This poet, formerly a school principal in Louisville, Kentucky, is now in Los Angeles, California, whither he took his tubercular son—in vain—endeavoring to establish there a sanitarium for persons of his race afflicted as his son was. For the third time: ad astra per aspera.
IV. Charles P. Wilson
The following verses were written by a man in the Missouri State Penitentiary. He might prefer that his name be withheld. He will shortly go forth a free man and a better one—so resolved to be—with verses enough composed during his period of incarceration to make a small book:
SOMEBODY’S CHILD
Don’t be too quick to condemn me,
Because I have made a bad start;
Remember you see but the surface,
And know not what’s in the heart.
I may bear the marks of a sinful life,
And I may have been a bit wild;
But back of all remains this fact,
That I am somebody’s child.
My cheeks by tears may be polished,
And my heart is no stranger to pain;
I know what it is to be friendless,
And to learn each affliction means gain.
I may be out in life’s storm,
And misfortune around me has piled;
But kindly remember this little fact,
That I am somebody’s child.
Probably to-night you’ll be happy,
In some joys or pleasures you’ll share:
And that very same moment may find me,
Tearfully pleading in prayer.
So don’t be too harsh when you judge me,
For your judgment with God will be filed;
You would know—could you see past the surface—
That I am somebody’s child.
And so a fourth time the motto—or is it a proverb?—ad astra per aspera.
V. Leon R. Harris
Now editor of the Richmond (Indiana) Blade, contributor of short-stories to The Century Magazine, an honored citizen and the head of a respected family, Leon R. Harris was an orphan asylum’s ward. Most splendidly has he, yet in his early thirties, illustrated the old adage chosen as a heading for this chapter. His father, a roving musician, took no interest in the future poet. His mother died and left him almost in the cradle. The orphanage which became his refuge gave him at least food, shelter, and schooling to the fourth grade. Then he was given to a Kentucky family to be reared. It was virtual slavery, and the boy ran away from over-work and beatings. Making his escape to Cincinnati he was befriended by a traveling salesman and began to find himself. At eleven years of age, some of his verses were printed in a Cincinnati daily with “Author Unknown” attached. He now made his way to Berea and worked his way for two years in that good old college. Then for three years he worked his way in Tuskegee.