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

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THE LUCK OF CINDY ANN

CINDY ANN turned over in bed, half raised up and looked out of the window, regarding dolefully the downpour of rain that had been going on for some time.

"Now ain't that too bad!" she said to herself. "'Twas to be me an' Aunt Venie's day to clean at ole Miss Jennie's, which is bad enough, and now I'll get to stay at home, but can't have no fun because it's goin' to rain all day. I'd just as soon be cleaning at ole Miss Jennie's." She reflected a moment. "Of course it's goin' to rain all day," she quickly added. "Aunt Venie says it's bad luck to start anything on Friday you're not goin' to finish, an' the good Lord started this day with rain so He's goin' to finish it just so, I know."

You can see that Cindy Ann had a style of her own in forming conclusions. Oh, yes, she was a funny little girl. She couldn't help it. She lived in a funny little place—the sort of place where people believe all sorts of funny things, you know, like: if you comb your hair at night, it will make you forgetful; if you sing before breakfast, you'll be in a fuss before night; if you meet a cross-eyed person in the morning, you'll have bad luck all day, and a lot of other such funny things that your grandmother knew about.

"Might's well sleep some more. Can't do nothin' today." So saying, she settled herself for another nap and just as she and a funny frog had nearly finished a big toad-stool—"Cindy! Oh, Cindy! You goin' to sleep all day?" Aunt Venie's voice rang out from the kitchen.

Cindy Ann jumped up, ducked her head to keep from butting against the toad-stool, but her eyes opened wide and looking out of the window she saw that it was not raining nearly as hard as when she first awoke.

"Hurry on, an' don't keep me waitin' break-fast so long," called Aunt Venie somewhat
brownies.192102.006.jpg fretfully. She too seemed to be bothered by the rain.

Cindy Ann was about to jump out of the nearest side of the bed but quickly jumped back and got out the other way saying, "Not on the wrong side of the bed, and on a rainy morning too!"

She put on her clothes so hurriedly, she didn't notice that her dress was put on and buttoned up wrong side out. A funny looking little object she was in her faded, worn, blue calico dress which when properly worn was shabby enough, but worn thus with the raw edges of two bright calico patches showing, and here and there a place where her little brown fingers had mended, she was a sight indeed.

Aunt Venie was so busy thinking of other things that she took no notice of Cindy Ann's looks.

"Let's hurry and get through", she said. "It's late now an' I want to put in my day at Miss Jennie's if I can; I'm engaged to go somewhere else tomorrow."

Cindy's face fell. "Oh, Aunt Venie. I thought we'd stay at home today, since 'twas rainin'. It'll be such bad walkin' gettin' to ole Miss Jennie's, an' it's so worrisome cleanin' at her ole pokey house. She's just so particular 'bout that ugly ole furniture an' ain't always handin' you out cake or somethin' nice like Miss Foster. I wish we'd stay at home today."

"Yes, an' if wishes were horses, beggars would ride," rejoined Aunt Venie. "Wishin' ain't feedin' us nor clothin' us nor keepin' a roof over our heads. I can't afford to miss a day's work if I can help it. If the rain holds up, an' I hope it will, we'll go to Miss Jennie's. We'll have to pick our way best we can till we reach the sidewalk."

Aunt Venie was a kind-hearted soul and really loved her little orphan niece, but her time and thoughts were taken up mostly with the hard, every day things of life and she seldom showed any affection. She had been a widow for eight years and was struggling to see the last cent of debt paid off the little place that she and Cindy Ann called home. Unlike Cindy Ann, Aunt Venie never liked to miss her day at "Miss Jennie's" even though the "thankey-pan" was not much in evidence there as at some other places where she worked. Perhaps her feeling toward Miss Jennie was due to the fact that they were both bearing a cross and had a fellow sympathy for each other.

Miss Jennie, or Virginia Gordon Hansberry as she signed herself, came from a family that had been wealthy and famous in the "befo' de war" times. Their glory, however, vanished with the southern confederacy. The close of the war found Virginia bereft of home, family, and money save a mere pittance. After that she made her home with an uncle and aunt, old Colonel Gordon and wife.

Old Colonel Gordon was a typical old-time Southerner whose most marked characteristics were his eccentricities. No one was certain of his financial standing at the close of the confederacy. Some believed that his fortune had not suffered from the war, while many believed the opposite. The old Colonel, however, lived in as dignified and as unpretentious a manner as ever and left people to think what they might. But at his death there was still no money in evidence, which left folks no longer in doubt concerning his financial status.

After the old Colonel's death Virginia and her Aunt lived quite secluded, doing almost no visiting or receiving. After the Aunt's death Virginia was left alone in the old house—alone with her memories of early days, alone with the old furniture that Cindy Ann hated so.

Cindy Ann tried to hurry through her breakfast but with every mouthful of food that went in, a mouthful of talk came out.

"One thing I do like about ole Miss Jennie,—she calls me Lucinda which is bad enough but not so bad as `Cindy'. I wish I'd been named Lucile or Luella. Don't any girls I read about in books have such old-timey names as Cindy Ann."

"I don't see anythin' wrong with your name," spoke Aunt Venie sharply. "Your grandmother was named Cindy an' your mother was named Ann. If those names were good 'nough for them, they ought to be good 'nough for you. You've got too high-flown ideas anyhow to be poor."

"But maybe we won't be poor always, Aunt Venie. Anyway, I like to pretend we ain't. I like to pretend that we're eatin' in a fine dining-room like Miss Foster's an' that my ole calico dress is one of her fine mornin' gowns an'—"

“Gracious me, child! How you talk!" interrupted Aunt Venie. "Your clothes," she observed, looking for the first time at Cindy Ann's dress, "are—my goodness—if you haven't got your dress on wrong side outwards!"

brownies.192102.007.jpg [illustration - "Seven long years of bad luck on us!"]
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"So it is," laughed Cindy Ann. "It's a wonder I hadn't noticed it. I'll change it right away."

"Oh, no," said Aunt Venie. "Don't change it now. You must keep it on till twelve o'clock."

"Why, Aunt Venie? I've got time to change it, ain't I?"

"Yes, but when you put your dress on wrong side outwards without knowing it, if you keep it on until twelve o'clock, it'll bring good luck."

"Oh, Aunt Venie, I don't want to wear it through the streets this way. It looks bad an' shabby 'nough anyhow. I don't want to wear it this way," wailed poor, proud Cindy Ann.

"Wearin' your dress that way ain't goin' to hurt you a bit, Cindy Ann. You're too proud to be poor. Help me clear off the table quick so we can start out. It's past time I was at work."

It was in no pleasant frame of mind that Cindy Ann performed at Miss Jennie's the tasks which, when in her best humor, she disliked. She was a proud little soul, always sensitive at her shabby clothes, and the thought of being seen wearing her dress wrong side out-wards took all the cheerfulness from her usually sunny self.

Miss Jennie noticed the change in her expression and movements. "You don't look so well, Lucinda. You're not sick, I hope?"

"No'm," answered Cindy Ann, hoping she wouldn't notice her dress.

But she did. "Why I do believe you're wearing your dress wrong side outwards," she said, regarding poor Cindy Ann with some amusement.

"Yes'm, I put it on this way without knowing it an' Aunt Venie says I must keep it on till twelve o'clock for good luck."

"Well," smiled Miss Jennie. "I hope it will bring us all some good luck. I'd be glad to see it."

When noon came Cindy was engaged in cleaning Miss Jennie's tall, old-fashioned mirror, which task she accomplished with the aid of a stool. After cleaning the higher part, she paused, surveying the mirror, and for the first time that day beheld herself. As she stood there observing herself the hurt feeling gave way to one of overflowing amusement. She never imagined that she could have looked that funny. The longer she looked, the harder she laughed. Cindy Ann's spirits had risen and forgetting her work she commenced prancing about on the stool in a most clownish fashion.

Then, all of a sudden—she didn't know then how it happened and never could tell afterwards —the old stool jumped out from under her, or she slipped off from it. Anyway, they both fell. Both Cindy Ann and the stool were unhurt, but it fell against the old-fashioned mirror and broke it.

The noise brought Aunt Venie to the spot and on seeing the sight she wailed, "Oh mercy me, child! Now you've gone an' broke the mirror an' brought seven long years of bad luck on us. Oh Lord, Oh Lord!"

Miss Jennie viewed the broken mirror and the frightened Cindy Ann and though she regretted the loss of the old mirror, yet felt a little amusement.

"Oh well, it can't be helped, I suppose. Perhaps it was too much for Lucinda. We'll just move it out."

"Yes'm, but it ought to be hurried, Miss Jennie—hurried right away to help keep back the bad luck," said Aunt Venie.

"Perhaps so," was the answer, "but we'd better take out this broken glass before at-tempting to move it." So saying, she pulled out a piece of the glass and stopping with an exclamation of surprise, she stood with incredulous amazement stamped on her face.

Aunt Venie and Cindy Ann looked and saw wedged in between the glass and the back of the mirror something green and musty looking.

Miss Jennie pulled out what proved to be a number of paper bills which eccentric old Colonel Gordon had hidden before his death. He had found this old-fashioned mirror with its box-like back a splendid receptacle for his small hoard.

It is needless to say that consternation was soon changed to joy. "Well, Lucinda," smiled Miss Jennie, "wearing your dress wrong side outwards did bring us the good luck after all."

Cindy Ann smiled. She didn't want any more of wearing dresses wrong side outwards. When they left for home Aunt Venie had in her pocket much more than the amount due her for her day's cleaning.

"Now, Aunt Venie," said Cindy Ann, "you see it ain't true that breaking a mirror brings bad luck."

"Oh yes it is true, honey," said Aunt Venie, shaking her head. "You had on your dress wrong side outwards an' that turned the luck. If you had gone an' changed your dress this mornin', this good luck never would 'uv come."

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ST. VALENTINE'S DAY

ALL historians agree that the fourteenth of February was named after an early Christian priest of Rome who was cruelly murdered way back in the third century. The story goes that his remains still rest in the Church of St. Praxedes at Rome where a gate was named after him — Porta Valentini (Valentine's gate).

That is a sad memory to preserve and perhaps no one would rejoice more than poor St. Valentine that very few people connect this memory with the day which bears his name. On the other hand, very few people are able to tell just why it is that the ideas which all of us connect with the fourteenth of February should have sprung up.

It is probable that the name of the day and the customs rose from different sources. The day, as I have said above, was named to do honor to this martyred priest, but the custom of men and women exchanging love tokens was connected with certain feast days which used to occur in ancient Rome and which used to take place around the fourteenth and fifteenth of February.

On the eve of these feast days the names of Roman girls were put in a box and drawn out by chance by young Roman men. This was called a lottery and it was in this way that the custom was first transferred to England many, many centuries ago.

An old historian—Misson by name—tells how in England and Scotland lads and lassies used to gather in equal numbers on the day before St. Valentine's Day. Each one would write his name — real or pretended — on a separate slip of paper which would be rolled up and placed, the men's names by themselves in one box, and the girls' names in another. Then each girl would draw by chance or by lot a name from the men's box, and the men would draw a name from the girls' box.

Each girl would then have a man for her partner whom she called her valentine and each man would have a girl for partner whom he called his valentine. Of course since the girl would not always draw from the men's box, the name of the man who would draw hers from the girls' box, it happened that each girl and each man had two valentines. The way this problem was solved was for the man to choose the girl whose name he drew, rather than the girl by whom his name was drawn.

The girls most have liked this arrangement very much, for usually the man not only wore the name of the lady in his button-hole or on his cuff for several days, but he was supposed to give one or several parties for her and to send her gifts and various favors. Naturally these attentions often ended in love.

Usually this game was played only by single people, but at one time, especially during the reign of King Charles II., both married and single
brownies.192102.010.jpg might be chosen as valentines. Then the person who was chosen was supposed to give a present to the person who chose him. This was pretty hard if you were chosen by someone you did not like.

There were some quaint and interesting beliefs connected with St. Valentine's Day. A great many people believed that this was the day when birds chose their mates and that the chance meeting of a single man and woman on this date was of great importance, because it meant that the two were to become sweet-hearts. The first unmarried man that a girl met, or the first unmarried woman that a single man met on St. Valentine's Day, was destined to become the other's husband or wife, respectively.

As far back as 1755 a girl writes in a celebrated newspaper of the times:

Last Friday was Valentine's Day and the night before I got five bay-leaves and pinned four of them to the four corners of my pillow and the fifth in the middle; and then if I dreamed of my sweetheart, Betty said we should be married before the year was out. But to make it more sure, I boiled an egg hard, and took out the yolk, and filled it with salt; and when I went to bed, ate it, shell and all, without speaking or drinking after it. We also wrote our lovers' names on bits of paper and rolled them up in clay and the first that rose up was to be our valentine. Would you think it? — Mr. Blossom was my man. I lay abed and shut my eyes all the morning, till he came to our house; for I would not have seen another man before him for all the world.

If she liked Mr. Blossom that was a wise thing for her to do especially if she believed with Gay, the poet:

On Valentine Day . . . the first swain we see, In spite of Fortune shall our true love be.

In olden times no comic valentines were sent, only courteous messages of affection and love. Thus no one's feelings were ever wounded and the valentine really was what it ought to be according to the Latin word from which it is taken, a message of "well-being".

"R."

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MPHONTHOLO NE SHULO

(The Lion and the Hare)

An African Story

This experience took place when all the animals except Shulo gathered together to dig a well. When the well was finished, Shulo was caught stealing water from the well and the lion, being king of the animals, was the judge; but the hare (Shulo) outwitted all the animals present.

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GHOSTS AND KITTENS

THE moment I saw Mary Henderson I was sure that whatever mother might think of her, we children could never stand her. Oliver and Bill and the rest had sent me down to give her the once-over. I walked into the dining-room where she and mother were having their interview, pretending that I had left my embroidery hoop there, though it was really safe up in my room. A big, yellow woman she was, with a hard wart down in the corner of her face. When I came in she looked at me and said:

"This is your oldest girl, the one that's to help with the dishes?"

"Yes," said my mother weakly, avoiding my glance which even though I am not thirteen yet, can be very severe. "Yes, this is my oldest girl Rosemary. Of course she'll help you with the dishes if you want her to."

I knew she would want me to. She was just that kind. I went back and told the rest of the children about it. "I'm sorry for you boys," I finished. "I bet she makes you go on errands and take down the clothes-lines and beat rugs."

Oliver, who is very dark brown, turned almost pale at this for he is beginning to be quite a dude. He pretends it's because he goes to High School and the other fellows dress, but it's really because Maude Merchant has moved on our street and he wants her to think he looks nice. He hates the thought of dust in his hair or of getting his clothes mussed up.

"Not a bit like Deborah, I suppose?" he asked me.

"Wish we could have old Deb back," said Billy mournfully.

Cordelia spoke up, "You know what mother says, said she'd never have her in the house again."

"Just as though Deborah never wanted to go away and have some time to herself!" either Jarvis or Steve broke in indignantly. They are twins and think exactly alike and usually speak exactly alike. I don't remember which one said this, but I know it was one of them.

"I never saw mother so set," said Oliver. "Just what was it all about? Do you know, Rosemary?"

"Oh just the usual thing —the thing Deborah's always done ever since she's been with us. She got tired one day, I suppose, of hardly ever having any time to herself, and she said —you know how she talks —'Mis' Fores', aw Mis 'Fores', b'lieve I'll jus' light out fer a few days an' take a vacation. My ole man's kinda lonely an' my gal Lucy ain't such a turrible fine cook. Seems to me I oughta go home an' look after 'im a bit. Reckon you an' all these children here can get 'long without me fer a coupla weeks.' ”

"Mother got real mad," Jarvis struck up, "and said, 'Mind, Deborah, if you go this time, you needn't come back. You'll do this thing once too often.' "

"And old Deb only smiled, I'll bet," said Billy.

"That's it," I told him. "She said, 'Aw Mis' Fores', chile, you only jokin'. Reckon I don' get tired of workin' too like ever' one else?' But mother was really vexed about it and said she'd get some one else. It was that week-end you were at Grandpa Kingsley's, Oliver, you and Bill."

Oliver nodded. "Wish to goodness she'd come back," he groaned.

All of us wished that, for whatever mother may have thought of old Deb, she certainly was a success with us and we with her. She was big and capable and dark—about Oliver's color —with bright, black eyes and a ready smile. Mother thought we all ought to do a little housework, but Deb as a rule didn't want us under her feet. However, to please mother she'd let us come out in the kitchen. "Just keep out of my way," she'd boom, "that's all."

And how we did work for her when she'd let us! The boys always kept the wood-box and coal scuttles full. If the grocer's boy forgot anything it was, "All right, Deb, don't you worry. I'll stop by on my way from school and get it for you." Cordelia and I used to break our necks helping to scour the tins and wash dishes. We never thought of leaving our clothes around for her to pick up on sweeping day,
brownies.192102.017.jpg though very often other times our rooms looked like ships at sea, Billy used to say. Oliver used to write letters for her and help her with her accounts.

And Deborah —she made special little pies and cakes for us. If Cordelia or I had a party, she could always manage to make us a freezer of ice-cream. When Stephen tore his best pants she mended and pressed them so nobody ever guessed it. If mother was willing to let us go to the "supper-show" it was, "Run along out of here now to your old movies. I don't need you around my kitchen." And she'd do all the dishes herself. Mother has some one else come in and do the washing, but Deborah would find time to wash Betty's and Cordelia's and my white dresses, and iron and flute them till they were too pretty to put on.

She adored Betty, the baby, as Betty did her. But so did all of us. "Of course father and mother know right away as soon as anything happens to us," Billy used to say, "but Deborah knows it beforehand."

And now she was gone and mother wouldn't let her come back, simply because she had decided to take one of her vacations, as she always did about every six months. She never stayed away more than three weeks and when she returned she was always as delighted to see us as we were to see her, and would fix us the most delicious things to eat.

Mother used to get so cross. We never could see why or father either, I think. "Why shouldn't she have a vacation, Molly? And, anyway, you're always saying you want these children to learn how to work. When she goes away that's a good chance for them."

But mother would shake her head. "It's the principle of the thing, Oliver," I'd hear her say, though I never knew what she meant.

Now here was Deborah gone and mother insisting that she remain, and Mary Henderson take her place.

Well Mary Henderson certainly made things hard for us. She was a splendid housekeeper, neat and clean and a good cook. And she really was nearly always busy, as she'd have to be in a household of seven children and two grown-ups. But she had one very serious fault. She could not bear to work without letting you know it and getting you in it too. With Deborah work had been a sort of game which she played at very easily and which I really think she enjoyed. I've seen her stop in the midst of getting dinner and sit down and read the "funnies".

[illustration - Stephen and Jarvis]

But you'd never see Mary Henderson doing that. No sir-ree! She'd begin, "Mrs. Forest, if the girls could do the dishes tonight, I'd be able to start on the vegetables for dinner tomorrow. Since you're going to have company I'll need a little help." And as for the twins and Billy and Oliver! It really was wonderful how much work she could find for them to do even on Saturday afternoons.

We used to drop in at Deborah's on our way home from school —she lived on a small street right back of us but at the other end of the block—and tell her about it. She'd listen very earnestly, for she was well rested by now and would have been glad to get back to work.

"Deborah, you can't think how we miss you. Couldn't you fix it up with mother?"

"Law, chile, you know how you' ma is, turrible sot. I ain't goin' to ask her nuthin'. Of course if she should send fer me, that'd be diffrunt."

"If we fix it, Deb, you'll come back?"

"Watch me. Don' you all want some cookies? I'm bakin' tomorrow. Rosemary, you stop by an' I'll show you how to make some of them teeny little pop-overs whut Betty likes so well. How is my precious lambkin?"

"Oh she's all right, Deborah, only she misses you. She can't stand Mary Henderson. Wish to goodness you were back."

"Can't we do anything?" Oliver asked that evening. He was in the deepest gloom, for
brownies.192102.018.jpg Mary had found some new job for him after dinner which "just ought to be done this evening, Mrs. Forest." We all knew that Oliver had planned to go to the "movies." Maude Merchant was to be there with her sister and Oliver could have sat next to her.

The twins who read Dick Deadwood the Daring Desperado suggested poison. "We could put it in the soup just as easy —"

"And kill all of us! Don't be silly!" Cordelia snapped.

The very next day Mary Henderson herself gave us a slight hint. Cordelia, whose business it was these days to fill the salt-cellars, spilt a heap of salt. Mary Henderson almost fainted.

"My goodness, child ! Now we're going to have bad luck for ages. Here, before you clean it up throw some over your left shoulder!" She did it herself.

Billy, who was in the kitchen too pottering around on one of those "Henderson jobs" as the boys called them, pricked up his ears up "You don't believe in that kind of thing, Mary?"

"Of course I do!" And off she went on a long account of the way bad luck befalls people. She kept Billy listening for nearly an hour. We noticed he seemed very thoughtful at dinner.

Afterwards when we were all up in the living-room getting our lessons, Billy shut both doors, came back and stood in front of us looking very mysterious.

"She believes in ghosts!" he whispered. All of us knew whom he meant.

"She would!" said Oliver scornfully. " You'd never catch old Deb believing in any nonsense like that!"

"But don't you see," Billy went on, "we can get rid of her?"

Well we had a long talk, but I don't suppose anything would have come of it if it had not been for the black kitten.

Betty had a small, black kitten which she was very fond of. As we are all crazy about Betty, who is a much nicer baby than ever Cordelia or either of the twins was, we were all devoted to "Mister", the kitten. All that is excepting Mary Henderson; she didn't like cats she said, nasty, creeping things always underfoot. For her part she believed in saying "scat" to them and driving them away.

"Mister" could not get used to her. He had been treated so kindly, it never entered his little cat-head that any one really meant to be cross to him. Mary would give him a slap now and then, but he couldn't make up his mind to stay away from her. On one particular day Mary was just about to open the oven door with the dish-towel held loosely in her hand when "Mister", thinking this was something for him to play with, put up a tiny, black paw and pulled it out of her grasp. And Mary Henderson burnt her hand. She was so angry that she drove "Mister" around the kitchen and out the back door, into the freezing bitterness of a February afternoon.

We came home from school and found Betty sitting on the lowest stair-step, her little face all swollen.

"I cwied and cwied; I stamped my foot, but she wouldn't let the kitty come back. I looked out the window for him, and he looked at me; then he walked away. He's dead, my kitty, I know he is. He's frizzen."

"Why didn't you call mother?" asked Billy angrily. "Don't cry so, Baby."

"Muvver was out and Fader hadn't come home. I told him my big brother Noliver would hurt her. Oh Noliver, you will, won't you?"

"You bet I'll fix her someway, Betty," said Oliver and marched off to the kitchen.

I think Mary Henderson was a little frightened herself; this wasn't a day to turn a fly out of doors, let alone a little petted kitten. But she wouldn't own up.

"He was always underfoot," she told Oliver, "and I couldn't be pestered with him. I'll speak to your mother about him, though I think you're making a lot of fuss over an old black cat. He'll be coming back anyway."

But Wednesday and Thursday passed and no "Mister". Betty cried herself almost sick and nothing that even mother could say would comfort her. She wouldn't hear of another kitten. All of us shunned Mary Henderson as though she were the plague —all except Billy who seemed actually to be getting chummy.

Jarvis and Steve spoke to him about this. But Bill winked. "Guess I know what I'm about."

Friday was Washington's birthday and we had a holiday. Our parents went to town together and were to go to a party that night. We children and Mary Henderson would be alone in the house until two or three o'clock Saturday morning.

Now was our chance —if ever —to fix her.

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"And we'll fix her," said Bill. "Listen, know what I've been talking about to her these days? About ghosts. 'Member that book Uncle Steve gave Steve and Jarvis for Christmas that time, all about the jungle and how eastern people believe animals sometimes are dead folks come to life in another form? I told Mary Henderson that I didn't believe a word of it — but she does! She dreamed last night about the little kitten. 'Oh Willy,' she says —wouldn't it jar you to hear her call me 'Willy' —'Oh Willy, suppose the kitten died in the cold and should come back to haunt me?'

"'I suppose the kitten is dead —poor "Mister" —'but he won't come back,' I told her, 'don't you fear!'

"Know what she said? She dreamed about him last night, a big, black cat he was, on a stretcher and a lot of white ghosts with him and —"

All of us had the idea at once.

"We'll do it," I shouted. "We'll be ghosts and we'll chant —"

"I'll be the cat," said Cordelia.

"On the pie-board," said Oliver, "and Stephen and Jarvis will walk on each side and Rosemary in front, and because I'm the tallest, I'll walk in back and we'll —"

"Chant," said I, "something awful like — 'When you murdered this poor creature, You murdered my soul too!'

"And then we'll moan —"

"Should I say miau?" asked Cordelia.

We thought she'd better not do that.

My but we were good children that day. There were a thousand "Henderson jobs" but we did them without a murmur. All of us were nicer to Mary Henderson than we'd ever been. Bill in particular talked to her for a long time. Oliver going out into the kitchen overheard him talking to Mary about the ghosts of cats. Mary looked at him.

"Ain't it awful, Oliver? Suppose the kitten should come back?"

"Nonsense!" Oliver said sharply, "Bill, I'll tell father on you if you don't quit talking such stuff. Don't think about it anymore, Mary, or first thing you'll be dreaming about cats and imagining you're seeing them, when you won't really be seeing anything of the sort. There's no such thing as ghosts."

He left the kitchen then, but Bill stayed on. When he joined us later on he was in high spirits.

"She's just as afraid and shivery!"

Such fun as we had getting ready! Mother had a Hallowe'en party last year. She was a witch and Cordelia her black cat, so Cordelia had a nice furry suit all ready. The boys were each to wear a suit of father's summer "undies" —you should have seen Stephen and Jarvis in them! I wore a single sheet wound around me and tied tight in the middle. And for our heads I fixed small guest pillow-cases, tying them far enough from the bottom to make them fit us close and let the rest of them fall down or stand up, just as it happened.

Oliver called Mary Henderson down to the cellar to explain something to her about the furnace, and Billy and the twins sneaked the pie-board out of the kitchen.

Mary Henderson slept in the middle room on the third floor. Her room had three doors, one opening into the hall on the front staircase, one into the third story back and one into the third story front. She is cold-blooded, so in the winter she doesn't raise her windows at night like my physiology teacher says you should, but sleeps with the doors leading into the other two rooms open. She says this gives her a current of air.

The back staircase is a closed-in staircase and opens right into the third story back room. But we never use it and since Mary is the only person on the third floor she goes up by the front stairs.

By nine o'clock we had all gone to our rooms. Mary Henderson really was sleepy, for she had cleaned that day, and Cordelia and Jarvis and Stephen all went to bed. But Oliver and Bill and I sat up in Oliver's room and talked and before we knew it, it was half past eleven. We got the children up then, for we expected father and mother home any time after one. It was lots of fun dressing. When we had all finished we tip-toed into mother's room and looked at ourselves in mother's big pier-glass. Oliver had smeared something on our faces that a boy had given him in his chemistry class, and it made us shine with a strange, greenish light that really was rather awful.

Then we pattered up the hack staircase, Jarvis and Stephen carrying the pie-board and Oliver and Billy carrying Cordelia in her black cat suit, which wasn't meant to climb stairs in. They had a hard time too, for that staircase is
brownies.192102.020.jpg narrow and Cordelia, who is chunky, is some weight.

We got in the room without a sound. Stephen, Bill, Jarvis and I held the board while Oliver hoisted Cordelia on it. Then we walked slowly and noiselessly into Mary Henderson's room.

I wish we could have seen ourselves. We really must have looked frightful, for we were certainly a success. We went in the room, groaning very faintly.

Mary Henderson sat up in bed and put one hand over her eyes.

When we got up to the bed we stopped and chanted:

We said that because Bill told us a cat had several lives, so she had a right to think that all of these souls were wandering about seeking one body.

Mary Henderson didn't stop to think about anything. "Father in Heaven," she screamed, "save me and forgive me!" And up she jumped out of bed and picking up her slippers and bathrobe, which were on the chair beside her, flew out the other door and down the staircase. A moment later we heard the front door bang.

"Gee!" said Bill, "wasn't she some swift?"

"I wish she hadn't gone so soon," mourned Cordelia. "I was just going to say miau."

"It's a good thing you didn't," said Oliver severely. "Come on, let's get out of this before the folks get home."

I made them fold up the "undies" and pillowcases and put them all away. Then we washed our faces and went to bed.

Mother usually sleeps late the morning after a party, but father had to go into town on the 9:20. About 8 o'clock we heard him call mother. "Say, Molly, what about some coffee and a bite?"

"Mary's fixed it." said mother sleepily.

"Not much she hasn't," replied father. "I haven't seen or heard signs of Mary. Rosemary," he called.

"Yes, father."

"Go up and see if Mary's sick."

I knew when I came back they were all listening to hear whether I could control my voice.

"She's not there, father; she must be downstairs. Will I tell her you want her?"

Mother was up then. "Oh, Oliver, you don't suppose anything's happened to her?"

Such a time as we had! All of us rushed upstairs, downstairs, into the yard, down the cellar —but no Mary.

"My fur coat's gone," said father suddenly, "and my arctics."

We came near laughing at that, for we could guess what had become of them. Mary Henderson must have stopped to put them on when she left the house early that morning.

"Well," said father stopping suddenly, "I've got to make that train. I'll get something to eat in town. Call a policeman, will you Molly, and see what you can find out about my things?"

"See what I can find out about getting another girl," mother said in a temper. "You don't suppose Mary Henderson had anything to do with the loss of your things, do you? What earthly good would your articles be to her?"

Which was unkind, for father's feet are large.

Well about half-past ten Oliver noticed a boy standing in the yard with a big bundle. He beckoned us and since he would not come into the house, mother sent Oliver and Bill out to him. He handed them the bundle and a note and darted off down the street.

The bundle proved to contain father's coat and arctics. The note read:

"What does she mean, mother?" asked Bill, speaking first because he can keep his face straight.

"I don't know, I'm sure," she wailed. "To think I'm without help again with this house full of children and all this work to do. I wonder if I can get anyone." She swept to the telephone and called several names. But no one seemed to give her any satisfaction. "What nonsense!" we could hear her exclaim.

Jarvis, who was near the telephone, caught what Miranda Powell answered: "No, Mis' Fores', an' lemme tell you, I ain't comin' to work fer you no mo'! Mary Henderson says you' house is full of spooks; she's seen 'em an' she's felt 'em."

"Pshaw !" said my mother and sat silent for a
brownies.192102.021.jpg moment. "Oliver, you go over to Deborah — mind you, don't you stay five minutes, —and tell her I'm willing to try her again."

"Yessum," said Oliver, "I'll bring her back with me."

We all trooped into the kitchen to meet them —that is all but mother.

Deborah came in smiling, with a little basket.

"Look!" Said Oliver lifting the lid.

And there was "Mister"!

"Come walkin' long er my fence three days ago," explained Deborah, "half frizzen and cryin' fit to kill hisself. So I took 'im in, allowin' some of you childrun would come by an' carry 'im back to my baby. How come you let 'im get away, honey?"

That night we had pop-overs. "Seems like old times," Father said cheerfully. "Nice to have Deborah back, don't you think, Mother Molly?"

"Is it?" asked mother stonily. Ungrateful of her, I thought, since Deborah didn't have to come back.

All seven of us cleared the table off and went out to help Deborah. Presently father came out. He walked over and shook hands with her.

"Glad to see you back, Deborah."

"Yessir, glad to be back," She told him pleased and proud.

Then he stood and looked us all over. Oliver said he winked, but I didn't see it and I won't believe it.

"I know you all had a hand in it," he said rather as though he wished he'd been in it too. "I don't know how you managed it, but you certainly are some smart children."

"I'll say so," said Deborah. Then she gave Betty some more milk for the kitten.

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A BULL-FIGHT

(Una Corrida De Toros)

BEFORE I reached Madrid I read in my guide-book, "Perhaps the only unadulterated Spanish article in the now almost entirely Europeanized Madrid is the bull-fight." Immediately I determined that I should see at least one light. Accordingly, as soon as I became settled in my hotel I began to cast about for an aficionado (one fond of the bull-fight). This was an easy task since all Madrid loves this sport. The difficulty then lay, not in finding an expert aficionado who was willing to take me to the bull-fight —for all Spaniards are obliging, charming of manner, and the embodiment of politeness,—but in selecting one whom I considered the best companion for a woman who was quite alone in this great Spanish metropolis. I finally decided that it would be best for me to take as my guest the portera, a woman who showed me many kindnesses while I was in Madrid. Her good esposo (husband) bought the tickets and in a fever of excitement I awaited the appointed hour.

ANNOUNCEMENT

(Program)

PLAZA DE TOROS DE MADRID

Corrida Extraordinaria

If the weather does not prevent, there will take place an extraordinary Bull-fight. Six Bulls, from 4 to 5 years, with the white and black divisa of the ancient and accredited establishment of His Excellency, — MARQUES DE GUADALEST OF SEVILLA

LIDIADORES (Those who take part in the bull-fight) PICADORES

• Salustiano Fernandez (Chano), Rafael Marquez (Mazzaratini),etc.

ESPADAS

• Louis Freg —Jose Roger (Valencia) —Bernardo Munoz (Carnicerito)

BANDERILLEROS

• Mariano Rivera, Alfredo Freg, y Antonio Segunda (de Valencia), etc.

The corrida will begin at 3:30 sharp. The doors of the Plaza will open two hours before.

The selection of the bulls will take place at 12:00. Tickets of admission one peseta.

The famous band of Hospicio will enliven the spectacle, playing the best known pieces of its repertoire.

The laws governing the corrida will be rigidly enforced.

I read the circular over and over. This was to be a rare treat. "I am going to see not one bull, but six bulls killed," I said to myself one moment; but the very next, I asked myself if after all I was going to find any real enjoyment in this brutal and cruel sport. Then too the corrida (fight) was held on Sunday and I had been taught —well, this was my only chance to see a bull-fight. It was my duty to go. Yes, I was sure of that. It was not only my duty to go but to stay until I had seen at least one bull killed, no matter how repulsive the spectacle was to me. Accordingly, at the appointed hour we hailed a coach, and after some little discussion as to whether we should engage it by the trip or the hour, started out. Down Calle Principe, a short ride through the Puerta del Sol, and there we were in the Calle de Alcala. As the little streams empty into the great river, so streams of human beings poured from all sections of Madrid into the Calle de Alcala. They came on foot, on the street cars, in coaches, in automobiles. They crowded the various entrances of this beautiful Plaza de Toros (bull-ring). They jostled each other in their anxiety to get in early, in order that they might miss nothing that was to be seen.

The Plaza de Toros of Madrid was erected in 1873-74. It is built in the Moorish style, with a huge archway at the entrance, and has a diameter of 112 yards. The arena (redondel) is separated from the seats of the spectators by a wooden barrier about six feet high. In front of this barrier there are at intervals additional barriers with sufficient space for a man who is hard-pressed to run behind, but not large enough for a bull to get through. Behind the first mentioned barrier runs a narrow passage. The rows of seats next to this passage are called Asientos de Barrera, de Contra Barrera and de Tendido. The upper and protected rows, which are divided into Delanteras and Asientos de Grada, are called Grades. Above the Gradas are
brownies.192102.025.jpg [illustration - Going to the Bull-fight] the Palcos(boxes) and the Andanadas. Gentlemen who attend the function alone often sit in the tendidos or gradas, but when there are ladies in the party they usually sit in a palco or in the delanteras de grada, as exit is then possible at any moment without attracting attention.

"The Spaniards are always very careful to advertise the ganaderias," (establishment where the bulls are bred), my friend was explaining to me as we were jostled by the crowd. "The best bulls come from Andalusian ganaderias. The bulls of the Duke of Veragua and Senor Miura for years enjoyed the greatest reputation. "Por aqui, Senorita" ("This way, Miss"), she said, indicating the seats we were to occupy. She secured the leather cushions which every-body uses on this occasion and when we were comfortably seated she continued —"A bull of four years from one of these establishments has brought as high as 1500 pesetas ($300). They are sent from their pastures to their destination by railway in cages or they are driven along the highroad with the aid of cabestros (trained oxen). When they reach the ring they are kept and fed in open corrales (yards) until a day before the corrida (fight) takes place. The bulls are then placed in the dark Toriles adjoining the arena, from which they are driven into the ring after being goaded into as great a state of excitement as possible."

"And from what section of the country do the best espadas (swordsmen) come?" I asked.

"The espadas, too, are Andalusians," she replied, "and are recruited almost altogether from the rural population. Prior to the 16th century, bull-fighting was a prerogative of the aristocracy, but since the construction of the first great Plaza de Toros, here in Madrid, this once chivalrous sport has been changed into a public spectacle in which trained Toreros take part. Indeed Spain offers nothing else for a son of the people without political influence except to become a torero."

I looked at my program. On that day there were scheduled to appear three distinguished espadas concerning whose prowess there had been no little talk among the aficionados. "This Freg," said a man wearing a hat shaped like a chimney-pot, to my companion, "is without a doubt a very wonderful fellow." "Claro!" she responded, her pretty black eyes beaming with happiness, making radiant that sweet face framed in a mantilla of rich black lace.

"Pero, mira, mira, ud, Senorita!" ("but
brownies.192102.026.jpg look, look, Miss!") she cried, touching me on the arm and directing me towards the president's box. For at that moment the president was giving the signal for the function to begin. The band played a military march and the cuadrilla, which has been called the procession of the dramatis personae— entered. There were alguaciles (policemen) dressed in ancient costumes and mounted on fine horses; espadas (swordsmen), vulgarly called matadores (slayers) with capes of various colors; banderilleros (men who throw the barbed darts into the bulls' necks) in satin suits; picadores (men who vex the bulls with thrusts of their lances) mounted on old hacks; attendants on foot (chulos) with the team of gaily decorated mules which is used to drag off the dead bulls and horses. They saluted the president, who on this occasion was a distinguished visitor, marched once around the arena and disappeared. Then a policeman (alguacile) dashed up to the box of the president from whom he received the key of the gate through which the bulls entered the arena. He rushed back to the gate, which, by the way, was not locked. It was thrown open, there was a loud blast from a trumpet, and out rushed a bull wearing the badge (divisa) of his breeder, his Excellency Senor Marques De Guadalest of Sevilla. The fight was on.

You have been told that the bull had been kept for hours in the dark without food. Imagine, then, his bewilderment when half blinded by the sun, he dashed into the arena. The excited screams of 14,000 spectators maddened him. He saw just in front of him a man waving a red cloak (capeo) and he made a lunge for the cloak just as the man jumped gracefully aside. Immediately the bull espied a picadore dressed in yellow, wearing a broad brimmed hat, mounted on an old worn out horse and holding in his hand a lance. The next moment the bull's horns had pierced the horse's stomach and the picadore's lance had plunged into the bull's back. The picadore jumped from the falling horse and ran to safety behind the barrier, while the bull continued to gore the dying horse. The waving of cloaks in another direction lured him away. For ten long minutes the clever capeadore thrilled his spectators with his skillful manoeuvers. Then the furious bull charged a horse with such force that the picadore's leg was crushed between the horse and the barrier. He clung to the barrier until friends came to take him to the infirmary. The horse, with his bowels protruding, galloped riderless around the ring until another charge of the bull brought him to the ground. Thus ended the first act of the fight.

Now, when the bull had been sufficiently wearied (castigado) by the picadores, the banderilleros in gorgeous livery entered, bearing barbed darts ornamented with colored papers which must be artistically planted in the bull's neck. The bull, fresh from his encounter with the horse, was met in full charge by the banderillero who jumped quickly to one side and stuck two banderillas (barbed darts) in his neck as he passed. The bull darted after another banderillero, who escaped by jumping over the barrier. He then turned to the man in the center of the arena, only to receive two more banderillas. The bull, now vexed almost to the limit of his endurance, charged a dead horse. He took him on his horns, lifted him in the air, then dropped him on the ground. Once more he returned to the banderillero who, standing still in front of the bull, sent the third pair of finely aimed banderillas into his neck. A storm of applause greeted the banderillero. He was acclaimed a hero. Then the president gave the signal, for the Suerte de Matar—the third and last act of the drama—was about to begin.

The espada (swordsman) with his hair done up in a pig-tail and gorgeously arrayed in a velvet suit embroidered in silver, and wearing white silk stockings and black slippers, approached the president's box and dedicated to him the death of the bull. By dexterously handling the red cloth (muleta) under which the sword (estoque) destined to deal the death blow was concealed, the espada "coquetted" with the bull a few moments. He knelt daringly before the bull, he stood erect and struck a tragic pose. The bull's horns seemed to pierce the man's loins. I lowered my head and closed my eyes as the espada reeled backward into the arms of two attendants, but thousands of Spaniards jumped to their feet. "Dios!" groaned my companion. The next moment she pulled me to my feet. "No, no, Senorita; Mira, ud, mira!" ("No, no, Miss, look, look!") I opened my eyes in time to see the wounded man plunge the sword downward through the animal's neck into his heart. Up from 14,000 throats there went a scream. Men threw their hats in the air, women waved their handkerchiefs, people
brownies.192102.027.jpg were pushed from their places in the general excitement. The supreme ambition of the espada had been realized. He bowed to the spectators and then made his way painfully to the infirmary. In the meantime, the coup de grace was given to the fallen animal by a puntillero who pierced his spine with a dagger. Then the team of mules with jingling bells carried off the dead bull and horses. The traces of blood were covered up with fresh sand and the show was ready to begin again with a fresh bull.

A murmur of discontent ran through that vast throng, followed by "Que vaya el presidente!" ("Away with the president! Hiss! Hiss!") Over in a corner some men began to fight and the policemen rushed in to separate them. Cushions were thrown into the arena, and men and boys jumped into the arena and started toward the president's box shouting: "El Presidente, el Presidente!"

"They are angry because the president did not give the honor to the wounded espada that was due him," my companion told me. But the president remained totally oblivious of the general confusion. He sat unmoved while the policemen drove the people out of the arena. Upon the arrival of the second bull the aficionados returned to their places and order reigned. Six bulls were killed that day, but I was ready to leave after the first one had been dragged out and I think that I could never be induced to attend another bull-fight.

But the Spaniard would say with a shrug, "Vaya que gente! What does it matter if a few old hacks that would soon fall dead themselves are killed to make sport for the aficionados? As for the bull, Carrajo hombre! You, yourself, if you were in such a rage as the toro, would no more feel the thrust of a sword than the prick of a gadfly!"

brownies.192102.027.jpg

DENMARK VESEY

A Martyr for Freedom

HOW fortunate are Brownies of our time!

It was during a voyage, when a little colored boy was fourteen years of age, that Captain Vesey gave him a name, "Telemaque".

Even though he was so young, this little boy was among 390 human beings who were to be owned by whoever would buy them. Telemaque's "beauty, intelligence and alertness" caused him to be separated from the rest of the slaves and made a sort of pet among the officers; but at the end of the voyage, which was between St. Thomas and Cap Francais, Telemaque, too, was sold as a slave.

The town physician at Santo Domingo, however gave Telemaque's owner a certificate which stated that the boy was subject to epileptic fits. The law required that sales of persons of unsound health should be cancelled; so Telemaque and Captain Vesey resumed their life together.

In the speech of slaves, "Telemaque" with the long a pronunciation, was changed to Denmark, and we know of this man as Denmark Vesey.

For over 20 years Denmark Vesey served as a faithful servant to Captain Vesey, who retired at Charleston, South Carolina. Denmark Vesey became interested in lottery games, in which people are given prizes by chance. And in 1800, as a patron of the East Bay Street Lottery, Denmark Vesey won a prize of $1500! With which he bought himself from Captain
brownies.192102.028.jpg Vesey, at the price of $600, and began to work as a carpenter.

Denmark Vesey had many children,—but the Slave Code made them the personal property of other men. This cruel situation embittered Vesey,—not only because he was personally involved, but because his great-heartedness made him want to do something to blot out such sorrow from others' hearts.

By this time Denmark Vesey, through his travels with Captain Vesey, had learned to read and write and to speak French and English fluently.

Eventually Vesey began to plan an idea for resisting the slave system. He was a cautious man, and in this manner he gained the attention of the slaves, to whom he spoke of their inalienable human rights. For nearly four years he carried on a secret agitation among the slaves. He did the work alone, but the city of Charleston, South Carolina, and 100 miles of adjacent country were covered,—and then, in 1821-22, Vesey's effort became an organized movement.

Five men were chosen by Vesey as associate leaders. One, Rolla Bennett, was a bold and ardent person; Ned Bennett was a man of firm nerves and desperate courage; Peter Poyas was cautious and true; Gullah Jack was regarded as a sorcerer,—artful, cruel and bloody; Monday Gell was firm, resolute, discreet and intelligent.

With such an aggregation of men and several thousand members enrolled, Vesey started an uprising against slavery. His plans were that the leaders of the movement, at the same time and from six different quarters, would attack the city of Charleston, and seize its strategical points and buildings, taking the arms and ammunition; with horses they would keep the streets clear, cutting down without mercy all persons, white and black, who tried to hinder the uprising.

The time was in 1822, and the insurrection was planned for Sunday at midnight, July 14; but about the last of May, there were indications that the plot had been discovered, so Vesey changed the date of attack to Sunday, June 16.

After all, though, someone betrayed them! This happened on the morning of May 30, and by sunset the city authorities were ready to guard against the supposed surprise. The week following was one of watchful waiting for all concerned; Vesey, however, carried on his work.

Don't you admire his wonderful courage!

And finally the city officials found one who was so disloyal, so unmanly, as to tell them Vesey's plan.

On June 15, Peter Poyas, Rolla, Ned and Batteau Bennett were arrested; Vesey was not captured until the fourth day following; Jesse Blackwood was taken the next day; Monday Gell was arrested four days later; and on July 5, Gullah Jack was captured. In all there were 131 Negroes arrested, 67 convicted, 35 executed and 37 banished from the United States.

To Denmark Vesey, Peter Poyas, Rolla and Ned Bennett and Gullah Jack is the honor of remaining absolutely loyal and brave, with their vows unbroken.

This cannot be said of Monday Gell, who though he was brave and loyal throughout his trial, betrayed his fellows to save his own life.

And so, on July 2, 1822, Denmark Vesey, Peter Poyas, Rolla, Ned and Batteau Bennett and Jesse Blackwood were hanged; ten days later Gullah Jack was hanged; and on the twenty-second of July, 22 black martyrs were hanged for the cause of freedom.

"When Vesey was tried, he folded his arms and seemed to pay great attention to the testimony, given against him, but with his eyes fixed on the floor. In this situation he remained immovable, until the witnesses had been examined by the court, and cross-examined by his counsel, when he requested to be allowed to examine the witnesses himself. He at first questioned them in the dictatorial, despotic manner, in which he was probably accustomed to address them; but this not producing the desired effect, he questioned them with affected surprise and concern, for bearing false testimony against him; still failing in his purpose, he then examined them strictly as to dates, but could not make them contradict themselves. The evidence being closed, he addressed the court at considerable length ***. When he received his sentence, the tears trickled down his cheeks."

Denmark Vesey was a black man, and handsome. He was physically strong and had a powerful mentality. He has been referred to as an old man but, though his hair was probably white, he was only 56 years of age when he died on the gallows at Charleston, South Carolina, nearly one hundred years ago,—for that Freedom which is ours; that Freedom which we shall ever cherish!

brownies.192102.034.jpg

JERRY'S FAVORITE