Throw the children into the river; civilization has given us too many. It is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are colored.

Calvary Baptist Church sink to the bottomless pit.

I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of gin, shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night on one of Mike’s barrels.

am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else’s civilization.

to me with tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice.

All the stock I had was a white girl’s education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.

My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people’s tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired. I had nothing, so I had to go to work.

ONCE I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister’s wife

Cushioned at the Queen’s feet and upon her knee Finding glory for mine head,—still, nearly shamed Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between;        20 Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky, Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth; Or closer press to crush a grape ’gainst lips redder Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair; Then—Sharon’s Rose in my arms.

Heaven, the other on earth—welcome with their        15 Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen.

ell yet what range in color wakes the eye;

I cannot love them; and you, oh, Seven-fold months in Flanders slain!  

Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and Over the border the bar.

Such devotion and confidence are rare even among women. There are many who would have searched a year, some who would have waited five years, a few who might have hoped ten years; but for twenty-five years this woman has retained her affection for and her faith in a man she has not seen o

high average of intelligence and culture that distinguished the gathering as a whole

Sam ain’ dat kin’ er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam wu

for you never lived with him after the war, and without that your marriage doesn’t count.”

black,so black that her toothless gums, revealed when she opened her mouth to speak,

The one doesn’t want us yet, but may take us in time

“I have no race prejudice,” he would say, “but we people of mixed blood are ground between the upper and the nether millston

Although the lack of early training had hindered the orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it had not prevented him from doing a great deal of reading or from forming decidedly literary tastes.

While he was not as white as some of the Blue Veins, his appearance was such as to confer distinction upon them

Vein membership was that of free birth

Courage! Look out, beyond, and seeThe far horizon's beckoning span!Faith in your God-known destiny!We are a part of some great plan.

The heart grown faint from wounds and stings;

No! stand erect and without fear,

And never yet, - O haughty Land,Let us, at least, for this be praised -Has one black, treason-guided handEver against that flag been raised.

This land is ours by right of birth,This land is ours by right of toil;We helped to turn its virgin earth,Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.

Look farther back! Three centuries!To where a naked, shivering score,Snatched from their haunts across the seas,Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore.

O brothers mine, to-day we standWhere half a century sweeps our ken,Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand,Struck off our bonds and made us men.

Till he shaped it in his own image; Then into it he blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen.

He looked on his world With all its living things, And God said: I'm lonely still.

Then God himself stepped down – And the sun was on his right hand, And the moon was on his left; The stars were clustered about his head, And the earth was under his feet. And God walked, and where he trod His footsteps hollowed the valleys out And bulged the mountains up.

Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said: That's good!

And God stepped out on space, And he looked around and said: I'm lonely – I'll make me a world

Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we”?

Searching around in vain appeal for help!    Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh    Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts Down through the coils of chain that hold erect    The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree.

The fire much longer than this slender pine.    Now bring the fuel! Pile it round him! Wait!    Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose    The agony and terror in his face.

Enough, the brute must die!   

I claim no race, no race claims me; I am    No more than human dregs; degenerate; The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin;    I am—just what I am. . . . The race that fed Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same    Today. But I—

Consuming me the fearful fires of lust,    Lit long ago, by other hands than mine.

Of evil forces and the powers of wrong. Lessons in degradation, taught and learned,    The memories of cruel sights and deeds,    The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate    Filtered through fifteen generations have   

The ancient trait which fights incessantly    Against restraint, balks at the upward climb;    The weight forever seeking to obey   

I am a thing not new, I am as old As human nature.

at more than faithful race which through three wars    Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes    Without a single breach of trust? Speak out!

How came this beast in human shape and form?    Speak man!—We call you man because you wear    His shape—How are you thus? Are you not from    That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race   

Of some wild animal caught in the hunter’s trap.

Is he Not more like brute than man

There he stands; not brave, but with an air    Of sullen stupor. Mark him well!

Cold, pale, still, its fair, young face pressed against the satin-lined casket. Slender, white fingers, idle now, they that had never known rest; locked softly over a bunch of violets; violets and tube-roses in her soft, brown hair, violets in the bosom of her long, white gown; violets and tube-roses and orange-blossoms banked everywhere, until the air was filled with the ascending souls of the human flowers. Some whispered that a broken heart had ceased to flutter in that still, young form, and that it was a mercy for the soul to ascend on the slender sunbeam. To-day she kneels at the throne of heaven, where one year ago she had communed at an earthly altar.

eep them always in remembrance of me, and if aught should occur to separate us, press these flowers to your lips, and I will be with you in spirit, permeating your heart with unutterable love and happiness."

avorite flowers. Dear, little, human-faced things! They seem always as if about to whisper a love-word; and then they signify that thought which passes always between you and me. The orange blossoms—you know their meaning; the little pinks are the flowers you love; the evergreen leaf is the symbol of the endurance of our affection; the tube-roses I put in, because once when you kissed and pressed me close in your arms, I had a bunch of tube-roses on my bosom, and the heavy fragrance of their crushed loveliness has always lived in my memory. The violets and pinks are from a b

Dear, I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token. Perhaps you may not be able to read their meaning, so I'll tell you.

ster evening, and the newly risen spring world was slowly sinking to a gentle, rosy, opalescent slumber, sweetly tired of the joy which had pervaded it all day. For in the dawn of the perfect morn, it had arisen, stretched out its arms in glorious happiness to greet the Saviour and said its hallelujahs, merrily trilling out carols of bird, and organ and flower-song. But the evening had come, and rest.

The little useless seam, the idle patch; Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch, When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,

Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death, Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath— But—I must sit and sew.

I sit and sew—a useless task it seems, My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams—

So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;The perfect loveliness that God has made,—

had not thought of violets late,The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feetIn wistful April days, when lovers mate

No other race, or white or black, When bound as thou wert, to the rack, So seldom stooped to grieving; No other race, when free again, Forgot the past and proved them men So noble in forgiving.

Thou hast the right to noble pride, Whose spotless robes were purified By blood's severe baptism.

Be proud, my race, in mind and soul; Thy name is writ on Glory's scroll In characters of fire. High 'mid the clouds of Fame's bright sky Thy banner's blazoned folds now fly, And truth shall lift them higher.

Sad days were those—ah, sad indeed! But through the land the fruitful seed of better times was growing. The plant of freedom upward sprung, And spred its leaves so fresh and young— Its blossoms now are blowing.

When Slavery crushed thee with its heel, With thy dear blood all gory.

know why the caged bird sings, ah me,     When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,— When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee,

know why the caged bird beats his wing     Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;   

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!     When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;    When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,    And the river flows like a stream of glass;     When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,    And the faint perfume from its chalice steals— I know what the caged bird feels!

now they beat at the prison door,    "Ho, keeper, do not stay!

bent me down to hear his sigh;

My leaves were green as the best, I trow,    And sap ran free in my veins, But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird    A guiltless victim's pains.

Pray why are you so bare, so bare,

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise.

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

We wear the mask that grins and lies,

Frankie and Johnny were lovers Oh lordy, how they could love Swore to be true to each other Just as true as the stars above He was her man, but he done her wrong

And this story has got no end Well the story just goes to show you women That there ain’t no good in men He was her man, but he done her wrong

I'm taking my man to the graveyward I ain't gonna bring him back He was my man, but he done me wrong

I was your man, but I done you wrong"

Then Frankie pulled back her kimono And she pulled out a small .44 And root-e-toot-toot three times she shot Right through that hardwood door

With that high-browed Nellie Bly He was her man, and he was doing her wrong

For you're looking at a desperate gal Been two-timed by her man He was my man, but he done me wrong"

ith that high-browed Nellie Bly He was your man, I think he's doing you wrong"

Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands

blackness was ancient ere whiteness began.

The blacker the mantle, the mightier the man!

am darkening with song, I am hearkening to wrong!

am the Smoke King I am black!

somewhere in this whirl and chaos of things there dwells Eternal Good, pitiful yet masterfu

Yonder's my ole mudder, Been waggin' at de hill so long; 'Bout time she cross over, Git home bime–by." Elsewhere comes the cry of the "motherless" and the "Farewell, farewell, my only child."

songs, many of the "gospel" hymns, and some of the contemporary "

The first is African music, the second Afro–American, while the third is a blending of Negro music with the music heard in the foster land

cradle–song of death which all men know,–"Swing low, sweet chariot

This was primitive African music; it may be seen in larger form in the strange chant which heralds "The Coming of John":

he siftings of centuries; the music is far more ancient than the words, and in it we can trace here and there signs of development.

went, fighting cold and starvation, shut out of hotels, and cheerfully sneered at, ever northwa

the pilgrimage of the Fisk Jubilee Singers be

and the greatest gift of the Negro people.

chance the Negro folk–song—the rhythmic cry of the slave—stands to–day not simply as the sole American music, but as the most beautiful expression of human experience born this side the sea

themselves, and its bricks were red with the blood and dust of toil.

walked in darkness sang songs in the olden days—Sorrow Songs—for they were weary at

I walk through the churchyard To lay this body down; I know moon–rise, I know star–rise; I walk in the moonlight, I walk in the starlight; I'll lie in the grave and stretch out my arms, I'll go to judgment in the evening of the day, And my soul and thy soul shall meet that day, When I lay this body down.

whose ancestors went through the school of American slavery,

the children very much as dumb animals get theirs.

Often the slaves got knowledge of the results of great battles before the white people received i

bottoms, which were about an inch thick, were of wood. When I walked they made a fearful noise, and besides this they were very inconvenient since there was no yielding to the natural pressure of the foot. I

the great day drew nearer, there was more singing in the slave quarters than usual. It was bolder, had more ring, and lasted later into the night. Most of the verses of the plantation songs had some reference to freedom. True, they had sung those same verses before, but they had been careful to explain that the "freedom" in these songs referred to the next world, and had no connection Page 20 with life in this world. Now they gradually threw off the mask, and were not afraid to let it be known that the "freedom" in their songs meant freedom of the body in this world. The night before the eventful day, word was sent to the slave quarters to the effect that so

So far as I can now recall, the first knowledge that I got of the fact that we were slaves, and that freedom of the

had no schooling whatever while I was a slave, though I remember on several occasions I went as Page 7 far as the schoolhouse door with one of my young mistresses to carry her boo

woods were said to be full of soldiers who had deserted from the army, and I had been told that the first thing a deserter did to a Negro boy when he found him alone was to cut off his ears. Besides, when I was late in getting home I knew I would always get a severe scolding or a flogging.

During the period that I spent in slavery I was not large enough to be of much service, still I was occupied most of the time in cleaning the yards, carrying water to the men in the fields, or going to the mill,

f my earliest recollections is that of my mother cooking a chicken late at night, and awakening her children for the purpose of feeding them. How or where she got it I do not know. I presume, however, it was Page 5 procured from our owner's farm. Some people may call this theft. If such a thing were to happen now, I should condemn it as theft mys

the days of slavery not very much attention was given to family history and family records - that is, black family records.

        My life had its beginning in the midst of the most miserable, desolate, and discouraging surroundings. This was so, however, not because my owners were especially cr

beat the money out of her, if I can't get her worth any other way," retorted Mrs. B. sharply. While this scene was passing, Frado was trying to utter the prayer of the publican, "God be merciful to me a sinner."

want your attention to what I am going to say. I have let Nig go out to evening meetings a few times, and, if you will believe it, I found her reading the Bible to-day, just as though she expected to turn pious nigger, and preach to white folks. So now you see what good comes of sending her to school. If she should get converted she would have to go to meeting: at least, as long as James lives. I wish he had not such queer notions about her. It seems to trouble him to know he must die and leave her. He says if he should get well he would take her home with him, or educate her here. Oh, how awful! What can the child mean? So careful, too, of her! He says we shall ruin her health making her work so hard, and sleep in such a place. O, John! do you think he is in his right mind?"

Yes, YES!" she repeated sarcastically, "you know these niggers are just like black snakes; you CAN'T kill them. If she wasn't tough she would have been killed long ago. There was never one of my girls could do half the work."

Her anxiety increased; her countenance bore marks of solicitude unseen before; and though she said nothing of her inward contest, they all observed a change.

Mrs. Bellmont was determined the sun should have full power to darken the shade which nature had first bestowed upon her as best befitting.

The invalid, Jane, would gladly befriend her; but she had not the strength to brave the iron will of her mother. Kind words and affectionate glances were the only expressions of sympathy she could safely indulge in

How Jack pitied her! He relieved her jaws, brought her some supper, took her to her room, comforted her as well as he knew how, sat by her till she fell asleep, and then left for the sitting room.

Mary placed herself behind the child, and, in the struggle to force her over, lost her footing and plunged into the stream. S

Mary could not endure to see her thus noticed, yet knew not how to prevent it. She could not influence her schoolmates as she wished.

She then reminded them of their duties to the poor and friendle

any cause for the sorrow of that little gir

See that nigger," shouted one. "Look! look!" cried another. "I won't play with her," said one little girl. "Nor I neither," replied another.

Mrs. Bellmont was in doubt about the utility of attempting to educate people of color, who were incapable of elevat

words that burn,"

at night more willing to remai

large amount of dish-washing for small hands followed dinner. Then the same after tea and going after the cows finished her first day's work. It was a new discipline to the child.

was ALWAYS to be done, and in no other way; any departure from this rule to be punished by a whipping. She was then accompanied by Jack to drive the cows to pasture, so she might learn the way. Upon her return she was allowed to eat her breakfast, consisting of a bowl of skimmed milk, with brown bread cru

he bed could stand only in the middle of the room. A small half window furnished light and air. Jack returned to the sitting room with the remark that the child would soon outgrow those quarters.

How'll she get there?" asked Jack. "She'll be afraid to go through that dark passage, and she can't climb the ladder safely." "She'll have to go there; it's good enough for a nigger," was the reply.

Where could she sleep?" asked Mary. "I don't want her near me."

ane, an invalid daughter, the eldest of those at home, was reclining on a sofa apparently uninterested

Alas! it never came. It was the last time she ever saw or heard of her mother.

"she-devil

Halloo!" screamed one, "Black, white and yeller!" "Black, white and yeller," echoed a dozen voices.

"I will," said Seth. "Come here, Frado?"

It's no use," said Seth one day; "we must give the children away, and try to get work in some other place." "Who'll take the black devils?" snarled Mag.

She had no longings for a purer heart, a better life.

she declined, and returned to her hovel again, with obstacles threefold more insurmountable than before.

Christian patience;

a white wife,—

Oh, dear!" sighed Mag; "Nobody on earth cares for ME—" "I do," interrupted Jim.

This sudden expedient which he had unintentionally disclosed, roused his thinking and inventive powers to study upon the best method of introducing the subject to Mag.

After the usual supply of fuel was prepared, Jim returned home. Full of pity for Mag, he set about devising measures for her r

I shall starve soon, unless I can get more to do. Folks seem as afraid to come here as if they expected to get some awful disease. I don't believe there is a person in the world but would be glad to have me dead and out of the way."

Every year her melancholy increased, her means diminished. At last no one seemed to notice her, save a kind-hearted African, who often called to inquire after her health and to see if she needed any fuel, he having the responsibility of furnishing that article, and she in return mending or making garments.

Thus she lived for years, hugging her wrongs, but making no effort to escape. She had never known plenty, scarcely competency; but the present was beyond comparison with those innocent years when the coronet of virtue was hers.

holier-than-thou"

Blessed release! may we all respond. How many pure, innocent children not only inherit a wicked heart of their own, claiming life-long scrutiny and restraint, but are heirs also of parental disgrace and calumny, from which only long years of patient endurance in paths of rectitude can disencumber them

God be thanked," ejaculated Mag, as she saw its breathing cease; "no one can taunt HER with my ruin."

Her offspring came unwelcomed, and before its nativity numbered weeks, it passed from earth, ascending to a purer and better life.

She thought she could ascend to him and become an equal. She surrendered to him a priceless gem, which he proudly garnered as a trophy, with those of other victims, and left her to her f

As she merged into womanhood, unprotected, uncherished, uncared for, there fell on her ear the music of love, awakening an intensity of emotion long dormant

was left to guide her tiny boat over life's su

Early deprived of parental guardianship, far removed from relatives, she was left to guide her tiny boat over life's surges alone and inexperienced.

First leaves the young heart lone and desolate     In the wide world, without that only tie     For which it loved to live or feared to die;     Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken     Since the sad day its master-chord was broken!

IS there a heaven for the black? She knew there was one for James, and Aunt Abby, and all good white people; but was there any for blacks?

rado, under the instructions of Aunt Abby and the minister, became a believer in a future existence—one of happiness or misery

She was afraid to expose the cruel author of he

Angry that she should venture a reply to her command, she suddenly inflicted a blow which lay the tottering girl prostrate on the floor. Excited by so much indulgence of a dangerous passion, she seemed left to unrestrained malice; and snatching a towel, stuffed the mouth of the sufferer, and beat her cruelly.

Mrs. Bellmont, she well knew, would have no sympathy for he

Nig was never so helpful before," Mary remarked

And which he fondly thought returned    With equal purity and truth, Mocking his hopes, falls to the ground,    Like some false vision of the night,

When hopes of better, fear of worse,

The utmost power which God has given --- Conscious that the Almighty power    Will nerve the faithful soul with might, Whatever storms may round him lower,    Strikes boldly for the true and right.

And dare be honest though he dies; Who cares not for the world’s applause,

Sorrow follows the footsteps of crime,          And Sin is the consort of Woe.

Weep not, oh my well-sheltered sisters,          Weep not for the Negro alone,      But weep for your sons who must gather          The crops which their fathers have sown.

Oh, people sin-laden and guilty,          So lusty and proud in your prime,      The sharp sickles of God's retribution          Will gather your harvest of crime.

Men may tread down the poor and lowly,          May crush them in anger and hate,      But surely the mills of God's justice          Will grind out the grist of their fate.

On their brows the sun has left traces;          Shrink not from their sorrow in scorn.

And women heart-stricken are weeping          Over their tortured and their slain.

You can sorrow o'er little children          Disinherited from their birth,      The wee waifs and toddlers neglected,          Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.

You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian          Who weeps in her desolate home.      You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia          From kindred and friends doomed to roam.

Oh! poverty, danger and death she can brave, For the child of her love is no longer a slave!

Fierce jargon and cursing, with clanking of chains, Make sounds of strange discord on Liberty’s plains.

But she’s free!—yes, free from the land where the slave From the hand of oppression must rest in the grave; Where bondage and torture, where scourges and chains Have plac’d on our banner indelible stains.

Oh! love from its tenderness gathering might, Had strengthen’d her soul for the dangers of flight.

The danger was fearful, the pathway was wild; But, aided by Heaven, she gained a free shore, Where the friends of humanity open’d their door.

Oh! how shall I speak of my proud country’s shame? Of the stains on her glory, how give them their name? How say that her banner in mockery waves— Her “star-spangled banner”—o’er millions of slaves

Death howl’d in the tempest, and rav’d in the blast, But she heard not the sound till the danger was pas

So pale in its aspect, so fair in its grace; As the tramp of the horse and the bay of the hound, With the fetters that gall, were trailing the ground!

She was nearing the river—in reaching the brink, She heeded no danger, she paused not to think! For she is a mother—her child is a slave— And she’ll give him his freedom, or find him a grave!

A woman swept by us, bearing a child; In her eye was the night of a settled despair, And her brow was o’ershaded with anguish and care.

Proud of her spotless name -- A woman who could bend to grief, But would not bow to shame.

"But if, before thy servants' eyes, This thing they plainly see, That Vashti doth not heed thy will Nor yield herself to thee, "The women, restive 'neath our rule, Would learn to scorn our name, And from her deed to us would come Reproach and burning shame.

And grief was in her eye: "Go, tell the King," she sadly said, "That I would rather die."

Each gem that sparkles in my crown, Or glitters on my throne, Grows poor and pale when she appears, My beautiful, my own!"

I've shown the treasures of my house, My costly jewels rare, But with the glory of her eyes No rubies can compare.

Can you blame me that my heart grew cold That the tempted, tempter turned; When he was feted and caressed And I was coldly spurned?

That I who fell, and he who sinned, Shall reap as we have sown;

I think before His great white throne, His throne of spotless light, That whited sepulchres shall wear The hue of endless night.

I’m glad God’s ways are not our ways, He does not see as man, Within His love I know there’s room For those whom others ban.

Do you blame me that I loved him, That my heart beat glad and free, When he told me in the sweetest tones He loved but only me?

Thy bleeding hands abroad;Thy cry of agony shall reachAnd find the throne of God.

'Neath sheltering vines and stately palmsShall laughing children play;And aged sires, with joyous psalms,Shall gladden every day.

Redeemed from dust, and freed from chains,Her sons shall lift their eyes;From lofty hills and verdant plainsShall shouts of triumph rise.

Yes, Ethiopia yet shall stretchHer bleeding hands abroad;Her cry of agony shall reachThe burning throne of God.