ONE DAY.
BY MISS ADELE BREWER, RALEIGH, N.C.
Would you like to spend Sunday with us among the colored people at the South? The bell for Sunday School sounded at nine o’clock. At three, we answered the call for church. We saluted the sexton, a pretty girl, who was ringing the bell as we entered. The neat little church still had its Christmas trimmings. We were delighted with everything, the earnest minister, the good organ, the well-trained choir. Every word of the responsive reading was so clearly enunciated that it was a pleasure to listen. The pastor’s wife came in with her manly son and her wee baby. That smallest auditor behaved well. The missionary was there with the orphan she is training. Notices for the week were given out—Lyceum, Church prayer meeting, and the Women’s prayer meeting.
After the benediction, before we had hardly thought of turning in our places, we felt the pressure of a baby’s hand. Little Clara, aged five, had hastened to us. She had come to church alone. It was sweet to look at her and know what an angel of light she is. Her mother, though an invalid, takes in washing. She hires some one to carry the clothes. Clara wishes to grow. “Why?” “So I can tote de clothes.” In former days, long before she came to earth, her parents were prosperous. They bought land and built two houses, one for themselves and one to rent. Her father, still in the prime of life, is paralyzed and blind. Day after day he sits by the fire, unable to read, or work, or move. We have seen his blind, twitching face light tenderly at the touch of his only child. Clara led us along slowly, and we chatted with the missionary and her friends. One young lady has bought land, built a house for herself and furnished it well with carpet and organ. She is helping her sisters in their education. We met many whose friends were at school. We shook hands with the good deacons.
Some young girls were waiting at home for us. They wished to talk about “going North.” As soon as they had left, a friend sent by us an orange to Mrs. Knowles. In her one dark room, over a smoky fireplace, she was sitting, paralyzed, rheumatic and very “painy,” without kith or kin to help her, dependent on neighbors for food, wood and water; her lot did not seem an enviable one. “The children are mighty kind to me.” Boys come in and cut a stick of wood at a time. She cooks meal, her chief article of food, in three different ways, “so as to have a little variety, you know.” Often suffers for “suthing t’eat;” seldom knows whence the next dinner will come.
As we left the room we heard crying. Leaning by the fence, alone and screaming, was a little girl. “What is it?” “A boy threw a rock and hit me here,” showing her side. “Where is your home?” “Right over yonder.” “Shall I take you there?” “No; mother is not there.” It proved that her sister and friend were frolicking and helping (?) Mrs. Knowles. Her sister answered the appeal for help. “Hush, Queen; quit making such a fuss.” The friend explained: “She never did like to be hit by a rock, nohow.” We noticed the feet of the friend. A piece of leather tied around them, showing the bare toes. Many children can not go to Sunday-school because they have no shoes.
After tea we went to the S. S. Concert. In giving out the subject, the teacher said she did not want to call it a Lying Concert, though the verses were about lying, so she called it a Truth Concert. The room was full. Little Clara’s mother could not go, so the wee maiden invited a young lady to be her escort. The concert was excellent. The texts were well recited and the pastor’s remarks summed up the matter. At the close an appeal was made in behalf of a poor and sick scholar. A member of her class carried around the basket, and a dollar and seventy-nine cents was given in response. This little church takes up three collections a day, yet its members are very poor and the winter has been hard on all. One family stayed in bed till late in the afternoon to save wood to cook supper. A young man, sick with consumption, had nothing provided for him but bacon and cornmeal, which his delicate appetite loathed. It is hard to earn much, receiving thirty cents a week for a washing. We asked a widow if she was comfortable when her husband was alive. “Oh yes; I had plenty to eat, plenty to eat. He was cross sometimes, as men are, but I always had plenty to eat.” We lay down to rest that night with new feelings of gratitude and shame. “What shall we render unto the Lord for all His benefits?”