“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why, it is breakin’ up day in the schoolhouse over yonder, and the children are goin’ to speak.”
From Harper’s Young People.
TOPSY LEFT ALONE.
Sitting by my window the next day, voices of children attracted my attention. Looking up I saw two little ones—a brother and sister—trudging along followed by another little girl. I noticed the fresh white dresses and pretty aprons, and that they seemed to be very much in earnest about something. A half hour later the mother passed, and it dawned upon me, then, that it was the “last day of school.” Afterward, riding by the school-house, and peeping in, I saw rows of bright children and many happy parents and friends. It brought to my mind another “last day,” where were children dressed by just as loving hands in their white lawns, and pink and cream buntings. Their songs were just as well sung—perhaps better—for a lady, after spending a day in a public school of a New England city, wrote: “The children are trained by a music teacher who receives $800 a year, but their singing could not be compared to that we heard by the pupils of ——,” referring to these of whom I am telling you. Their little “speeches” were recited just as distinctly; the teachers were just as proud; the parents just as happy, nay, happier. I’ll tell you why by and by.
Have you studied U.S. History? And do you remember the story of our late Civil War? Then you know that one result of it was that nearly four million slaves, who were owned by other people, to be bought and sold like any other property, were made free. They could go where they chose; work as they wanted to; receive the wages they earned; make homes for themselves, and not be afraid that their children would be torn away from them to go with another master.
If you should take the cars in Richmond and ride though—what States?—till you came to Florida, you would pass through miles and miles of pinelands scattered all along. Set right in among the pine trees are little log cabins, the homes of many of these people. Owning little farms, raising their rice and corn, cotton and sweet potatoes, they seem very happy indeed. I heard snatches of “Hold the Fort” coming from within one of these cabins, and remembered seeing a little church not far away, so I think they must have Sunday-school, and use the “Gospel Hymns,” don’t you?
Stopping over one train in a Southern city, and inquiring for the homes of the colored people, you will be directed to almost any lane. Shall I tell you about one I visited?
Clara told me where to find her. Hunting around among many houses which were nearly alike, I suddenly saw a face at a window which I knew must be that of Clara’s mother. I crossed the street and knocked at the door. It was old and weather-beaten, and fairly creaked as I rapped.