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

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ABOUT A CAT

OlD EB sat before the fire with head to one side, eyes half closed and an expression on his face which might have been characterized as contented, reminiscent, or just plain cat-like.

"Isn't he the laziest looking cat!" said Hattie. "Just sits and nods and blinks."

"I don't believe he sleeps so much," said Tony. "I believe he's thinking when you see him, sitting there like that."

"What do you suppose he'd be thinking about?"

"Oh, I don't know ; but I bet if he could talk he'd surprise us with a lot of things he knew."

Tony was right about it. Old Eb was thinking. He thought more than anybody would have given him credit for. Just now he was thinking over the struggles of his kittenhood days before he had fallen heir to the comfortable home which he now enjoyed and whose other occupants he regarded with such cool indifference.

In those days often the possibilities of a breakfast depended on his deftness in getting in and out of a garbage can before the back door opened. The joy of taking a peaceful nap, stretched out at full length in the sun, was something not to be considered. When there was a chance for
brownies.192103.010.jpg a day nap, it would be taken with one eye open, on guard, and the body in position for a quick get-away in case of approaching danger.

He noticed that all hobo cats were not treated with indignities as was himself. Some were given fairly decent back door receptions and some, he remembered, the cooks and housewives had tried to coax into remaining. But at sight of him there was sure to come the cry, "An old black cat!" followed by a broom or some convenient article which he learned to dodge. If they just said "cat" he might stop to consider a parley but if they threw in that vehement "black" he knew it was time for him to make tracks.

Why they were so down on his color he couldn't tell. Even when he was too tired to wash and comb himself (and a hobo cat is often neglectful of his toilet), his fur was slicker and glossier than that of the yellow and white cats of the alley.

One day when he was sitting on the sidewalk thinking over these things he heard a voice say, "Oh, look, Tony ! What a nice, sleek cat! Isn't he beautiful and black!"

Looking up he saw a small boy and girl approaching him kindly. For the first time since he could remember, it seemed that somebody wanted him.

"Let's try to make him follow us home." They began to coax him and Eb, who had a reputation among the cats for being willing to try anything once, followed. Thus he gave up hoboism and became a family cat. No longer was his color a reproach to him, for Hattie and Tony knew that a black cat could be just as nice and as nice looking as any other cat. They themselves were the nicest little brown boy and girl one could wish to see. But we musn't get off on the subject of Hattie and Tony or the story will be about them instead of Eb.

It was then that he was given the name of Eb, or rather Ebony. He would probably have preferred being named Ebenezer, he thought so highly of himself. But they named him Ebony and called him Eb for short.

His hobo experiences had given him a great deal of self-reliance and independence. He was none of the mew-mew, pet kitty, sort of a cat. He was extremely dignified and thoughtful and took to his new surroundings as naturally as if he had been born in them.

However, there was one fear that he could not easily overcome. Whenever Hattie's and Tony's tidy mother came into the kitchen with a broom in her hand he would jump up and start for the door. It was instinctive in him to jump at sight of a broom. He hadn't been "lammed" with them time after time for nothing. It was some time before he could be made to realize that a broom had a use other than to be flung at a cat.

As time went on he continued to grow more dignified and thoughtful. He would sit blinking while listening to the children's chatter, afterwards thinking over what they said. The more he listened to their talk the more impressed he became with himself. He noticed that they were always saying, "I wonder this" and "Do you reckon so and so?" "Silly things," he thought to himself, "if they'd talk less and think more, as I do, they would know more."

He sniffed disdainfully when he heard Hattie say one day, "I wonder what makes his whiskers stand out so straight and stiff. I believe he'd look better if they were shorter."

"Oh, no," said Tony. "They're his feelers. They're just as long as his body is wide and when he wants to get through an opening he sees first if his whiskers will go through, 'cause he knows if they will, then the opening is big enough for his body."

Coming in from school one day they both cried, "Oh, it's going to be cold ! The cat's sitting with his back to the fire."

"Well, how simple!" thought Ebony. "Can't they feel the weather changing as well as I? I wonder how they found out about the weather before I stayed here."

One day he heard Hattie say, "Do you reckon it's true that a cat has nine lives, Tony?"

"Yes, I guess so," said Tony. "Joe Barker says it's true. Says they drowned an old cat of theirs and in a short time she was walking back to the house as though nothing had happened."

"That sure is funny, having nine times to die," laughed Hattie.

Ebony lent all ears to this conversation and gave considerable thought to it afterwards. He'd never been in the habit of giving much credit to the children's talk, but if this was true about a cat having nine lives it was something to think about. In thinking over the lives of different cats he had known, he recalled several who after every indication of having met with certain death would suddenly reappear as natural as ever in their familiar haunts.

He remembered seeing yellow Tom, who was a bold chicken thief, fall off a back fence into the alley at the bang of a rifle from a backyard.
brownies.192103.011.jpg [illustration - "silly things" he thought to himself.] He himself had been too frightened to remain in the neighborhood of the tragedy and had fled to another alley. Passing by the same place a month later what should he see but yellow Tom calmly eating a chicken?

And, then, thinking over his own life, there certainly were times when he had been knocked out for dead or scratched to death. Yet he always came back again. There was the night when he and a gray cat were on the Smith's fence arguing as to which one had the better right to hunt mice in the Smith garage when out of the window came a solid leather boot which struck him with full force. He never could remember the period immediately following that. He only remembered that the next day found him going on all fours again.

He could remember incidents in which he had met death in various other ways. After summing it up he figured that he must have three or four lives left. Why stay on and live them out in this quiet place? thought he. He had thought and learned so much, why not go abroad and give the world the benefit of his learning, returning in time to live out his last life here with these simple children? You see, the hobo streak was still there.

A day later Hattie and Tony were in distress over the disappearance of Ebony.

"What do you suppose could have happened to him?" asked Hattie. "He seemed too contented to run away. Do you reckon something killed him?"

"Oh, I don't know," answered Tony. "You can't tell about cats. They're funny creatures. Maybe he just wanted to rove a while. He might come back."

Ebony was indeed roving and so far had not succeeded in finding any creature with which he might share his store of knowledge. He had
brownies.192103.012.jpg gone quite a distance without coming across a single cat. Chancing to cross a street he saw a dog curled up beside the road apparently asleep. Didn't he know better than to lie there to sleep? thought Ebony. He must step up and admonish him.

Now dogs are the natural enemies of cats, as Ebony had long ago learned, but he felt that his wisdom and dignity would now command even canine respect. But it proved that the dog cared nothing whatever for the physiognomy of a learned cat, for at sight of Ebony he rushed at him and Eb, forgetting his wisdom and dignity, ran as fast as his venerable legs would carry him and skidded up the nearest telephone post just in time. He was so nearly overcome with fright that he could barely hold his position. Having lived a quiet life so long, he was unprepared for this.

Ebony did not venture down again until nightfall. He made his way to a stable where he expected to find board and lodging for the night. He walked around for a while, sniffing in the corners, never noticing that twice his tail flapped the legs of one of the occupants. The long-eared beast of burden looked around to see who the intruder might be, and having seen, he maliciously decided to oust him. The next time the wise cat came near the mule's heels he was given a kick that sent him out the stable door, where he spent the night.

The next morning found old Eb a very stiff, sore and unhappy cat. He wondered if he could find a morsel on the ground for breakfast. He was so hungry that he decided to take the risk of going up to the house, something he hadn't done since his hobo days ; but maybe the mistress would take pity on his condition and throw him a bite.

Walking across the yard, he began to notice that some small chickens were showing alarm at his approach. He couldn't see why they wanted to act so crazy. He wasn't going to bother them. But they flew to their mother, giving the distress sign and she, a big hen of the game variety, flew upon poor Eb who was not expecting a fight and, considering his helplessness, the odds were considerably with Biddy.

Emerging from the attack more dead than alive he made a straight line for the home which he had been so willing to leave. Oh, for that warm hearth-stone which now seemed so far away! He would never leave it again and if the rest of the world wanted the benefit of his learning, it would have to come to him. He figured that he had about one or two lives left and he intended to live them out in the comfort of the home he was returning to.

That evening Hattie and Tony were overjoyed by the sudden appearance of Ebony.

"He looks so tired and worn out, I wonder where he has been," said Hattie.

"I haven't any idea but from the way he came and dropped down on that hearth, I believe he's glad to get back," replied Tony.

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Little People of the Month

THERE are many young pianists among us—of course — but Louise Ruth Morgan has carried on her studies until now she is a student at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston, Mass. Ruth formerly lived in New York City, where she was graduated from P. S. 68.

She says : "At present I am in an intermediate grade. Formerly, I was a student of the colored Martin-Smith Music School. My subjects this session are pianoforte, harmony and solfeggio, which is singing and ear training combined. I give lessons on the pianoforte when I am in the city during the months of July and August."

I think we'll all agree that Ruth is a very ambitious girl—and worthy of much success!

John Lucas is also a pianist—"the child prodigy" is his title. He lives in Pittsburgh, Pa. During February and March he will appear in six recitals in Pittsburgh, Ohio and Michigan.

His manager, Gertrude M. Belt, writes: "The little fellow has never had a single lesson and knows not one note from another. His great feature test of this fact, is that he will play blindfolded before an audience. He can play any selection after once hearing it. He has been playing since three years of age. He is now six. His selections include southern melodies; popular music, and hymns (in variations). I am enclosing a program from his recent recital. The audience numbered 800. John is but three feet in height—a real boy, mischievous and full of fun. He delights in his work, and has that unconscious air which only a child can possess. He is not precocious ; and his talent seems to be a gift. Tracing back, I find that none of his ancestors possessed any ability for music."

Soon, however, John will enter school and study music ; then he'll make us lazy folks feel so ashamed.

Virginia Smith, of Richmond, Ind., is thirteen years old and an 8A pupil of Garfield School—but furthermore she is the winner of two prizes in the Earlham Essay Contest, and there were 246 essays submitted. The subject was: "Why I am for Earlham." Virginia won the first prize, given to the grade schools of Richmond, and the second county prize.

In his letter to her, Mr. Edwards, President of Earlham, said, "I should like to encourage you to push on in your school work, having a high degree of excellence as your standard. You may, not always win a material prize, but you can always do your best ; and he who does his best wins a prize more valuable than money."

Virginia expects to enter High School in September. Her special study is French, in which she has made an enviable record. She is also a talented musician. Her favorite game is basketball. Virginia is an orphan ; she lives with her aunt, Miss Anna Brown.

When a little girl, Gwendolyn Herbert went to Atlantic City to live. She studied at the public school. Illness in her family, however, and the death finally of her mother, played an adverse part for Gwendolyn ; yet when she reached the eighth grade, she was recognized as a superior student. She was graduated from the New Jersey Avenue School at the head of her class and won the gold medal offered by the Negro Alumni Associates of the Atlantic City High School for superiority in English—with no subject lower than 75 per cent.

Gwendolyn is now a High School student, and recently she was asked to accept membership in the T. N. T., a science club. Membership in this organization depends upon a high standard of efficiency in the Science Department.

She is shown wearing the Negro Alumni Associates' medal.

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