The Tar Baby and the Tomahawk: Race and Ethnic Images in American Children's Literature, 1880-1939

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HONEY

(Rewritten after Maeterlink)

I THINK honey is the bestest thing in the world," said Boy as he added another golden spoonful to a mouth already full.

"I like Honey, too," said mother, rearranging his bib and pouring another glass of milk. "Oho!" said Boy, "you mean me—I mean bees' honey."

"And what does Honey know about bees?" "O, bees,—they sting—please, Mother, some more bread—I got stung once."

"Is that all?"

"Course not—they make honey—stings and honey."

"No—honey and stings—shall I tell you about honey?"

"Yes, and about stings too."

"Look out the window—it all begins with the Miracle of Flowers."

"Are flowers miracles?"

"Yes—the most miraculous of miracles. After nature has dug in ugliness and slime and then risen to be practical and useful, suddenly in a wild moment it becomes merely beautiful and riots in color and perfume and lovely form."

"I don't understand all that, but I like roses and lilies and buttercups."

"And so do the bees—but what's more wonderful, the flowers love the bees."

"Can flowers love?"

"O yes—they may not know they're loving, but they love because they want to live forever." "But they die."

"Yes, but they arise from the dead each spring and live again and again and forever. But without the bees they couldn't."

"Why?"

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"On the heads of the flowers, which tremble with eagerness, is a magic powder and hidden below is a sweet mess called honey."

"Oho! the bees don't make it, they steal it." "No, it is given them gladly in exchange for other magic powders which they bring." "I thought you said the flowers had a powder?"

"They do—but each flower's powder is no good for the flower that grows it—it must be carried to other flowers and the bees carry it. They come to the earliest flowers in March and April bringing little sacks on their hips. Down into the pretty flowers they dip and fill some sacks with honey and others with the magic powder. Then they go to other flowers dropping bits of the fertilizing powder and taking more powder and honey with them. Their sacks full, home they hasten to the hive, humming a little tune. They visit often two or three hundred flowers in an hour and collect in a summer 120 pounds of honey from a hive, which is 600,000 times the weight of a single bee."

"O goody! I'd like to see a hive."

"We'll go and see one this afternoon in Uncle Abraham's backyard—we may be in time to see the Great Renunciation."

"That's an awful big word, Mother."

"And it stands for a great idea, full of awe. It means the 'Great Giving-up'. It is now June —perfect June. For three months the bees have heaped up honey. The hive is full and overflowing and then, suddenly, the bees go and leave it."

"For us?"

"No—although we may share, but for their children and children's children."

"Do they have to go?"

"No—just as you do not have to stop eating honey—but—"

"O, Mother, just a spoonful more, and a little more bread and—"

"No, Honey, this is the time for Renunciation."

"But giving up's no fun."

"Neither is tummy ache."

"O, I see, we and the bees give up because we're afraid."

"Not entirely. We are afraid of sickness which comes of overdoing anything, but we are led also by a vision of good to others which comes of sharing."

"Well, Mother, I s'pose—"

"Come quick or we'll miss the swarm." "What's that?"

"The Great Renunciation—Uncle Abraham tells me that for days a strange unrest has stirred his bees. Most of the Foragers have stopped searching for honey and the Queen has left her palace."

"Do bees have queens?"

"Their Queen is their Mother."

"That's fine. You'se my Queen, ain't you, Mother?"

"I hope so. The Queen of the bees is the mother of the hive—all the other bees are her children."

"How jolly—aren't there any other mothers?" "There is only one mother in a hive. This Queen-Mother is now leading the swarm and we must hurry."

They hastened through the back-yard and down the lane by the singing river and under the old lime tree where they came to Uncle Abraham's cabin.

"Have they swarmed yet?"

"Yas'm, one swarm done gone—but there's another—look!"

Then Boy saw a wonderful thing: Out of a little, low hive hidden beneath a plum tree, rushed two dark flying columns of 70,000 bees.

"Ooh-ooh," cried Boy, "they're colored folks, ain't they, Mother?"

"Yes, they're black and golden-brown like you. There are no white bees."

"And where are they going?"

"They do not know."

"They don't know where they're going, but they're on their way," laughed Boy.

They flew like a cloud or a magic blanket.

"And if we could see her, the Queen is in their midst, well to the front, larger and more beautiful of body than the rest, but with smaller head and 16,000 eyes."

"My, she ought to see a lot."

"Around her fly her 50,000 daughters, small and spare and plain, but with big brains and short lives because they work so hard."

"And her sons too?"

"No, they stay behind—lazy things!"

"But where are the Queen and her daughters going?"

"They are searching for a new home—see, they have hung themselves like a cluster of myriad grapes on yonder tree. If left alone
brownies.192008.007.jpg [illustration - Down into the pretty flowers they dip Hilda Rue Wilkinson ]
brownies.192008.008.jpg they would send out scouts north, south, east and west to find a new home. But see, Uncle Abraham is going to catch them and guide them to a new hive."

"Won't he get stung?"

"No, not if he is gentle. Come! See here, they are settling in this dark empty box beneath the plain tree."

"Can we look in?"

"No, we should see nothing but darkness and there is a strange silence after the noise of the swarm."

"What are they doing?"

"I will tell you as we walk home. First, they carefully explore the home and while some clean and varnish it, others forming in columns march up the sides and attach themselves to the very top and by clinging to each other drop in long streamers. Then slowly intertwining the streamers formed of their attached bodies they make an inverted cone. Once the cone is formed there ensues a long and awful silence, twenty-four hours. It grows hotter and hotter in the hive. Suddenly from four little packets beneath the stomach of each bee appears a sort of light snow, the `Spirit of the Flowers', which stiffens until the surface of the living cone is covered with `ivory tablets' of wax. Then suddenly a busy woman carpenter will climb over the bodies of her fellows to the very top of the hive. She will take one of the wax scales from her stomach, fashion it and knead it and attach it securely to the roof. Then she adds the other tablets, pats them and secures them, and so the Bee city's foundation stone is laid."

"But on the roof? Upside down?"

"Yes, the city is built upside down! When the Carpenter-Masons have formed a sufficient block of wax, a Carver appears, a little busy woman whom the crowd of bees watches eager ly. She carries no wax but beginning at the top she scoops out deftly and surely a little six-sided hole in the wax."

"Oh, I saw it in the honey-comb, the comb's full of them."

"Yes. She excavates the hole, piling the wax up at the edge. Then she leaves and others follow, working on both sides of the wax and producing the honey-comb, that wonderful, beautiful House of the Hexagon."

"What's a Hexagon?"

"Anything six sided, and this form gives the greatest space with the fewest walls. After one comb is finished the Carpenter-Masons lay a second and third and more, leaving avenues of half an inch between. And thus they work for two or three months, through June, July and well into August.

"The finished city has 120,000 cells. If we were the size of bees, we would see their upside down city beginning in slim and silver beauty higher than the highest church steeple. Some of the cells are filled with pollen, each color in its own cell forming a yellow, red and black pile. Next come 20,000 reservoirs of the first gathered honey carefully sealed; then come open vats of later honey. In the centre, where it is warmest and safest, is the Royal Palace. Here are 10,000 cells for the Queen's eggs, 15,000 cells of larvae, and 40,000 rooms inhabited by nymphs. Then in the midst are from 3 to 12 royal cells where lie the Sleeping Princesses."

"I don't quite understand, Mother."

"All life, dear, is born from eggs. The work of the Queen is to lay eggs. These eggs grow and little live larvae emerge and after a while grow into nymphs and finally into little bees.

"No sooner is the swarm settled and building than the Foragers start out. It is the height of flower-time. The world is flowers—roses and lillies and apple blossoms.

"They hurry to fill the cells while the Queen-Mother begins to lay her eggs. It is solemn, unending work. She carries within her body two million eggs."

"Gee! What a lot!"

"Yes, it is a vast and prodigal horde. Of course she may not live to lay all the eggs and all may not hatch; but no sooner is her palace ready than she begins. Carressed and attended by her daughters, she moves from cell to cell, peeps in to see if all is well and then turning, lays her tiny blue eggs which the Nurses hasten to seal up. All her life save twice the Queen walks to and fro in the darkness laying her million eggs.

"Feverishly the hive works and far into the fall until the last flowers droop and die and the cold winds come down. Then the house be-comes quiet. The doors are half closed and the bees gather in the center of the hive clinging to the combs, with the Queen and Royal Guard in the center. The first row attaches themselves to the cells, the second to them and so on till the last row forms a great envelope of all. When the bees in the outer envelope are cold they
brownies.192008.009.jpg crawl in and others take their places, while those next to the cells pass out honey and feed all. All the bees slowly beat their wings to keep the air pure and temperature even, and thus they rest and eat and drowse the winter away."

Boy yawned prodigiously. "I think I'll drowse a little," he said, and off he went to bed.

Several days went by before Boy thought of bees again. Then one winter day beside the cozy fire with a book he came across a picture.

"Mother," he asked suddenly, "what do the bees do when they wake up in the spring?"

Mother was busy and had to put off answering a while. But after supper she took him in her lap.

"As early as February the Queen awakes and begins again to lay her eggs. In March the Foragers gingerly brave the wind and wet and frost and seek the earliest flowers. By April the hive seethes with feverish activity. The honey cells are replenished and sealed, the pollen is piled up and the city enlarged. By June the open honey vats are built and the city is rich and prosperous. Then comes the Great Renunciation."

"I know," said Boy—"they swarm."

"Not all of them—perhaps 70,000 go and leave 10,000 behind."

"Who tells 'em who is to go and who can't go?

"We do not know. Perhaps they tell themselves, perhaps God tells them; but a day comes when seven-eighths of the city fly away with the Queen and leave a lonesome few, with no Queen, but with the hope of one.

"In the city there remain some 400 men—lazy but splendid, big, clad in glistening helmets and gaily colored cloaks. Then there are several thousand Foragers, who still seek the flowers, and many guards and cleaners. But most of those left are nurses."

"Nurses? How funny—are there any sick folks or babies?"

"Babies—thousands and thousands of babies and babies-to-be—10,000 eggs, 18,000 bits of life, 36,000 sleeping Baby Bees and seven or eight Sleeping Princesses."

"O me! O my! What a nest! They must yawl something awful."

"No, they are all very pale and quiet lying in their golden cradles and fed on nurses' milk. The nurses dance and hurry and wave their wings and feed the young until they are born."

"Is the whole bunch born at once?"

"Oh no—at intervals according to the time the eggs were laid. Here at a cell appears a little black head and long antennae. It gnaws at the wax. The nurses come running and help clear the wax away. Out comes the larvae and a bee is born. It is weak and shivery and pale. It is brushed and cleaned and given its first honey. After a week it takes its first flight into the air and after a second week it seeks the flowers and begins to work."

"They sure ain't babies long."

"But still the hive is incomplete—still there is no Queen; so the nurses redouble their attention to the splendid royal cradles where the Princesses sleep."

"They're a different sort of bee, ain't they?"

"No, any egg taken early enough and fed on the Royal Jelly becomes a Princess. The royal cradles rise like white tombs in the centre of the city—three or four times as large as the common cells. In here are larvae hatched after three days from eggs. About a week after the departure of the swarm, the nurses begin to thin the wax on the ripest royal cell, while the Princess gnaws within. The head appears and she thrusts herself forward. She emerges, is cleaned, fed and caressed. Almost as soon as she is born a strange restlessness seizes her."

"Why?"

"She knows that a hive can have but one Queen and that other queens are waiting to be born."

"Gee! but she's mean!"

"It is one of the puzzles of life. The world now sweet with flower and song suddenly turns and hurts and kills."

"But why, Mother?"

"We do not know. Perhaps Evil is a hard and heavy step toward Good; perhaps we shall out-grow it as we try; but now it is here and we must be brave and face it. God alone knows and perhaps some time He will tell.

"Bent on her furious errand of murder, the young Queen paces to and fro. Perhaps she knows that a hive with two queens would perish because it could not work in unison, and to save her people she must kill her rivals—at any rate she seeks them.

"Then in some mysterious way the bees take council and decide. They may decide not to let her reign and forming a wall they keep her back. They never use force, they never turn their backs on the royal person, they simply hold hands and present an immovable wall.

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The Queen's anger rises; her war-song rings like a far-off trumpet. The muffled answer of her rivals waiting to be born rings back but the nurses pile on wax and keep them imprisoned. Then at last the Queen understands. She summons her host and with twenty or thirty thousand followers leaps out into the air and thus a second swarm leaves the hive. But the hive must be careful—usually one swarm is all it can spare and two leave it dangerously bare of workers—three or four might ruin it. So when the second Princess is born (and some-times when the first) there is no living wall to oppose. In fury she attacks the royal cells and destroys the unborn Princesses and the workers carry the dead bodies away.*

"Then at last the Queen is supreme in the home—but not yet does she reign because she is not married."

"How funny! Do bees marry?"

Only one, the Queen. Her daughters, the workers, never marry. They are hard working, clear-witted old maids who do the work of their world, dying early after a busy life of a few months. Of her sons, one marries now and then, one in ten thousand, and with his marriage kiss, he dies."

"Good gracious, if I died every time I kissed you, Mother, I'd be awful dead already, wouldn't

"Yes, darling. But love is a great and holy thing and always near to death; that is why Death is beautiful."

Mother looked thoughtfully at the picture across the room which Boy called Father, for Father was dead. A tear came to Mother's eye but Boy comforted and kissed her and she said:

"You see, Heart's Dearest, your father kissed me with his lips and life and his hard, hard work and—it killed him."

"But after a long time, Mother, after I was a big baby."

"Yes, dear; but Time is neither short nor long, it is just Deed. But now to our bees. The Virgin Queen steps to the door of the hive while
*Sometimes two princesses are born at once and they duel, drawing their unused scimitars which the queens use only then—never on workers or on men.
the workers sing the royal hymn. For the first time and perhaps the last she looks on the sky and sun. She poises herself on the threshhold and all the men, the splendid, idle men, gather from all the neighboring hives with glittering helmets and gorgeous cloaks and shining wings, to follow her. She rushes into the air, flies backward a bit in great circles to see and know her home and finally leaps into the blue, with 10,000 suitors, gorgeous in panoply, following her. Up, up she soars, up beyond bee and bird. Her suitors weaken, drop behind. Only the strongest follow. Then in the centre of the open heaven she turns and marries her chosen mate. With a great gasp of love and pain he falls the mighty mile to Death, while the bride dumb with happiness and trailing a part of the bridegroom's corpse, circles and swoops and drops to her hive home.

"Then she is Queen. Then she begins to lay her two million eggs and the hive quickened by a world of flowers seethes with work and happiness.

"Yet there remains a menace. It is not the robber moth, who may approach singing his bold royal song while the hive draws their stings and fights him fiercely; no, it is the men.

"The splendid, idle men are born hourly. They crowd the hive. They toil not neither do they spin. They swagger, they gorge, they waste. They fly and revel in the sun and then return and sleep and eat.

"At last the dread decree is sent forth. Idleness must go and with one swoop the armed working women fall on the splendid, idle men and kill them."

"Whew! But, Mother, this bee business is sort of—of cruel, ain't it?"

"Yes, but the end is honey, beautiful, sweet honey.

"After the cruel but perhaps necessary massacre, the hive works and thrives."

"I'm going to work when I grow up."

"Yes, Boy; of all crimes idleness is worst. Work is Love. Love is Life. Life is flowers and honey and work."

"Sort of circle, ain't it, Mother?"

"Yes, with bees and with men."

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A PRIZE WINNER

ONCE upon a time, many, many years ago, long before America was heard of, this world was inhabited by only four races. They were in some ways different from the people who live now, but there still remains some resemblance. There was one king who ruled over these four races and his name was Earth. These four races were known as Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer.

Now these races had been living on and on and on for centuries, inventing, manufacturing, and planting seeds somewhat the same was we do now. One day King Earth decided to have a carnival in the Garden of Space. At this carnival he would have the four races represented and have them send things to be put on exhibition so that he might see which nation had made the most progress.

This was to be a grand affair such as the world had never heard of. The King would come accompanied by his whole army of body-guards. His entire kingdom would attend and thousands of people from each race would be present to see which would get the prize for having made the greatest advance.

For months before the carnival was to take place the people were getting ready, making new gowns, preparing materials to be put on exhibition and holding conferences to select the most beautiful lady to represent them. Oh what a time it was! And at last the day came. Early in the morning, about sun rise, the people began to come, some in carriages, some on foot, some on horseback and others in chariots of gold. And how they did sparkle as the sun shone on them. By ten o'clock the Garden of Space was almost filled with people. Then the four dwarfs, who live in the four corners of the world, took out their golden trumpets and blew with all their might. It sounded all over the world. This was a signal for the representatives of the different races to take their places on the throne of air which had been erected for them in the wonderful Garden of Space. A handsome changeable gray cloud formed the curtain which shut the queens off from the other people.

Then the trumpets sounded, thousands, millions of them; each star in the heaven blew a golden trumpet and as they blew the gray velvet cloud was lifted and King Earth stepped forth. He was robed in a gown of gold and silver and plenty of diamonds. I can't tell how he was dressed for his clothes sparkled so that no one could look at him long enough really to describe him. He made a wonderful speech that day, but since there were no stenographers or newspaper men at that time no one was able to get his speech, so to this day we do not know just what he said.

But this much the people did remember. He said: "I, King Earth, have been king of these four races for ninety and nine millions years. You have been studying, inventing, manufacturing and above all, planting your seeds in the spring and reaping in the fall and now I want to see which race has made the most progress."

So the first queen to come forward was the Queen of Fall. She was dressed in an orange and red changeable taffeta silk dress, and how it rattled as she stepped out with her beautiful brown satin slippers and a large brown hat! And with her, from both sides of the platform, came the children of the field with all the corn and apples and nuts and dried peas and beans and canned goods of very kind and laid them down at the King's feet. Then she took her seat on the throne with the King. Everyone was sure that Fall would win the prize.

Then the trumpeters called for Winter. And just as Fall had come out, so did Winter with all of her attendants. She wore a white velvet dress with an ermine fur cape which hung from her shoulders, and a hat to match the cape, and white satin slippers. Diamonds sparkled all about her for she was covered with them. You must remember that in those days when it snowed, the snow changed to diamonds and that is just why snow sparkles and glitters so to this day. Her attendants carried honey melons, which are so good, raisins, dates, oranges, potatoes and best of all, ice cream, and laid them before the King. And everybody hailed the Queen of Winter.

And again the trumpets called, this time for Spring. And wasn't she lovely! In a green satin dress trimmed in pink hyacinths and yellow
brownies.192008.021.jpg [illustration - There appeared a little brown child]
brownies.192008.022.jpg daffodils and green satin pumps and a beautiful green hat! Her attendants followed her with all kinds of beautiful flowers, lilies, pansies, violets, tulips, and so many more, and laid them before the King and then she took her seat on the throne with the other queens.

And then the trumpeters called for Summer. All at once it became so bright and so warm that the Queen of Winter had to lay aside her ermine cape. The sun was shining because you know that these were the children of the sun. And then there appeared a little brown child about ten years old, brown with chubby brown arms that were bare and a round brown face lighted by two large black eyes. And she wore, not taffeta silk, not white velvet, not green satin, but a blue gingham dress, box plaited with white collar and cuffs and a black belt, black pumps with a strap to hold them on and white socks which left one-half of her little brown legs bare, and she carried her black straw hat in her hand.

She was followed by hosts of little barefoot brown children with sleeves rolled up and bare heads. They did not bring gifts to the King but since they had just come from the fields where they had been working, they came, some with shovels, some with rakes, others with spades and hoes and all their other implements. And that was all they had for they had to work the ground around the seeds which Spring had planted so that Fall might be able to reap them. For if Summer did not do her part there would be no crop in the fall. Then the little brown queen stepped out and turning toward King Earth said:

King Earth then stepped forward and said: "I am today awarding to the little Queen of Summer the prize for having made the most progress. For though she has not brought the beautiful gifts of the other Queens she has learned the one thing that is great than all,—the Spirit of Service."

Thus you see that the first prize ever given was won by a little brown child and little brown children have been winning prizes ever since that day.

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THE QUAINTNESS OF ST. HELENA

This is one of a large group of islands off the coast between Charleston, South Carolina, and Savannah, Georgia—and although our post office is Frogmore (isn't it awful!)—our island has a much more poetic name! St. Helena! Several years ago we tried to have our post office name changed from Frogmore to St. Helena—but failed. The islands are divided into plantations—and many of them bear the names of the old owners. St. Helena is about seven by fifteen miles and the school is near the center. There are twenty-seven plantations—the population is about seven thousand—and only fifty of this number are white people.

The people live chiefly by farming. Until last year cotton was the first crop. Every planter planted cotton. Last year the fields became infested with that deadly pest—the cotton boll-weevil. It destroyed practically all of the crop. The famous sea-island cotton comes from these islands. Now that we cannot hope to make a decent cotton crop—the people are planting in its place more corn and peanuts—and more of the farmers are planting what we call "kitchen gardens". It is the opinion of many that while this cotton boll-weevil wrecked practically every farm last year, the thing is really a blessing in disguise for it means that cotton can no longer be the staple crop. Cotton was the one cash crop. 'Twas generally mortgaged which is another way of saying the people have very little cash, because the white merchants (and they increase slowly but surely) [illustration - Her skirt is roped in the familiar fashion] know how to make a mortgage cover practically everything the farmer has—crop, land, "creeturs" (they call their horses and oxen "creeturs") and almost the man!

The people eat corn: corn is harvested in the autumn and stored in the corn house until needed; it is ground, sometimes at the mill, sometimes at home between two solid cement wheels. The corn kernels after being removed from the ear (it is dry), are placed on the lower wheel—the second wheel which has a hole in its center may be one or one and one-half inches in diameter, and is put on top of this—a broom stick end is held by the grinder and turned deftly—the other end finds the hole in the wheel which travels round and round grinding the grains of corn. Many declare that the corn meal is sweeter ground in this ancient fashion than when ground at the mills! Well, the corn is ground fine for meal—coarser for grits (you say "hominy") and merely broken to make "cracked corn" for fowl.

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They eat the corn products, rice and sweet potatoes which they grow, and pork—each farmer has at least one hog which during the planting season may be seen tied to a stake in the front yard rooting vainly for a grub! They eat syrup too, which is ground from their own sugarcane. It is grand! This garden movement we hope will cause them to eat more green vegetables.

The islanders are in the main poor—they are conservative—very—and prefer their antiquated methods of farming to improved scientific ideas which are demonstrated before their very eyes!

They fish some. We have quantities of crabs and shrimps in summer and wonderful great big oysters in winter. There are no fish markets. If a man gets more fish than he needs for his own family he ties his little "marsh tackie" (horse: so-called because its chief food is marsh grass!) to his gig and they start out down the road peddling. The fish is soon sold.

Here's a "peasant". Although we think that there are many things these people do not do—one thing for which they deserve credit is for holding on to their land. By far most of these 80,000 acres—thereabouts—belong to "our folks". Land is seldom sold. When the old father and mother pass on, the land is given to the children. They all have a share and they all help farm. The women work in the field under the burning sun along with the men. When a girl marries she generally goes to live in a house on her husband's land—but she [illustration - A dear old couple] farms her own piece of land as well as his. Many people walk several miles to tend their land. The woman in this pictures is returning from the field. Her skirt is roped in the familiar fashion—she tied it early in the morning when she left home—only then her skirt was pulled up and bloused over the rope because "da jew been so high" (the dew).

Many of the women—and all the older ones—wear these kerchiefs—some white—some colored, other black. This woman is carrying in her hand the hat which she wore as a sun shade while working in the field. See the pipe, too? She removed that from her lips for the picture. The older women—some of them—still smoke their pipes and when they beg for money they tell us so pathetically, "Honey chile, I ain't had no tobacco since Tuesday gone!" This woman probably has sweet potatoes in her basket. This fashion of carrying their burdens on their heads is common—and you should see them courtesy under this load! It never slips—and they bend 'way down too, as they say very pleasantly, "Mornin', muh!" or if it's one minute past noon, "Evenin', muh!"

These people seem to have a dialect all their own and when I first came here a mere girl in 1908 'twas as difficult for them to understand me as for me to grasp them. Even now many of us cannot carry on a decent conversation with older natives. They talk so fast, too! They are very courteous. A child picked up a blackboard eraser and asked "I f'r out da board, muh?" He was asking if he could erase the writing on the blackboard! In the fall it is generally very dry—when the people hunt rabbit
brownies.192008.025.jpg bits they "burn 'em out" and then the dogs chase the frightened little beasts until they are exhausted. Because of this habit of "burning out" the rabbits many needless forest fires occur. The school has organized a fire-fighting brigade with members on all the plantations. A child was telling of a fire he saw on the way to school. When asked what he did he replied, "I da out it, muh."

Teaching technical English to children who have always lived among the islands is almost hopeless. They can rattle off definitions; they can analyze sentences; some of them can even write a credible letter—but oh, pass a crowd of them on the road! "Oh I show bin love dat gal orlright! She show smart!" (When you say it, say it fast as you can and rather high pitched.)

Here's a picture of a dear old couple. Old people here seem so alone—so desolate—and always sick! When you ask, "How are you, this morning?"—they're sure to lament one of these utterances, "Poorly, chile, poorly!" or "Oh, I too painful, daughter!" or "Not bright, thank you!" Even the younger folk will courtesy so sweetly and then moan in answer to our "How are you?" "Not bright, thank you!" But if by chance they are O. K. the answer comes, "Up, I think you, muh!"

This picture of the marshes (Have you read Lanier's "The Marshes of Glynn"? Great!) doesn't half describe these wonderful marshes at sunset when the tide is full!

The woman standing between the palmetto trees is the same woman who is "fanning" rice. See, she is using two native baskets. The large shallow one which she holds is called a "fanner" because—well, I told you many of the farmers raise enough rice for their families' consumption. It is picked, then put into crocus sacks and whipped, or beat with a switch to break the hull which encases the kernel, I mean grain. The contents of the bag is poured into this "fanner" and as the woman holds the "fanner" tipped at the correct angle the heavy grains of rice drop into the deeper basket on the ground while the wind "fans" the chaff into the air. Now the rice is ready to be put away until it is wanted for use. See the palmetto branches thrown upon the roof? This house is very near ours.

The land along the coast (of the state) is very low—some of it below sea level. When the tide is low we can walk or drive from St. Helena to many of the smaller islands. When the tide comes in though, the lower portions of land have been covered and we must travel from one islet to another in a row boat which may be rowed with two oars or "skulled", in which case a youngster stands at the rear end of the boat and both propels and guides the craft by means of a single oar or pole. Even very small children row, "skull", swim and ride horseback. Very few use a saddle—and some do not even use a rein or rope to guide or curb the pony. Children coming to Penn School sometimes on flood spring tide tell us that they grasp low hanging branches of a friendly tree and swing across a stream that is swollen.

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THE HERITAGE

THE calendar and the glowing March sunshine marked the beginning of spring, but in the heart of the young girl stumbling across a vacant lot, whose brown surface was dotted here and there with tips of venturous green—it was winter, grim and dreary. The playful wind blew back the flimsy brim of her velvet hat, and tried to smooth away some of the unhappiness from her fatigued brown face. Passing through a gateway, she followed a broken-planked walk to the open door of a little unpainted cottage. Dropping an armful of books on the porch, she crumbled down in the doorstep. Throwing the limp piece of head gear to the ground, she sat staring into the back-yard, full of flapping clothes.

At the sound of the falling books, an elderly woman came to the door, a smile of welcome on her dark face.

"Why howdy, Julie. How are you? You ain't been to see me for a long time."

"I'm—I'm—" began the girl, but the remainder of the sentence lost itself in a choking sob.

"Why, chile!" exclaimed Mother Mason. "What on earth is the matter?"

Then as she saw twin streams of tears coursing down the girl's pale brown cheeks, she interrupted her speech, and sat down on a bench near the dejected figure, waiting.

"I'm going home," came the muffled declarative at length. "I'm going to leave school."

"Leave school?" shrilled the older woman, leaning forward in her seat.

"Yes. I'm sick and tired of it all," came the bitter affirmation.

"You tired of school, Julie?" the old woman asked in amazement. "Why you seemed so set on your books."

"I love my books as much as ever, but I'm tired of working myself ot death to stay in school. It isn't worth it," came the vehement explanation. She dabbed her wet cheeks fiercely.

"Shorley you ain't going to give up all yo'r plans for gettin' an education, jest because you're a little fagged!"

"I'm not a little bit tired," retorted Julia. "I'm worn out; I haven't had a moment's rest for two years. I've been pegging away from half-past six in the morning till half-past
brownies.192008.028.jpg twelve at night. I can't keep on working and studying like that. It's killing me."

This bitter outburst left a silence; then Mother Mason said slowly:

"I know how hard you have to work to keep yourself in school, and I've always held you up as an example to other girls. You've gone so far that you ought to keep on now in spite of everything, if you possibly can."

"Well, I can't," replied Julia quickly. "I've worked away endlessly about as long as I can stand it. I've never had decent clothes or any good times. It has been work, work, forever. I'm left out of everything." The girl's voice broke and she sat motionless looking out at the wind harassed clothes on the lines.

"I understand, Julie," said Mother Mason comfortingly, "but two years more is sech a short time, after all."

"Two years ain't nothin' in comparison with three hundred years that yo'r fo'parents spent in endless drudg'ry without no hope of reward."

The sober face of the older woman had the effect of making the girl forget her own problems for a few minutes, but at length she said,

"But that is all over and—"

[illustration - She sat motionless]

"No it ain't all over," put in the old woman quickly. "That's jest it. You young folks have ev'ry chance that yo'r parents didn't have. You owe it to them never to quit till you have showed that you can use the opportunities you have."

"Why, I never thought of owing anything to anybody," said the girl.

"I know you never, honey, but you do, jest the same. The only reward that yo'r unhappy fo'fathers ever will get is through you, an' if you fail, you disappoint yo'r whole race."

"Why, Mother Mason!" exclaimed Julia in surprise, and with a look of pride in her dark eyes, "Is it true then that I am not struggling alone, and that I have my whole race to work for?"

"That's jest it, chile; you are the third generation since life for our people really begun an' you have two generations' hopes to fulfill."

Julia sprang to her feet; the March wind, blowing through her crisp black hair, flung little locks of it against her glowing cheek.

"Oh I am so glad you told me. I might have given up and been a failure and disappointment. Now I have something to work for, and I'll keep on, Mother Mason. I'll keep on!"

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THE STORY OF PHILLIS WHEATLEY

A TRUE STORY

SOMEWHERE in Africa nearly 175 years ago a band of children were playing on the sea-coast. They were youngsters of seven and eight who were so engrossed in their childish games that they did not notice the appearance of a boat with a number of white men i it. When they did become aware of this it was far too late, for the men had stolen up to them and seizing several had rushed off to the boat in which they were carried to a ship anchored not far away.

Only a few of the children escaped but the rest were borne off to America where they were to be sold as slaves. For these white men were slavers and the waiting ship was a slave-vessel.

Among the children who were captured and led off to such a cruel fate was a little girl of six or seven years. She was a slender, delicate little thing who had never gone far from her mother's side. Picture then her fear and anguish when she found herself torn away from everything and everybody whom she had ever known, on her way to a strange land full of queer looking people who were going to subject her to she knew not what experiences and hardships.

After a long and stormy voyage, during which the little girl was very seasick, she arrived, thin and wretched, with only a piece of carpet about her fragile body, in Boston where she was offered in the streets for sale. This was in 1761.

Of course the best thing that could have happened to this little child of misfortune would have been to be left with her mother in Africa. As that could not be, it is pleasant to realize that the next best lot was hers. A well-to-do tailor, John Wheatley by name, happened to be in that neighborhod that day. He had long been looking for a slave girl to be a special servant for his wife and his twin children, Mary and Nathaniel. He spied the wretched little African maiden, and despite her thinness and her miserable appearance, or maybe on account of it, it occurred to him that this was just the kind of child to whom to give a home. So he bought her for a few dollars and took her to his house to live.

The Wheatley family was a kind one. They received the little stranger gladly, named her Phillis Wheatley and proceeded to make her acquainted with the strange new world to which she had come and to the part which she was to play in it. In particularly little Mary Wheatley became very fond of her slave playfellow and between her and Phillis there seems to have developed a strong attachment. At first Phillis' place in the house was simply that of servant, though partly because of her extreme youth and the considerateness of the Wheatleys it seems likely that her duties were not very arduous. But before long, owing ot what was considered a remarkable tendency in a slave child of such tender years, her lot became very tolerable indeed.

This is what happened. One day Mary Wheatley came across Phillis busily engaged in making letters on the wall with a piece of charcoal. Phillis had already shown herself apt at picking up the spoken language but that she should display an interest in writing was a new idea to the Wheatleys and gave them much pleasure. From that day on Mary constituted herself Phillis' teacher. They progressed from letters to words and from words to complete sentences. And behold the keys to
brownies.192008.030.jpg the treasure-houses of the world were in little Phillis' hands for she had learned to delve into books. Short of granting her her freedom, the Wheatleys could not have bestowed on her a greater gift.

She seems to have been of an extraordinarily studious disposition. Mostly her mind took a literary bent, for she read all kinds of books in English and even mastered Latin enough to become acquainted with some of its masterpieces. It is not surprising then that a mind so eager to take in should at last become desirous of giving out. And so we have the remarkable phenomenon of Phillis the little slave girl totally unversed in the ways and manners of western civilization, passing through a period of study and preparation and developing into Phillis the writer.

Her chosen medium of self-expression was through poetry. In 1767, at the age of 13, she had written a poem to Harvard University which was even then in existence. This was passed about among the "intellectuals" of New England, and was the occasion of much genuine astonishment and admiration. And well it might be for it was written in a lofty vein and was full of fine sentiments such as one would hardly expect from the pen of a little girl. In 1768 she wrote a poem to His Majesty King George of England—America was still a colony in those days, we must remember—and in 1770 she wrote an elegiac poem or a lament on the death of George Whitefield, a celebrated divine.

As the years went on the number of her poems grew. Their reputation grew, too, not only at home but abroad. In 1772 her health became impaired and the Wheatley household did a wonderful thing. Nathaniel had to go on a business trip to England and it was arranged that Phillis the prodigy and poet should accompany him, for the sake of the sea-voyage. Imagine her astonishment when on arriving in England, she found that her fame had already preceded her! London society took her up and could not make enough of her. She was courted and petted to an extent which might well have turned a less well-balanced head than hers. In particular she was made a special protégée of a Lady Huntingdon and a Lord Dartmouth who at that time was Lord Mayor of London. Through their persuasion and influence she collected a number of verses which she had been writing for the last six years and actually had them published,—to our great good fortune.

The quaint title reads: "Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral. By Phillis Wheatley, Negro Servant to Mr. Wheatley of Boston. Dedicated to Lady Huntingdon." The particularly interesting thing about this book is that so many people doubted the ability of a girl so young and of slave origin to write such verse, it contains a certificate attesting to the authenticity of the poems, and the signatures of many prominent men.

The certificate says in part:

"We whose Names are under-written, do assure the World that the Poems specified in the following page, were (as we verily believe) written by Phillis, a young Negro Girl, who was but a few Years since, brought an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa, and has ever since been, and now is, under the Disadvantage of serving as a Slave in a family in this Town. She has been examined by some of the best Judges, and is thought qualified to write them."

Those days in London were probably the happiest and brightest of Phillis' brief life. But while yet abroad she received news of the precarious state of Mrs. Wheatley's health. And so although arrangements had been made for her to meet the king, she hastened back to America, just in time to see her mistress once more before she died.

Poor Phillis! After Mrs. Wheatley's death she seems to have fallen on "Evil times and hard." For Mary Wheatley was married and of course lived apart from her. Nathaniel Wheatley had his own affairs and here was Phillis all alone in the world. Naturally enough she turned to marriage and became the wife of John Peters, a Negro, "who kept a shop, wore a wig, carried a cane, and felt himself superior to all kinds of labor." Historian disagree on his real calling. Some say he was a grocer, others a baker, a man of all work, a lawyer and a physician. All agree, however, that he lost his property during the War of the Independence and that he and Phillis became very poor. Sad to relate, all agree also that he did not try very hard to relieve their condition. Finally he allowed himself to be arrested for debt, and poor Phillis was in a sorry plight indeed.

She was a proud woman. She would not seek help of either Mary or Nathaniel Wheatley. Nor at their death would she approach their
brownies.192008.031.jpg friends. Fortunately at Mrs. Wheatley's death she had been set free and this gave her a chance to earn an independent livelihood. She dragged out a miserable existence in a colored boarding house doing work for which she was little fitted. Her pride and misery made her very retiring. So that when she died in December, 1784, few would have known of her death had it not been for the notice which appeared the next day in the Independent Chronicle. It read:

"Last Lord' day, died Mrs. Phillis Peters (formerly Phillis Wheatley), aged thirty-one, known to the literary world by her celebrated miscellaneous poems. Her funeral is to be this afternoon at four o'clock, from the house lately improved by Mr. Todd, nearly opposite Dr. Blufinch's at West Boston, where her friends and acquaintances are desired to attend."

Phillis Wheatley possessed undoubted poetical ability. It is true that viewed from our modern standards she seems stilted, even affected in style, but we must remember that with few exceptions such was the tendency of those days. Undoubtedly she was the possessor of a fine vocabulary and a really broad grasp of classical and literary allusions and figures. But these are hardly in themselves the reasons why colored Americans should hold Phillis Wheatley in such high esteem. There are others more [illustration - She developed into Phillis the writer] striking. In the first place, she is the first Negro in America to win prestige for purely intellectual attainments. And she won it, oh so well! Secondly, her writing influenced and strengthened anti-slavery feeling. When the friends of slavery made as a reason for holding human beings in bondage the statement that Negroes were mentally inferior, the foes of slavery pointed with pride to the writings of this girl who was certainly the peer of any American poet of those days. Lately, Phillis Wheatley showed by her writings that she favored the cause of the colonists rather than that of England. Thus she proved that the sympathies of Negroes are always enlisted in the fight for freedom even when, as Roscoe Jamison, not her blood but her poetic descendant, wrote "their own is yet denied."

In those brief years Phillis made a gallant showing. In all she wrote five volumes of poems and letters and received the recognition of England's peerage, of America's George Washington, and of many other possessors of honored and famous names. We are sensible of a deep gratitude toward this little lonely figure who came from Africa determined to give voice to her previous dower of song, even though she had to express it in a far country and in a stranger's tongue.