CHAPTER II
THE ORIGIN OF THE MOONLIGHT SCHOOLS
Strange impressions have prevailed in regard to the moonlight schools. Some have imagined them to be schools where children study and play and scamper on the green, like fairies by the moonlight; others have supposed them to be schools where lovers stroll arm-in-arm, quote poetry and tell the old, old story by the light of a witching moon; others, perhaps because these schools originated in the mountains of Kentucky, have speculated upon their being schools where moonshiners, youthful and aged, are instructed in the best method of extracting the juice from the corn, and, at the same time, one so secretive as to prevent government interference.
Moonlight schools were first established in September, 1911. They had their origin in Rowan County, Kentucky. They were designed, primarily, to emancipate from illiteracy all those enslaved in its bondage. They were, also, intended to afford an opportunity to those of limited education who desired to improve their store of knowledge.
These schools grew out of the only condition that can give to any institution permanent and substantial growth—an imperative human need. This need was expressed, not by any theorist or group of theorists but by the illiterates themselves.
When I was Superintendent of Rowan County schools, I acted as voluntary secretary to several illiterate folk—a mistaken kindness—I ought to have been teaching them to read and write. Among these folk there was a mother whose children had all grown up without learning save one daughter who had secured a limited education, and when grown, had drifted away to the city of Chicago, where she profited by that one advantage which the city possessed over the rural district—the night school. She so improved her education and increased her efficiency that she was enabled to engage, profitably, in a small business. Her letters were the only joys that came into that mother’s life and the drafts which they contained were the only means of relieving her needs. Usually she would bring those letters to me, over the hill, seven miles, to read and answer for her. Sometimes she would take them to the neighbors to interpret. Once after an absence of six weeks, an unaccustomed period, she came in one morning fondling a letter. I noticed an unusual thing—the seal was broken.
Anticipating her mission, I inquired, “Have you a letter from your daughter? Shall I read and answer it for you?”
She straightened up with more dignity and more pride than I have ever seen an illiterate assume—with more dignity and more pride than an illiterate could assume as she replied, “No, I kin answer hit fer myself. I’ve larned to read and write!”
“Learned to read and write!” I exclaimed in amazement. “Who was your teacher, and how did you happen to learn?”
“Well, sometimes I jist couldn’t git over here to see you,” she explained, “an’ the cricks would be up ’twixt me an’ the neighbors, or the neighbors would be away from home an’ I couldn’t git a letter answered fer three or four days; an’ anyway hit jist seemed like thar was a wall ’twixt Jane an’ me all the time, an’ I wanted to read with my own eyes what she had writ with her own hand. So, I went to the store an’ bought me a speller, an’ I sot up at night ’til midnight an’ sometimes ’til daylight, an’ I larned to read an’ write.”