“We put a cent in ‘most every Sunday. But we get our Sunday-school money ‘knocking up Jerusalem.’”
“The dickens!” exclaimed Mr. Brown, quite forgetting himself, “and how do you ‘knock up Jerusalem’?”
“‘Knocking up Jerusalem’ is a song, sir,” our little hero respectfully replied; “and we shall be right proud to sing it to you sometime if you’ll come to the cabin. And you ain’t to give us anything, neither.”
“We’ll come,” said Mr. Brown. “We want to see Sally’s new gown, and I wouldn’t fail to hear ‘Knocking up Jerusalem.’”
We went, according to promise, and were most hospitably received at the little cabin. We admired Sally’s blue and white homespun, and when that subject was exhausted we listened to “Knocking up Jerusalem.” The five children stood in a row with Gen. Grant at their head, and kept time with their feet as they sang. It was evidently one of the old-time spiritual songs, a queer mixture, and we listened with mingled feelings of interest and regret—interest in the dark, earnest little faces, and the sweet, pathetic strains, regret at the words and gestures, alike meaningless.
The song ended, we talked of Jesus, and these little ones, ignorant and untaught, yet knew of Him as the children’s Friend.
Gen. Grant was actively engaged as long as we remained in K., but it was slow work after all, and we became so interested in his unselfish efforts, that we determined to aid him. Enough homespun for several dresses was privately left at the cabin, together with a few simple papers and books, of which the cabin was utterly destitute. The day we left, Gen. Grant was at the station to present us with a beautiful bouquet, and we almost cried ourselves as he bade us a tearful good-bye.
Our chief regret for K. is that we can do so little to improve the condition of the colored people there. Poor and ignorant, they need what they have never had, an educated teacher. We wish the A. M. A. was rich enough to sustain a school in every Southern village.