Please see the [Transcriber’s Notes] at the end of this document.

Silas X. Floyd, Augusta, Ga.

Corresponding Secretary National Association of Teachers in Colored Schools.

SILAS X. FLOYD’S
SHORT STORIES
for
COLORED PEOPLE
BOTH OLD AND YOUNG

Entertaining Uplifting Interesting

PROF. SILAS X. FLOYD, A. M., D. D.,

Author of “The Gospel of Serv’ce and other Sermons,” “Life of
Charles T. Walker, D. D.,” “National Perils,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED

Published by
AUSTIN JENKINS CO.,
BOOK AND BIBLE PUBLISHERS
WASHINGTON, D. C.

AGENTS WANTED

Copyrighted 1905
BY
HERTEL JENKINS & CO.

Copyrighted 1920
BY
A. N. JENKINS

CAUTION

The entire contents of this book are protected by the stringent new copyright law, and all persons are warned not to attempt to reproduce the text, in whole or in part, or any of the specially posed illustrations.

PREFACE.

Truly the boys and girls of to-day ought to be thankful that they are alive. There never was such a golden age for childhood and youth as the present. To say nothing of the rich opportunities for mental and spiritual development, what a multitude of things have been provided for the innocent pleasure, the wholesome recreation of the young people of to-day, inventions that remind one of the magic of the “Arabian Nights”; tools of sport so perfect that one cannot imagine how they could be bettered; fascinating games, all unknown in the days gone by; books and papers upon which science, art and literary skill have lavished modern resources—all these and many other wonderful things have fallen to the lot of the favored boys and girls of to-day.

And now enterprising publishers of our grand country are going to put the boys and girls of America—and especially the colored boys and girls of America—under obligation to them, because they have decided to add to the list of good books for children and youths already on the market. I use the word “good” advisedly; for from the day that I was engaged to write this book I have had in mind constantly the thought of making it such a book as would tell for good. It is an old saying that “evil communications corrupt good manners,” but evil reading does more than this: for evil reading corrupts good morals.

I have endeavored to put into this book of stories for children only such things as might be freely admitted into the best homes of the land, and I have written with the hope that many young minds may be elevated by means of these stories and many hearts filled with high and holy aspirations. Our nation has a right to expect that our boys and girls shall turn out to be good men and good women, and this book is meant to help in this process.

SILAS X. FLOYD.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE.

The publishers of this book have spared neither pains nor expense in trying to make it as nearly perfect as a book of this kind can be. The typographical appearance and the illustrations will speak for themselves.

We consider ourselves fortunate in having been able to secure the services of the Rev. Dr. Silas X. Floyd as the author of this volume. Mr. Floyd’s life work, aside from his literary training, has made him the ideal man to speak to the colored boys and girls of the South. Soon after graduating from Atlanta University in 1891, Mr. Floyd became Principal of a Public School at Augusta, Ga., and remained in that city for five years consecutively as a teacher. In June, 1896, he was called from the school-room into the Sunday-school work, having been appointed by the International Sunday School Convention as one of its Field Workers throughout the South. He continued in this work for three years, retiring from it to become Pastor of Tabernacle Baptist Church, Augusta, Ga., one of the largest churches in the South. After a year and a half in the pastorate, he returned to the Sunday-school work, becoming Sunday-school Missionary for Georgia and Alabama under appointment of the American Baptist Publication Society.

Mr. Floyd’s work, as the record shows, has been conspicuously for and in behalf of the children, and he is known far and wide as a competent writer and speaker on topics concerning young people. He has contributed to the Sunday School Times, the International Evangel, the New York Independent, The World’s Work, Lippincott’s Magazine, and many other journals and periodicals. He is the author of a volume of sermons published by the American Baptist Publication Society, and listed in their catalogue as among their standard works, and is also the author of the Life of the leading colored Baptist preacher in America, published by the National Baptist Publishing Board. From the beginning of the Voice of the Negro, Mr. Floyd has had charge of the Wayside Department as Editor, and his work as a humorist and writer of negro dialect is known to many through that medium.

In 1894, Atlanta University, his alma mater, conferred upon Mr. Floyd the degree of Master of Arts, and in 1902, Morris Brown College conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Divinity.

CONTENTS

STATE, WAR AND NAVY BUILDING, WASHINGTON

Most remarkable Office Building in the world. Right next door to the White House. Built of solid American Granite with over 500 rooms and over two miles of marble halls.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON

Most wonderful Library building in the world. Erected at a cost of $7,000,000, upon a ten acre site. $20,000 worth of pure gold used in covering the Dome. Has room for 4,000,000 books.

The “President’s Sheep” are a Picturesque Sight on the South Lawn of the White House. The President “Taking the Sun” on the South Porch Frequently enjoys Watching the Gambols of the Flock.

“Great Heavens, the Brute is Mad,” Gasped Evans.

THE COWARDLY HERO.

George Washington Jones was his name. Where he got it nobody knew,—least of all himself. For two years he had sold newspapers one block from the big St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans. Very slender, with great big hungry eyes, this little colored waif presented a pitiful sight to the crowds that hurried by. He was scorned by the other newsboys, who yelled and jeered at him, causing him to shrink up even smaller and to glance fearfully at his tormentors, for George was what the other boys called a coward. He would not fight,—when attacked and imposed upon by his more sturdy associates he would throw up his hands and cower down against the ground like a whipped dog. All boys know what this means,—for months he was the mark for all of the coarse jokes and abuse of the rather rough lot of boys who were also engaged in the newspaper selling business thereabouts. He had lived ever since he remembered with an old colored man in a wretched attic over on the South Side,—the old man was a rag peddler and permitted him to share his miserable quarters for the payment of fifty cents every Saturday night. Poor food and poorer sleeping quarters had their effect, and George soon developed a hacking cough that made people turn their heads to see who it was and then hurry on faster than ever. One cold morning in December, while George stood shivering on his corner, scarcely able to shout loud enough to attract the attention of the passers by, a lady about to enter an automobile glanced at him, noted pityingly his emaciated and half-starved appearance, and the cough that wracked his slight frame,—she stepped up and asked him his name and address, which he gave, gazing in spell-bound admiration at this beautiful, fairy-like creature from a different world.

It so happened that this young lady’s father was a very influential man, and so in course of time the lady who had in the meantime called several times at George’s wretched quarters, with eggs and milk and other dainties, prevailed upon him to arrange for George to spend the spring and summer in the country.

So one bright day in April, George arrived at a big Louisiana plantation where he was to have good food and clothes, and when able, to do odd jobs and chores about the place to pay for his board. The Grahams were a couple who had been married seven or eight years and who had a little daughter of six who was a dainty and pretty little miss, somewhat spoiled, but naturally kind and good-hearted. To George she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, an angel, not to be thought of at the same time with earthly things. He soon became her devoted slave, following her about and trying to think of something he could do that would make her happy.

Now George did not change in the first few weeks of his stay with the Grahams. He was afraid of the cows, of the horses, even of the geese that ran around the yard. Little Louise, who had been raised in the country, could not understand this feeling and did not hesitate to let George know that she had nothing but contempt for his running wildly away from an inoffensive cow who happened to turn her head in his direction.

“But, dearest,” her mother said, “he has never even seen a cow before. To him that cow is only an awfully dangerous thing with horns, a long tail and big mouth.”

“Oh, but mamma, he is such an awful fraid cat,—whoever heard of getting scared at a lot of silly geese?”

“Yes, I fear he is a hopeless coward,” said Mrs. Graham, “but he certainly does work well.”

But the one thing that George feared above all other things was the dog that lived on the Evans place next door. There was considerable excuse for this fear, as the dog was a surly and somewhat dangerous brute, an immense Great Dane, who had no love nor respect for any living thing except his master. He seemed to take a savage delight in dashing to the fence and making strenuous efforts to jump over and attack poor George whenever he had to pass by. On such occasions, George would shriek and dash wildly up the road, screaming in terror,—he feared the Great Dane more than anything else on earth.

The days and weeks slipped by until the month of August. There had been a long dry spell; everything was hot, parched and burning up, and it seemed as if the earth was crying out for rain. Every one was cross and irritable and although not meaning to be unreasonable, Mr. and Mrs. Graham took considerable of their irritation out on our little colored friend George,—he was ordered about and shouted at to move faster and scolded and generally made the target for the ill humor of the entire household.

For some days the Great Dane had been acting strangely,—no one dared to approach him, and on one occasion he even snapped at his master.

“Guess I’ll chain him up until the rain sets in,” said Mr. Evans. However, the dog refused to be tied, avoiding his master and snapping whenever he approached. Suddenly he gave a roar and sprang right at Mr. Evans’ throat,—the man tripped and fell, which was the best thing he could possibly have done under the circumstances, as the dog ignored him, and, snapping right and left, dashed out of the gate and down the road towards the Graham place.

“Great Heavens! The brute is mad!” gasped Evans.

If any one has seen a dog go mad, he will testify that it is not a pretty sight. The maddened animal raced at top speed along the road, snapping wildly at sticks and stones along the way, with froth and foam flying from his mouth, his mammoth jaws closing and unclosing like the teeth of an enormous trap.

Straight down the road and straight through the gate that opened into the Graham yard dashed the enormous Great Dane—he was a hideous sight to the bravest; what he looked like to George no one will ever know. Graham, sitting on the porch, realized in an instant what had happened, and sprang to the dining-room to get his rifle,—right in the path was little Louise, with her dolls, sitting around a little table, in the midst of a party—she rose to her feet, the great frenzied brute but a few yards distant, her face paling, her lips unable to utter a sound. Graham was quick, but not quick enough,—the dog would be upon the child before he could possibly get ready to shoot, but quicker than Graham, quicker than the dog, was George,—what he felt, what he suffered in those few seconds, the Lord alone can tell—with a wild scream, he threw himself right in the path of the maddened Great Dane, right at his throat, shrieking and striking wildly with both clenched fists at the huge head and body of the dog. With a snarl, the dog turned and caught the negro boy,—but it was here that Providence took a hand, for he grabbed not George himself, but his coat, worn and shabby from much use, and the coat came off in his jaws,—before the dog could turn and renew the attack, Mr. Graham shot twice rapidly from the porch and the dog fell, writhing terribly in his death agonies.

White as a sheet, Graham ran quickly down the path and snatched Louise up in his arms,—but Mrs. Graham, who had been an agonized eyewitness of the near-tragedy, was almost as quick to reach George—throwing her arms around him, she sobbed, “God bless you, George; that was the bravest thing I ever saw.”

And in this way, George, the despised and ignored newsboy, who had always been called a coward, came into his own. Such is true courage. Poor boy, he was afraid, fearfully, awfully afraid! But he did not hesitate to risk everything to save the golden-haired little daughter of his employer.

George still remains on the Graham plantation, but you would scarcely know him—he coughs no longer; he stands erect and is becoming strong and sturdy; he has found himself, and no one will ever again have cause to say to him, “You coward!”

THE GREAT SPELLING MATCH.

There was no doubt about it,—of all the little colored boys and girls who went to the Peabody school, Margaret was the dullest. Her teacher said so, her friends said so, her parents were of the same opinion, and if asked herself, Margaret would undoubtedly have frankly acknowledged that her undisputed and proper place was at the foot of the class. Her brother Charles, who was one year younger than she, had proudly graduated from the fifth grade and was making rapid progress in the sixth. He did not spend one-half the time studying that Margaret did, and yet when it came time for recitations, he would stand up and recite in a manner that warmed his teacher’s heart and made him the envy of most all of his schoolmates.

An Exciting Moment.

If Margaret was backward in her studies, little Mable Green certainly was not. Arithmetic, geography, writing, reading, she excelled in all of them. She was a very bright little colored girl and a very good looking one, too. Mable knew this just as well as all of the boys and girls did,—she was not exactly foolish and vain, but she had been so praised and petted by her school friends and teachers that she was inclined to be a little conceited, what we all would call “stuck up.” Once a month a prize was given for the scholar who stood highest in certain studies, and Mable had twice been the successful pupil,—she had two highly prized silver medals to show for her skill.

Now one of the members of the school board was a farmer about forty years of age, kind-hearted, but a little old-fashioned. He believed in boys and girls knowing how to read and write and spell correctly, but he did not care for what he called the “new-fangled” ideas of some of the other members of the board. He was very much opposed to a course in music and elocution that was being considered by the school board, and did not hesitate to let every one know how he felt about it. Now he knew Mable and liked her—he was very much interested in the way in which she stood at the head of her classes and wanted to do something to encourage her in sticking to the old-fashioned forms of education. He thought over this for a long time, and finally decided to hold a spelling match. Now you all probably know what a spelling match is. Two sides are chosen who stand up on opposite sides of the room, and the teacher give out words, commencing at the head of the row,—any one who misses a word has to sit down, and the last one to stand up wins the prize for his side, also is pronounced the best speller and gets the personal prize.

The board all thought this a fine scheme, and so it was decided to hold the spelling match on Thanksgiving evening at the schoolhouse. The teacher was to pronounce the words, while the members of the board were to give her lists of words from which to choose.

“What are you going to give for a prize, Mr. Edwards?” asked the teacher.

“Well, I thought I would give twenty dollars,” replied the man. “Yes, I rather plan to give a bright twenty-dollar gold piece.”

The news spread like wild fire. Never had there been such excitement. This was a small fortune, and Mable’s mother pinned a bright red bow in her hair, and put on her prettiest frock,—Mable had already considered the prize as won,—in fact, she had planned just how she would spend it,—she was a good speller and felt confident that she could win.

The night arrived, bright and crisp November weather, with a bright moon overhead,—the little schoolhouse was packed. It was decided that all children in the fifth, sixth and seventh grades would be allowed to compete. Now, Margaret had been in a highly excited state ever since hearing of the contest—strange to say, she was a good speller. It has often been said, and quite correctly, too, that spelling is a gift,—that some people spell correctly quite naturally, while no amount of study or practice can make a good speller out of any one who was born with a head that ached and throbbed at the mere thought of spelling. She had never had fifty cents of her own in her whole life—twenty dollars in gold—it did not seem possible that there could be that much money in the whole world.

Sides were chosen and Margaret was almost hidden by fat Reggie Andrews, who stood next to her. Mable was right across the room from her, and smiled in a somewhat scornful manner at the girl she thought was a “dummy.”

The teacher began to pronounce the words and you could have almost heard a pin drop; the first few times around but few scholars dropped out, Reggie going down the third time on “mucilage.” Margaret gave a sigh of relief—Reggie had made her very nervous.

Nothing happened that amounted to much until the teacher began to give out words containing “ie” and “ei.” Now these words are very difficult unless a speller knows the rule—“ie” is almost always used except after the letter “c,”—following this letter “c,” it is always “ei.” Margaret had learned this rule in the second grade, and these words had no terror for her—she was gaining confidence now and the audience began to sit up and take notice. Soon but five were left standing,—three on Margaret’s side and only Mable and one little colored boy on the other. It seemed for a time that these five would have to divide the prize,—word after word was spelled and no one missed—the audience was hanging spellbound on every syllable, and the dignified members of the board were trying to act naturally, although in reality, greatly wrought up.

“Exhaustible,” suddenly said the teacher.

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Ann Houston, on Margaret’s side glibly said:

“E-x-a-u-s-t-i-b-l-e.”

“Wrong; be seated,” and with much sniffling and rubbing her eyes, Ann walked sorrowfully to her seat.

The boy on Mable’s side shuffled his feet, looked up, down and around the room, and finally blurted out:

“E-x-h-a-u-s-t-a-b-l-e.”

“Wrong!” and Bobbie joined Ann in sorrowful silence.

Rose Holcomb, the one remaining girl on Margaret’s side, had become rattled—she rolled her eyes wildly up and down and then guessed,—she made a very bad guess.

“E-c-h-o-s-t-i-b-l-e!” and Rose was also counted out and took her seat, tossing her head and looking indifferently around.

It was now Mable’s turn, and she had sufficient intelligence to have profited by the experience of Ann and Bobbie—had the word been pronounced to her first, she would probably have misspelled it, but now she spelled it out firmly and confidently, letter for letter, without a hitch.

Now Mable faced Margaret for the final test—both were greatly excited, but their nervousness had passed—it was now that Margaret’s natural ability came to her aid. Word after word she spelled, and the crowd watched her in amazement. Here was the supposedly dull and backward pupil, the recognized “foot of the class,” standing up gallantly to the last against Mable, the favorite, to whom everybody had conceded the prize as already won.

The largest cities in America, in South America and Europe, proper names, animals,—the words became more and more difficult. Finally, the names of flowers were given—Mable had studied botany and was familiar with flowers—Margaret was now relying on her natural ability and nerve—all things come to an end, and at last the teacher pronounced the name of the flower—

“F-U-C-H-S-I-A.”

Now it is a fact that there is probably no more tricky word in the English language than this—it all depends upon where to place the letter “s.” Mable knew what fuchsias were,—knew all about the different parts, the petals, the stem,—she had spelled the word correctly many times, but, alas, she was a trifle hasty and exclaimed:

“F-U-S-C-H-I-A.”

“Wrong!”—Mable burst into tears,—and with loud sobs ran to her seat and threw herself down, her face buried in her arms.

All eyes were now on Margaret. She was strongly tempted to spell this commencing “ph”—it seemed correct, but something told her that Mable had been almost right. Almost, but not quite! Mable’s dramatic finish had given her time to think for a moment, and when the word was once more pronounced she was ready—without hesitation she spelled slowly and distinctly:

“F-U-C-H-S-I-A.”

“Correct,—Margaret, you have won the prize.”

Margaret’s knees almost gave way under her—surely she must be dreaming—it could not possibly be herself to whom the committeeman was advancing with a light blue plush case—every one was clapping their hands, and the boys had so forgotten themselves as to whistle through their fingers and noisily stamp their feet.

“Margaret, You Have Won the Prize.”

“It gives me great pleasure,” said Mr. Edwards, “to give this twenty-dollar gold piece to Margaret Hawkins, and to pronounce her the best speller in the school.”

Poor Mable cried herself to sleep that night, but it was a good lesson for her—it taught her to be more considerate of others, and that there were something at which she could be beaten.

Every one treated Margaret with increased respect, and her success was also good for her—she began to improve in her other studies, and as she gained in confidence, gradually became, if not one of the best, at least a very good scholar.

Mr. Edwards says his next prize will be given for the best all-around pupil at the close of the term—and Mable is once more looking forward with hope.

THE TRUTH ABOUT LUCK.

How often we hear some one say:

“My, but he’s lucky!” or “It’s better to be born lucky than rich.”

Boys and girls are too often in the habit of thinking that one of their schoolmates are “lucky” because they always stand well in their classes and frequently have spending money in their pockets.

It is not likely that “luck” had anything to do with it. They probably stood well and were at the head of the class in school because they studied and tried harder than the other scholars, and had money to spend because they spent their time out of school hours in working to earn it instead of at play.

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 today, 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.

“How Many Papers Have You Sold Today, Tommy?”

“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.

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.

An Evening at Home.

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.”

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 and His “Man.”

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?”

[1] Published in the Voice of the Negro.

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.”

“Here Is the Carpet, Young Man. I Hope I Have Not Kept You Waiting.”

*****

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 sunroad. “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.”

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.

Grace Before Going to School.

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.

Grace’s Graduation.

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.

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.

Blab-Mouthed and Noisy.

Modest and Quiet.

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.

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?”

He Stuffed Both Hands in His Trousers’ Pocket.

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.

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?”

“How Much for the Melon?”

“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 today. 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.

UNCLE NED AND THE INSURANCE SOLICITOR.

Life insurance is something that every married man should carry. In fact, it is a fine investment for a young man to take out a ten- or twenty-year payment policy in some good company, which can be made in favor of his father or mother in the event of his death, or obtained in cash ten or twenty years later by himself.

The following story tells of an insurance agent trying to insure the life of an old colored man—the story is amusing, but only as a story. We do not advise any one to follow Uncle Ned’s example.

Charles Turner, an agent 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. Turner.

“Good morning, Mr. Turner,” said the old man, raising his hat and making a low bow.

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

“Do I carry what?” asked Uncle Ned.

“Do you carry any insurance? Is your life insured?” asked the agent.

“Bless the Lord, yes, indeed, sir,” replied the colored man; “long, long ago.”

“In what company?” asked the solicitor.

“That’s Just What My Religion Does!”

“I’m a Baptist, sir,—a deepwater Baptist,” answered Uncle Ned.

The agent realized that the old man had not understood him, but, anyhow, he asked him:

“How long has it been since you joined?”

“I joined the same year the stars fell,” replied the old man.

The solicitor knew that the old man referred to the year when the great meteoric display of shooting stars took place, and said:

“That’s quite a long time ago. Does your company pay any dividends?”

“Mr. Turner,” said Uncle Ned, with a smile, “that question is out of my reach,—just what do you mean?”

“Why, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Turner, “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, “it surely is the oldest line company that ever was. The Lord set it up himself way back yonder on Calvary’s tree. But I haven’t ever heard of any interest or dividends—nothing of the kind. And you haven’t heard me talk about paying in money for thirty years,—you know you haven’t. Salvation’s free, man,—salvation’s free! You know that as well as I do.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Turner; “I see that I have misunderstood you. You’re talking about your soul’s salvation.”

“I certainly am,” answered the old man.

“Well, I came here to talk to you about insuring your life in case of death or your body in case of accident or sickness,” replied the agent.

“Accidents, sickness and death come to all of us,” said Uncle Ned very solemnly. “There’s no way of getting away from death.”

“That’s so,” replied the agent patiently; “insurance companies cannot prevent sickness and death any more than you can, Uncle Ned, but insurance companies can and do help you to bear your burdens in time of trouble.”

“That’s just what my religion does,” said the old man, with great satisfaction.

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

“How do you do it?” asked Uncle Ned.

Then the agent went on to explain all about insurance, the benefits, the premiums, accident benefits, sick benefits, etc., dwelling particularly on the fund that would be paid in the event of the old man’s death. Uncle Ned listened with a great deal of interest, and after he had finished, inquired:

“Mr. Turner, who do you say the money goes to when I die?”

“To your wife,” answered Mr. Turner, “or to your children, or any one else you name.”

“Well, Mr. Turner, let me ask you one question: Don’t you think that would help the other fellow more than it would me?”

“What other fellow?” asked the agent.

“My wife’s second husband,” replied Ned. “You know as well as I do that if I was to die and leave five or six hundred dollars to her that some other colored gentleman would be trying to change her name before I got cold in the ground.”

The agent could not suppress a smile, and Uncle Ned went on:

“Women are mighty curious; if I went into this thing, I wouldn’t dare let Dinah know about it. She is a mighty fine and loving wife right now, but if she knew there was all that money waiting for her when I died, wouldn’t she be sort of looking forward to the time when she would get it to spend? Why, Mr. Turner, she might even be tempted to put something in my tea, and the first thing I knew some morning I’d wake up dead. I don’t want anything to do with this insurance. The Baptist Church is good enough for me.”

When Mr. Turner gave it up and laughingly left him, he heard Uncle Ned singing—

“I’m a Baptist bred and a Baptist born,
And when I die, that’s a Baptist gone.”

THE STRENUOUS LIFE.