Many of you will be very glad to hear again from Mrs. Richardson, whose work among the poor people at Lincolnton has interested you very much. For the information of new subscribers we will state that this lady has, for several years, been trying to make the lives of the colored people around her brighter and happier.
She began by teaching the children of Uncle Pete, her faithful friend and servant, and once her slave. At present she is giving religious and other instruction to a great many children and young people, and through her self-denying efforts a little chapel has been built, where they worship on Sundays.
The little readers of Young People have assisted Mrs. Richardson by sending books, toys, and cast-off clothing to her for the use of her protégées:
Woodside (near Lincolnton), North Carolina.
My dear young Friends,—I have not written to you very often lately. The Post-office Box is always so full of interesting letters that I felt that it would be an imposition in me to take up space in it very often. Then, too, there has been nothing very interesting to tell you. The chapel is up (not yet finished, but covered), the floor laid, windows in (they look so pretty!), and the pews made; we can use it, though the door and a good deal of work is yet to be done. The chapel stands in a grove of pines and weeping-oaks. The branches of these oaks droop almost to the ground, and are very graceful and pretty, besides making delightful horses for the children to ride. You all, I guess, know just how far to creep up the limb, and then spring to make it go, and ride delightfully among the branches.
I know you will be glad to know that the school has gone on regularly and well since it first began. The scholars have all improved very much; those who were learning their letters last summer are now using Second Readers. A great number of them are reading in the Testament—very poor reading in many cases, spelling many words, but still we find, with the explanations we give them as we go on, that going through the Gospels they understand a great deal of it. We feel that it must do them good. When they came they did not know anything of prayer; only three knew "Now I lay me." Now they all know that and the Lord's Prayer, almost all the Creed, and the Ten Commandments.
Did I write you—no, I know I have not, for it was only a few weeks ago—that some kind, very kind, persons sent me an organ? I wish they could know and see the pleasure it gives us all. The scholars seem so delighted to sing that last Sunday we let them try chanting a psalm we had been reading, and they learned it very quickly. Then we tried the Creed and the Lord's Prayer to a tune in the choral service; that they did beautifully, all of them, even the tiny children, and all of them (over sixty) singing as with one voice, they naturally made a swell on the Amen that was truly beautiful. They were so happy singing these things over and over with the hymns they know, saying always, "Please, ma'am, one time more!" "Abide with me" they sing very well. "Jerusalem the Golden" is a great favorite too. When we thought we must stop, they begged so just to sing everything over once more that we did it, and found when we came home that we had been three hours at Sunday-school and singing. Two boys, or men, carry the little organ up there, and back again when we are done. We hope to have the door and lock this week.
I would like very much to have a few primers, and also some readers and copy-books and pencils; there are many of them so anxious to learn to write. A few slates were sent—most of them broken a good deal in coming—but their copies and writing get rubbed out, so they do not get on very well with them.
Oh, I do so wish you could be here and see how happy they are in Sunday-school, and in the singing after! My husband says they won't be any happier in paradise than they were last Sunday afternoon. Their black faces were filled with ecstasy, and we were almost as happy, seeing them so delighted. There are three children to be baptized next Sunday, when we will have service and a sermon after Sunday-school.
I find they are counting the weeks already to Christmas. There are some little ones and babies the mothers have to bring, so we shall have to give them something. Presents for seventy! We will do all we can, but can not make a tree for so many unless we have help. Remember, in sending, that things you would not care for will delight them. Clothes you would think worn out will please them, and make them warm and comfortable; ribbons, etc., too much soiled for you to use will please them as well as new; shawls, no matter if old and faded, anything warm, will be of great service; quilt patches, needles, and thread—in fact, anything and everything will be of use in making a tree for them. They all are very, very fond of candy.
One lady will give me some paper to help make cornucopias; that is all the help I know of yet for Christmas. Christmas is yet a long time off to you young people, but when one grows older the weeks just fly away, and Christmas always comes before we get ready for it. We are going to begin the 1st of November practicing the carols for Christmas, and hope they will all have as happy a day as they did last year.
With a heart full of love to you all for the help you have so kindly given me before, and hoping, as the years roll on, I may see some of your dear faces, I am, now and always, gratefully and truly your friend,
Mrs. Richardson.
What does the brook say, flashing its feet
Under the lilies' blue brimming bowls,
Brightening the shades with its tender song,
Cheering all drooping and sorrowful souls?
It says not, "Be merry," but deep in the wood
Rings back, "Little maiden, be good, be good."
What does the wind say, pushing slow sails
Over the great troubled path of the sea;
Whirling the mill on the breezy height,
Shaking the fruit from the orchard tree?
It breathes not "Be happy," but sings loud and long,
"O bright little maiden, be strong, be strong."
What says the river, gliding along
To its home on far-off Ocean's breast;
Fretted by rushes, hindered by bars,
Ever weary, but singing of rest?
It says not, "Be bright," but in whisperings grave,
"Dear little maiden, be patient, be brave."
What do the stars say, keeping their watch
Over the slumbers the long lone night,
Never closing their bonnie bright eyes,
Though great storms blind them, and tempests fright?
They say not, "Be splendid," but write on the blue,
In clear silver letters, "Maiden, be true."
What a rainy time we have had, to be sure, children! I thought about my little correspondents as the floods fell day after day, and I wondered how those who have long, long walks to school contrived to get there when the bridges were down, and the great trees were torn up by the roots, and the paths, usually dry, were all covered with water.