are the luckiest chap I ever saw,” I once heard a little boy about sixteen years say to another boy of about the same age.

“Why do you say that?” asked the other.

“Because you have had your salary raised twice in the same year.”

“Well,” was the reply, “you may call it luck; but I don’t. I have always done my work the very best I knew how. I have never once in the whole year been a single minute late in getting to the office, nor have I ever left a single minute before it was time for me to leave. When I have worked over-time, I have not made any fuss about it. My boss said when he raised my salary last week that he had taken these things into account. So, I don’t see where the luck comes in.”

“All the same,” said the first boy, “some bosses wouldn’t have raised your salary.”

“Then I would have the satisfaction of knowing that I had done my duty.”

Boys, I tell you that’s right. Nine out of ten employers know that it is to their advantage to show appreciation of faithful work and they show it. When this appreciation comes luck has had nothing to do with it. The thing that passes for luck is in nearly all cases the just reward of honest endeavor.

Do not, therefore, start out in life with the expectation that some “lucky turn” will bring you sudden honor or wealth or position without any effort on your part. Substitute that fine old word “_work_” for that deceitful word “_luck_,” and base your hopes of future success and usefulness upon the honorable labor that it is a God-given privilege for every well and strong and right-minded boy to give his heart and hands to performing.

III.
AN EVENING AT HOME.

Boys and girls between the ages of eleven and seventeen ought to spend their evenings at home, as much as possible. In these busy, bustling twentieth century days, there are many families—so much the worse for them—that scarcely know what it is to spend an evening at home together. Not only the young people but the older people are “on the go.” The evenings are crowded with calls and invitations, which come from far and near. It is nothing to go five or even ten miles to an evening concert or social gathering, the trolley is so near, so cheap and so universal. But I tell you, boys and girls, no matter what the pleasure or amusement afforded—no matter what the instruction or culture received—there are no social or similar opportunities good enough to displace the home circle. The sooner young people realize this the happier they will be.

Boys and girls ought to plan for some evenings at home. Let other things have a share, but do not give up all the time to other things. Once a week the young people ought to arrange for an evening at home. Decline everything else for that evening, the same as you would for any other engagement. Gather the family together. Make a special place for grandma and grandpa. Sing merry songs; play innocent and amusing games; take time to tell the home folks about some of the things that you do and that you have seen in the world; get acquainted with the home folks; be delighted in their delight; by special appointment, spend one or two cheerful hours with the folks at home each week.

The young folks themselves should take the lead in this matter. A home is not merely a place with four walls where people meet to eat and drink and sleep securely beneath a roof. Nay, boys and girls, a house is reared to be a _home_—the center where a family may gather into one; to be a serene retreat where the tenderest affections may find rest; where love may have a dwelling place, and the _amenities_ of life gain ample scope; where parents and children may press one another heart to heart; where sorrows and joys may be freely shared in sacred confidence; in a word, where the great work of training human beings for the duties of the present life, and the perfection of another, may be begun and carried on.

There is one special reason for making much of the evenings at home that young people are not likely to think of. _Inevitably_ the _family_ circle will be broken up very soon. Perhaps not by death, but most certainly by change. When Fred goes to college that is the beginning of new ties and new associations, and the home privileges can never be quite so complete to him again. The years of the complete unity of the home are very few indeed. While these years are passing, young people especially should make the most of them. My dear boys and girls, get the benefit of these years; get their joys; store up memories of home life, for they will be in future years the most beautiful pictures of the heart. However some may sneer at it, the memory of home and mother is a great power for righteousness. It has saved many a person to God and native land and race.

“Be it ever so humble—
There’s no place like home.”

IV.
THE MAKING OF A MAN.[1]

Mr. Stamps, seated near the table, was glancing over the afternoon paper. Mrs. Stamps, in an easy chair, was doing some fancy work. Little Bobby, six years old, more or less, was playing with his toys on the floor. All at once the precocious little boy stopped short in the middle of his sport and, looking up at his mother, asked,—

“Mama, who made the world?”

“God,” replied Mrs. Stamps, sweetly.

“Who made the sea?” continued Bobby.

Mrs. Stamps answered, “God.”

“Well,” said Bobby, “did God make everything?”

“Yes, my son; the Lord made everything.”

“And did he make everybody?”

“Yes; the Lord made everybody.”

Bobby was silent for a moment. Presently he looked anxiously at his father, and then, turning to his mother, he asked,—

“Mama, did God make papa, too?”

“Yes; God made papa also.”

After a lengthy pause Bobby asked,—

“Mama, do you think that I could make a man, if I was to try real hard?”

“You had better run out to play now, Bobby,” said Mrs. Stamps, somewhat non-plused by her son’s curiosity.

Bobby left the room almost immediately. He went straight to the beach in front of the house, and labored long and earnestly in piling up some wet sand. Pretty soon he was joined in his work by two other little boys. For some time the three little fellows worked vigorously in piling up the mud. Mrs. Stamps called her husband to the window, so that he might see what the boys were doing.

“Wife,” said Mr. Stamps, “I believe those little Satans are trying to make a man.”

Toward sunset Bobby ran into the house and exclaimed with delight,—

“Mama, we’ve got our man almost finished. We didn’t have but one marble, and we used that for one of his eyes. I came in to ask you to give me a marble, so that we might put in his other eye.”

“It’s too late to bother now, Bobby,” said Mrs. Stamps. “Wait until to-morrow morning; then I will give you a marble and let you finish your man.”

The next morning, bright and early, Bobby went out to look for his man. Lo and behold! the sea had washed the man away during the night. But, Bobby, of course, did not suspect that. He thought that the man had gone away of his own accord. So the little fellow spent the entire morning looking for his man. He looked under the house; he looked in the stable; he went up to the garret; he walked up and down the beach; he went into the woods—looking for his man. But his man was nowhere to be found.

Two or three weeks later an African Methodist Episcopal Conference assembled in Bobby’s town. Among the ministers present there happened to be a short, chubby, tan-colored brother with only one eye. When Bobby spied him he examined the man curiously and cautiously from head to foot. The examination ended, Bobby concluded that that was his man. At once the little fellow left his mother and went over and took a seat beside the man. Bobby’s mother was somewhat embarrassed. The man was evidently pleased, although, to be sure, he himself was not quite certain why he should be an object of special interest to the little boy. The man went to the secretary’s table to have his name enrolled—Bobby went with him. He went into the vestibule to get a drink of water—and Bobby followed him there. But all the while the man was still in doubt as to the cause of the little boy’s apparent affection. By this time, thoroughly exasperated, Bobby’s mother decided to go home. She approached the pew in a very ladylike manner and said,—

“Bobby, dear, come; we must be going home now.”

“All right, Mama,” said Bobby in dead earnest, “but you will please let me take my man home with me—won’t you? I just found him to-day, and you know I’ve been looking for him for over two weeks!”

Then, for the first time, it suddenly dawned upon Mrs. Stamps what was the matter with Bobby. In spite of herself she laughed heartily at the boy’s perversity. Finding that his mother hesitated to reply, Bobby turned to the man and said,—

“Come on: we’re going home now. Why did you leave before I finished you?”

V.
FALSE PRIDE.

Once upon a time the head clerk in a carpet store requested one of his junior clerks to go to a patron’s home to measure a room, and suggested that he take along a five-yard sample. The junior clerk objected to “carting” such a big bundle, as he said, “all over town,” and asked that one of the boys be sent with it. The proprietor of the establishment, who happened to overhear the remark, privately told the head clerk to inform the proud young fellow that a boy would be sent on after him with the roll. Shortly after the young man reached the house, the proprietor of the establishment covered him with confusion by appearing at the house in person with the roll of carpet under his arm. Handing the bundle to the bewildered young man, the proprietor remarked:

“Here is the carpet, young man. I hope I have not kept you waiting for it. If you have any other orders, I’ll take them now.”

* * * * *

A young woman of my acquaintance refused to carry home a yeast cake, though it was needed at once for the family baking and she was bound directly homeward. She said that she wasn’t a delivery wagon, and so the yeast cake had to be sent to her home.

A great many foolish young people are so absorbingly regardful of their trim appearance on the street that they will never under any circumstances carry a basket or bundle, however much inconvenience they may cause others by refusing to do so.

* * * * *

Now, it is not proper pride or self-respect which prompts people to act as the young folks acted whom I have just referred to. It is silliness which prompts them to act so. Any honest work is honorable that is honorably done, and you will notice that young people of good social position and strength of character are above such pettiness. Only inferior people act that way. Superior people do not act so, because they are well aware that they cannot be compromised by doing straightforwardly, without fuss or apology, whatever needs to be done. Yet, I admit, that it seems to be human nature that whatever is distasteful or supposedly menial should be done by somebody else. When young people, or old people for that matter, are tempted to be foolish in such things they should remember the lesson of humility that Christ taught his disciples, when in that warm Oriental country, where only sandals are worn, He performed the necessary service of washing the disciples’ feet. For us to be above our business—for us to think ourselves too good or too dainty to soil our hands with honest toil—for us to feel that it is a lowering of our dignity to carry a bundle through the street, is to prove by our conduct that we are not up to the level of our business, that we are possessed of a great amount of false pride, and, in a higher sense, it shows that we have a foolish and wicked distaste of true service. There is nothing low, nothing degrading, nothing disgraceful, in honest labor, in honest work of any kind, whether it be to boil an egg properly, to sweep a floor well, to carry a bundle or package through the streets, or bring a pail of water. In fact, if somebody were to say that “chores” done or undone are the making or the unmaking of boys and girls, it would be a homely way of putting an important truth. Bringing up coal or bringing in wood, weeding the garden bed, running errands, washing dishes, sewing seams, dusting furniture, doing any odd jobs where there is need, cheerfully, faithfully—these lead to the highway of greater opportunities and are the usual avenues to the only manhood and womanhood that is worth having. My young friends, the castle of your noblest dream is built out of what lies nearest at hand. It is the uncommonly good use of common things, the everyday opportunities, that makes honored lives, and helps us, and helps us to help others, along the sun-road. “He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.” “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

VI.
THANKSGIVING AT PINEY GROVE.

The people of the Piney Grove settlement, both white and black, had been free for nearly a generation. The whites had been freed from the curse of being slave-holders, and the blacks had been freed from the curse of being held in bondage. But never in the history of this little town, in the very heart of the so-called “Black Belt” of Georgia, had the people known anything about the proper observance of Thanksgiving Day until 189–. And in that year the revolution was brought about by a young colored woman named Grace Wilkins.

Grace Wilkins was the only daughter of Solomon and Amanda Wilkins. Solomon and his wife were farmers—plain, simple, ordinary country folk. Amanda was literally her husband’s helpmeet. She went along with him every morning to the field, and, in season, chopped as much wood, picked as much cotton, hoed as much corn, pulled as much fodder, and plowed as much as her husband did. Up to her fourteenth year Grace had been reared on a farm, and had learned to do all the things that any farmer’s child has to do—such as milking cows, feeding hogs and chickens, hoeing cotton and corn, picking cotton, pulling fodder and the like. In her fourteenth year, acting upon the advice of an uneducated colored preacher, her parents sent Grace away from home to attend one of the great normal and industrial institutes for the training of the black boys and girls of the South.

At first her mother and father were filled with forebodings. It was the first time that they had ever allowed their daughter to be away from them, and they missed her so much and longed for her so constantly that they thought that they had made a mistake in sending her off to “boardin’ school.” Ignorant and superstitious neighbors, though they knew as little about such matters as did Solomon and Amanda, were loud in saying that “Sol” and “Mandy” would live to regret the step they had taken in sending Grace away from home. The only rays of sunshine that came in to brighten these periods of mental unrest and gloom on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were found in the letters which they received regularly from their daughter. Grace invariably informed her parents, whenever she wrote, that she was “well an’ doin’ well.” Thus reassured from time to time, Solomon and Amanda managed somehow to undergo the terrible strain of having their daughter absent from them for eight months. But meantime they were firmly of the opinion that, once they got their hands on her again, they would never allow Grace to return to school.

With glad and thankful hearts Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins joyously embraced their daughter when she came home at the close of her first year in school. With keen and genuine interest, they listened to her wonderful accounts of the great school and of the great man at the head of it. Grace dressed differently and talked differently; and her mother said, speaking one day in confidence to her husband shortly after Grace’s return, “Dat gal’s sho got a new walk on her!”

Grace Wilkins brought back a toothbrush with her from school. That was something which she had never had before. She used that toothbrush every morning and night. That was something that she had never done before. She was now careful to keep her hair well combed every day. That was something that she had been accustomed to do on Sundays only or on special occasions. She washed her face two or three times a day now, as her mother and father noticed. Before she went to school she had been in the habit of giving her face, as the old people say, “a lick and a promise” early each morning. Besides, Grace kept the house cleaner than she had kept it before. She brought home with her a brand-new Bible which she read regularly at home and always carried to church and Sunday school. She also had a song book called “Jubilee Songs and Plantation Melodies,” and it gladdened the hearts of the good “old folks at home” to hear their daughter sing from a book some of the very songs that they had sung all their lifetime and which were so dear to them.

All these things and others made a deep and abiding impression upon Solomon and his wife. And finding that withal their daughter was just as loving and kind as she had been before, and that she was just as industrious and faithful as formerly, Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were not long in deciding that their daughter should go back to that school another year, and that they would work hard and stint themselves in order that they might keep her there until she had finished the normal course.

So back to school Grace Wilkins went—that year, and the next year, and the next. It was the proudest day in Solomon’s and Amanda’s lives when they sat in the magnificent chapel of the school and heard their daughter read her graduation essay on “The Gospel of Service.” Glad tears welled up in their eyes when they heard the principal call their daughter’s name, and then saw Grace step up to receive her certificate of graduation.

Coming back to Piney Grove to live, “Miss Gracie”—everybody called her that after graduation—established a little school which she called “The Piney Grove Academy.” It was the first public school for colored children ever opened within the corporate limits of the little village. Before that the schools were district schools or county schools, which were taught about in different places for only three or four months in the year, mainly during the summer. Miss Gracie began her school the first day of October. By special arrangement she used the first three months for the public term allowed by the state, and supplemented that with a five-months term, for which the pupils were required to pay fifty cents each per month. The plan worked well, the parents joining in heartily in the movement, and the Piney Grove Academy soon became the model school for the surrounding counties.

Among other things Miss Gracie had learned at school what was the import of our national Thanksgiving Day. At the opening of the second year of the Piney Grove Academy she decided that she would inaugurate an annual Thanksgiving service. Accordingly on the opening day of the second year Miss Gracie informed the pupils of her plan, and told them that she would begin the very next day to prepare a suitable program for the exercises. Afterwards Miss Gracie secured the cooperation of the village pastor—the same man who had been instrumental in having her parents send her away to school. Through him she was permitted to talk to the people at the church two or three times about the proposed celebration. She was careful to tell them that the Thanksgiving festival was meant specially to be a home festival in addition to being a time for the people to come together in their accustomed places of worship to thank God for the blessings of the year. She urged them, therefore, as far as they were able without going to unnecessary expense, to have family dinners and bring together at one time and in one place as many members of the family as possible. She explained to them how this might be done successfully and economically, and with pleasure and profit to all concerned. She also urged them to be planning beforehand so that nothing might prevent their attending church Thanksgiving Day morning. She was going to hold the exercises in the church, because her little school was not large enough to furnish an assembly hall for the people who would be likely to be present.

On Thanksgiving Day nearly everybody in town went to the exercises. Many white people attended, including the county school commissioner and the school trustees. It was the first Thanksgiving service that any of them had ever witnessed.

The program was made up, for the most part, of choice selections from negro authors, composers, orators, and so forth. A selection from Frederick Douglass on “Patriotism” was declaimed; one from Booker T. Washington’s Atlanta Exposition speech was also delivered. Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poem entitled “Signs of the Times” (a Thanksgiving poem) was read by one of the pupils, and also “The Party,” another of Dunbar’s pieces, was rendered. “The Negro National Hymn,” words by James W. Johnson and music by his brother, Rosamond Johnson, was sung by a chorus of fifty voices. At the opening of the service the president’s Thanksgiving proclamation was read and appropriate remarks were made by Miss Wilkins. The closing remarks were made by the Rev. John Jones, the village pastor. The remarks of Mr. Jones were in the congratulatory mood. He was naturally proud of Miss Gracie’s achievements, because he had had something to do with putting her on the road to an education. He spoke of the teacher as the leaven that was leavening the whole lump, and the applause which followed the statement showed plainly the high esteem in which the teacher was held by all the people. Everyone enjoyed the service. None of the villagers had ever seen anything like it before. After singing “America” all of them went away happy, many of them, in obedience to Miss Gracie’s previous counsel, going home to eat for the first time, well knowing what they were doing, a Thanksgiving dinner.

At the home of Miss Wilkins there was an excellent spread of ’possum, potatoes, rice, chicken, pickles, macaroni, bread, a precious Thanksgiving turkey, and the inevitable mincemeat pie. Besides Miss Gracie, there sat at the table that day her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Wilkins, John and Joseph Wilkins, brothers of Solomon who had come from a distance, Mary Andrews, a sister of Mrs. Wilkins, who also came from a distance, Grandma Wilkins, Grandma and Grandpa Andrews, the Rev. John Jones, his wife, his daughter, and his only son, Jasper Jones.

Jasper had gone to school at T—— one year after Gracie went, and, of course, was one year later in finishing the course there. On this Thanksgiving Day, nevertheless, he had been out of school long enough to have successfully established himself in the business of poultry raising and dairying.

Just before the dinner party was dismissed the Rev. Mr. Jones arose and said:

“There is another little ceremony you’all is invited to witness befo’ you go out to see the baseball game. I am authorized by these credentials which I hol’ in my hands to unite in the holy bonds of matrimony Miss Grace Wilkins and Mr. Jasper Jones. If there is no objection, these two persons will please stan’ up, an’ I’ll tie the knot.”

Of course there were no objections. The knot was tied. And when the villagers learned of the occurrence not long afterwards they had additional reason for believing that they were right when they voted that Piney Grove had never seen the like of such a Thanksgiving Day, and that Miss Gracie Wilkins was one of the best women in all the world.

VII.
THE LOUD GIRL.

I do not know of a more sorrowful spectacle than that of a girl who is loud in her dress, loud in her manners, and loud in her speech. It is a great mistake for a girl to suppose that this loudness will be mistaken by her friends and acquaintances for smartness. The desire to be regarded as bright and witty has led many a girl into the folly of being loud in her manners. She often cherishes the illusion that the attention such manners attract is combined with admiration, when the truth is that those who witness her strange conduct are simply wondering how it is possible for her to throw to the winds that charm of all girlhood—modesty.

One afternoon not long ago I saw a group of girls of the loud type. They came into the street car in which I was sitting. They all wore boys’ hats. One wore a vivid red jacket with brass buttons, and another had on a brass belt. A third one had on a most conspicuous plaid skirt. This third one had a box of bonbons, and when the three were seated she opened the box and offered it to her companions, saying as she did so, in a voice loud enough and shrill enough to be heard in every part of the car:

“It’s my treat; have some, chums!”

Upon this invitation one of the girls dived down into the box like a hungry bear, and held up a piece of the candy in triumph and then dashed it into her mouth with a great guffaw. “O, Mame!” said one of the girls, “if you ain’t just horrid to go and take the very piece I wanted!”

“Mame” laughed and, taking the candy from her mouth, offered it to the other girl, saying as she did so:

“Well, here it is, Lulu!”

“Lulu” struck the candy from “Mame’s” hand, and it flew across the aisle into the lap of a lady sitting opposite the girls. This set all three of the girls to giggling and tittering, and they seemed in danger of convulsions when the owner of the box of candy let it fall and a part of the candy rolled out on the floor.

The conductor came forward and picked up the box and candy and handed them to the owner. She giggled out her thanks, and “Lulu” said: “Why didn’t you give him a gumdrop for his trouble?”

This seemed to impress the other girls as a most brilliant witticism, and they fell to tittering violently over it.

Presently a gentleman came in and stumbled slightly over the feet of one of the girls thrust out into the aisle.

“I beg your pardon,” said the gentleman, as he lifted his hat, whereupon the three girls grinned and giggled and giggled and grinned immoderately, and one of them said:

“Roxy, you had better ride out on the platform, where there is more room for your feet!”

“Roxy” then struck “Lulu” for making this speech. “Lulu” pretended to be much offended and flung herself over to the other side of the car, where she made a grimace at the other girls.

The conduct of these girls during the half hour that they were on the car was such as caused every father and mother who saw them to regard them with pity. The loud girl, my dear readers, is always an object of pity. She should be a sorry object for her own contemplation. An old writer has said: “You little know what you have done when you have first broken the bounds of modesty; you have set open the door of your fancy to the devil, so that he can represent the same sinful pleasure to you anew.”

Now, the loud girl may be entirely innocent of any actual wrong-doing, but she is regarded with dislike, distrust, and even disdain, by the better class of people. She acquires a reputation for rudeness and coarseness, and the people of refinement will not associate with her. Her character suffers, no matter how innocent she may be of any intention of doing wrong. Delicacy, modesty, is the certain sign of sweetness, purity and gentleness of character, just as indelicacy is the certain sign of a lack of these beautiful traits.

VIII.
THE ROWDY BOY.

You can tell him wherever you see him. There are certain marks or appearances which he carries about with him and which are never absent. For one thing you will find him with a cigarette stuck in his mouth, and a cigarette is one of the deadliest poisons in the world for boy or man. He wears his hat on the side or cocked back on his head. Frequently he stuffs both hands in his trousers’ pockets. He doesn’t attend school regularly; sometimes he starts for school and ends at the bathing pond or the baseball park. He is late at Sunday school, if he goes at all, and he stands ’round on the outside at church while the service is going on inside. He steals rides on trains and on trolley cars, and on passing vehicles of all descriptions. He is saucy and impudent to older people, and is always ready and willing to quarrel or fight with his mates. He is what the boys call a “bully.”

The loud girl and the rowdy boy are two things of which we have seen enough in this world. They are things; they are hardly worth the dignity of being called human beings.

I saw one of these rowdy boys in his own home not a great while ago. His mother said to him:

“Johnnie, you must always take off your hat whenever you come into the house.”

“Good gracious alive,” he said, “I can’t do anything right. What is the use of grabbing off your hat every time you come into your own house?”

His mother looked sad, but said nothing. Presently she discovered that her little boy had brought some mud into the house on his shoes. In her sweetest tones she said:

“Johnnie, you must go to the door and wipe your feet now. See how you are tracking up the floor there!”

“Well,” said the rowdy boy with a snarl, “can’t the old floor be scoured? You must think this old house is gold.”

Now, I am a preacher, boys, and, being a preacher, of course I am what is called a “man of peace,” but I tell you that that was one time I came pretty near wishing that I wasn’t a preacher so that I might have given that boy what he deserved. I was sorry, for the time being, that he wasn’t my son. No manly little boy will ever talk to his mother in any such way. I suppose that boy thought it made him appear to be a very important personage, but he was very much mistaken. Don’t be rowdy, boys; don’t be rough; don’t be rude. You were made for better things.

IX.
HONESTY.

Early in the morning two little boys came to the market place. They arranged their little stands and spread out their wares, and sat down to wait for customers. One sold watermelons and fruit, and the other sold fish and oysters. The hours passed on and both were doing well. By-and-by Sammie had only one melon left on his stand. A gentleman came along and said:

“What a fine, large melon! I think I will buy that one. What do you ask for it, my boy?”

“This is my last melon, sir; and though it looks fair, there is an unsound spot on the other side,” said the boy, turning the melon over.

“So there is,” said the man. “I don’t believe I’ll take it. But,” he added, looking straight at the boy, “is it very good business for you to point out the defects of your goods to customers?”

“Perhaps not, sir,” said the boy with becoming modesty, “but it is better than being dishonest.”

“You are right, my boy; always speak the truth and you will find favor with God and man. I shall not forget your little stand in the future.”

Then turning to the other boy’s stand the man asked:

“Are those fresh oysters?”

“Yes, sir,” said Freddie, “these are fresh this morning—just arrived.”

The gentleman bought them and went away.

“Sammie,” said Freddie, “you never will learn any sense. What did you want to show that man that spot on the melon for? He never would have looked at it until he got home. I’ve got an eye to business, myself. You see how I got rid of those stale oysters—sold them for just the same price as fresh oysters.”

“Freddie,” said the other boy, “I wouldn’t tell a lie, or act one either, for twice the money we have both earned to-day. Besides I have gained a customer and you have lost one.”

And it turned out just as Sammie said. The next day the gentleman bought a large supply of fruit from Sammie, but he never spent another penny at Freddie’s stand. It continued that way through all the summer. At the close of the season he took Sammie into his store, and, after awhile, gave him a share in the business.

X.
UNCLE NED AND THE INSURANCE SOLICITOR.[2]

Turner Tanksley, a representative of the Workingmen’s Industrial Aid Insurance Company, called upon Edmund Grant, an elderly colored man, with a view to getting him to insure his life.

“Good morning, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley.

“Mawnin’, Boss,” said the old man, raising his hat and making a low courtesy.

“Uncle Ned, do you carry any insurance?” inquired the solicitor.

“Does I car’y what?” asked Uncle Ned in great surprise.

“Do you carry any insurance? Is your life insured?” asked the solicitor by way of explanation.

“Bless Gawd! Yas, yas,” replied the colored man, “long ago—long ago.”

Then the solicitor asked: “In what company?”

Uncle Ned answered: “I’m a Baptis’, sah; I’m a Baptis’—a deep-watah Baptis’.”

Mr. Tanksley realized that the old man had not understood the question, but, anyhow, he asked:

“How long has it been since you joined?”

“I j’ined,” replied Uncle Ned, “de same year dat de stars fell—I reckon you know how long dat’s been?”

“That’s a long while,” commented the insurance man; “quite a long while. Does your company pay any dividends?”

“Boss,” said Uncle Ned with a broad grin, “dat question is plumb out uv my reach. What is you tryin’ to git at?”

“Why, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley, “a dividend is interest paid on your money; and if you have been paying your money into one company for more than thirty years surely you ought to have been receiving your dividends long before now, especially if it’s an old-line company.”

“Well,” said Uncle Ned, “hit sho is de ole-line comp’ny—hit sho is. De Lawd sot hit up Hisse’f ’way back yondah on Calvaree’s tree. But I ain’t nevah hyeahed tell uv no intrus’ nor no divverdens ner nothin’ uv dat sawt; an’ you ain’t hyeah me say nothin’ ’tall ’bout payin’ in no money fer thirty yeahs—you know you ain’t. Salvation’s free, white man; salvation’s free—you knows dat ez well ez I does.”

The way Uncle Ned laughed when he had delivered himself of this remarkable speech would have done your soul good.

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Tanksley with much condescension, “I see that I’ve misunderstood you. You’re talking about your soul’s salvation.”

“Dat’s what I is,” chimed in Uncle Ned, “dat’s what I is.”

“I came,” resumed the solicitor, “to talk to you about insuring your body in case of accident, sickness or death.”

“Accerdents is fer us all,” said Uncle Ned, with a far-away expression on his face, “accerdents is fer us all, an’ dah ain’t no gittin’ ’roun’ death.”

“That’s true,” responded the patient solicitor, “that’s true; insurance companies can’t prevent sickness and accidents and death any more than you can, Uncle Ned, but insurance companies can and do help you to bear your burdens in the time of trouble.”

“Dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does,” said the old man with supreme satisfaction, “dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does.”

“But we do it in a different way,” persisted the solicitor.

“Well, how does y’all do?” asked Uncle Ned.

Then the solicitor went over the details of the Workingmen’s Industrial Aid Insurance Company with his accustomed rapidity, telling about the initiation fees, monthly premiums, accident benefits, sick benefits, etc., etc., laying much stress especially upon the “endowment fund” that would be paid upon the death of the insured. When he had finished the elaborate narrative Uncle Ned, who had given the most earnest attention to the speaker, inquired:

“Boss, who you say de money goes to w’en I dies?”

“To your wife,” answered the solicitor, “or your children, or anybody you might name.”

“Well, Boss,” said the old man, “lemme ax you one question: Don’t you think dat would he’p de uddah fellah mo’n hit would me?”

“What other fellow?” asked Mr. Tanksley.

“My ole ’oman’s secon’ husban’,” replied Ned; “you know des ez good ez I does dat ef I wuz to die an’ leave my ole ’oman two hundred or three hundred dollars, dah’d be some cullud gent’man done changed her name ’fo’ ole Ned got cole in de groun’.”

Uncle Ned’s originality made it very hard for Turner Tanksley to suppress a smile. Without giving the solicitor a chance to speak, Uncle Ned continued:

“An’ dah’s anuddah way to look at hit. Wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Yas, sah; wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Ef I wuz to go into dis thing you’s tellin’ me ’bout, I dasn’t let Dinah know hit. White man, you don’t know—no, sah, you don’t know. Ef dat ’oman knowed she’d git all dat money w’en I died, she would sho put a spidah in my dumplin’—she sho would, an’ fuss thing I know I’d wake up some mawnin’ an’ fine myse’f dead, an’ all on account uv dis thing dat you calls ’showance. No, sah, I don’t want nothin’ to do wid hit. De Baptis’ church is good ’nuff fer me.”

When the solicitor turned the corner he heard Uncle Ned singing some kind of religious song with the following refrain:

“I’m Baptis’ bred, an’ Baptis’ bo’n.
An’ w’en I die, dah’s a Baptis’ gone.”

XI.
THE STRENUOUS LIFE.

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 out 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, and though she was not a wicked little girl, 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.

XII.
A HUMBUG.

A boy or girl who is pleasant and agreeable everywhere except at home is a humbug. I know one boy who is a good deal of a humbug, although you would never think so if you were to see him in any place outside of his home. He is good-looking, neat and tidy, and carries himself like a little man. I do not know of a boy who can tip his hat more gracefully to a lady, or who can say, “I beg your pardon,” or “excuse me, please,” more pleasantly than he can. But, for all that, he is a humbug.

I visited his home the other day. I heard his mother speak to him.

“Alexander,” she said.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a voice which plainly indicated his displeasure.

“I want you to do something for me.”

“Oh, you are always wanting me to do something just when I want to be doing something else,” said Alexander, and this time he was whining.

In departing on his errand Alexander accidentally ran against his little sister in the hall. I expected to hear him say, “I beg your pardon” in the pleasant way that I knew he could say it, but he snapped out instead:

“Oh, get out of the way, can’t you?”

When he returned from the postoffice Alexander’s mother was out in the yard trimming the flowers. While Alexander was reporting to her, she happened to drop her scissors. I expected to see her polite and dutiful son pick them up, as he was close by when the scissors fell; but the boy paid no attention to the scissors. When his mother said: “Please pick up my scissors for me, Alexander,” he said:

“What did you drop ’em for?”

I spent the best part of one whole day at Alexander’s home, and never once during all that day did I hear him speak politely to his mother or sisters, nor did he observe the ordinary rules of courtesy and good behavior in their presence. He was continually grumbling and complaining and finding fault. So I think I have a right to say that this boy is a good deal of a humbug. Any boy is a humbug who is polite and gracious to others and in every way discourteous and disagreeable at home. Don’t you think so, too?

XIII.
A CANDIDATE FOR BAPTISM.[3]

At the close of the regular prayer-meeting service the pastor of the New Mount Zion Colored Baptist Church, according to custom, stepped to the front of the platform and inquired:

“Is dar anybody present to-night who would like to jine dis church? Ef so, please stan’ up.”

Whereupon a little girl, apparently fourteen or fifteen years old, stood. The parson said:

“Take yo’ seat. Dah’s one; de church will set togeddah atter dismission an’ hyeah f’um dis little lamb.”