Martin Luther King Jr. Day Anthology, - [best novels for beginners .txt] 📗

as fast as he qualifies himself in education and property for voting, would insure the alienation of the affections of the Negro from the state in which he lives, and would be the reversal of the fundamental principles of government for which our states have stood. In other ways than this the injury would be as great to the white man as to the Negro.

Taxation without the hope of becoming voters would take away from one third of the citizens of the Gulf states their interest in government, and a stimulus to become taxpayers or to secure education, and thus be able and willing to bear their share of the cost of education and government, which now rests so heavily upon the white taxpayers of the South. The more the Negro is stimulated and encouraged, the sooner will he be able to bear a larger share of the burdens of the South. We have recently had before us an example, in the case of Spain, of a government that left a large portion of its citizens in ignorance, and neglected their highest interests.

 

As I have said elsewhere: “There is no escape, through law of man or God, from the inevitable.

 

‘The laws of changeless justice bind Oppressor with oppressed;

And close as sin and suffering joined We march to fate abreast.’

 

Nearly sixteen millions of hands will aid you in pulling the load upwards, or they will pull the load downwards against you. We shall constitute one third and more of the ignorance and crime of the South, or one third of its intelligence and progress; we shall contribute one third to the business and industrial prosperity of the South, or we shall prove a veritable body of death, stagnating, depressing, retarding every effort to advance the body politic.”

 

My own feeling is that the South will gradually reach the point where it will see the wisdom and the justice of enacting an educational or property qualification, or both, for voting, that shall be made to apply honestly to both races. The industrial development of the Negro in connection with education and Christian character will help to hasten this end. When this is done, we shall have a foundation, in my opinion, upon which to build a government that is honest, and that will be in a high degree satisfactory to both races.

 

I do not suffer myself to take too optimistic a view of the conditions in the South. The problem is a large and serious one, and will require the patient help, sympathy, and advice of our most patriotic citizens, North and South, for years to come. But I believe that if the principles which I have tried to indicate are followed, a solution of the question will come. So long as the Negro is permitted to get education, acquire property, and secure employment, and is treated with respect in the business world, as is now true in the greater part of the South, I shall have the greatest faith in his working out his own destiny in our Southern states. The education and preparation for citizenship of nearly eight millions of people is a tremendous task, and every lover of humanity should count it a privilege to help in the solution of a problem for which our whole country is responsible.

HOT-FOOT HANNIBAL

by Charles W. Chesnutt

 

“I hate and despise you! I wish never to see you or speak to you again!”

 

“Very well; I will take care that henceforth you have no opportunity to do either.”

 

These words—the first in the passionately vibrant tones of my sister-in-law, and the latter in the deeper and more restrained accents of an angry man—startled me from my nap. I had been dozing in my hammock on the front piazza, behind the honeysuckle vine. I had been faintly aware of a buzz of conversation in the parlor, but had not at all awakened to its import until these sentences fell, or, I might rather say, were hurled upon my ear.

I presume the young people had either not seen me lying there,—

the Venetian blinds opening from the parlor windows upon the piazza were partly closed on account of the heat,—or else in their excitement they had forgotten my proximity.

 

I felt somewhat concerned. The young man, I had remarked, was proud, firm, jealous of the point of honor, and, from my observation of him, quite likely to resent to the bitter end what he deemed a slight or an injustice. The girl, I knew, was quite as high-spirited as young Murchison. I feared she was not so just, and hoped she would prove more yielding. I knew that her affections were strong and enduring, but that her temperament was capricious, and her sunniest moods easily overcast by some small cloud of jealousy or pique. I had never imagined, however, that she was capable of such intensity as was revealed by these few words of hers. As I say, I felt concerned. I had learned to like Malcolm Murchison, and had heartily consented to his marriage with my ward; for it was in that capacity that I had stood for a year or two to my wife’s younger sister, Mabel. The match thus rudely broken off had promised to be another link binding me to the kindly Southern people among whom I had not long before taken up my residence.

 

Young Murchison came out of the door, cleared the piazza in two strides without seeming aware of my presence, and went off down the lane at a furious pace. A few moments later Mabel began playing the piano loudly, with a touch that indicated anger and pride and independence and a dash of exultation, as though she were really glad that she had driven away forever the young man whom the day before she had loved with all the ardor of a first passion.

 

I hoped that time might heal the breach and bring the two young people together again. I told my wife what I had overheard. In return she gave me Mabel’s version of the affair.

 

“I do not see how it can ever be settled,” my wife said. “It is something more than a mere lovers’ quarrel. It began, it is true, because she found fault with him for going to church with that hateful Branson girl. But before it ended there were things said that no woman of any spirit could stand. I am afraid it is all over between them.”

 

I was sorry to hear this. In spite of the very firm attitude taken by my wife and her sister, I still hoped that the quarrel would be made up within a day or two. Nevertheless, when a week had passed with no word from young Murchison, and with no sign of relenting on Mabel’s part, I began to think myself mistaken.

 

One pleasant afternoon, about ten days after the rupture, old Julius drove the rockaway up to the piazza, and my wife, Mabel, and I took our seats for a drive to a neighbor’s vineyard, over on the Lumberton plankroad.

 

“Which way shall we go,” I asked,—“the short road or the long one?”

 

“I guess we had better take the short road,” answered my wife.

“We will get there sooner.”

 

“It’s a mighty fine dribe roun’ by de big road, Mis’ Annie,”

observed Julius, “en it doan take much longer to git dere.”

 

“No,” said my wife, “I think we will go by the short road. There is a bay tree in blossom near the mineral spring, and I wish to get some of the flowers.”

 

“I ‘spec’s you’d find some bay trees ‘long de big road, ma’am,”

said Julius.

 

“But I know about the flowers on the short road, and they are the ones I want.”

 

We drove down the lane to the highway, and soon struck into the short road leading past the mineral spring. Our route lay partly through a swamp, and on each side the dark, umbrageous foliage, unbroken by any clearing, lent to the road solemnity, and to the air a refreshing coolness. About half a mile from the house, and about halfway to the mineral spring, we stopped at the tree of which my wife had spoken, and reaching up to the low-hanging boughs I gathered a dozen of the fragrant white flowers. When I resumed my seat in the rockaway, Julius started the mare. She went on for a few rods, until we had reached the edge of a branch crossing the road, when she stopped short.

 

“Why did you stop, Julius?” I asked.

 

“I didn’, suh,” he replied. “‘T wuz de mare stop’. G’ ‘long dere, Lucy! W’at you mean by dis foolis’ness?”

 

Julius jerked the reins and applied the whip lightly, but the mare did not stir.

 

“Perhaps you had better get down and lead her,” I suggested. “If you get her started, you can cross on the log and keep your feet dry.”

 

Julius alighted, took hold of the bridle, and vainly essayed to make the mare move. She planted her feet with even more evident obstinacy.

 

“I don’t know what to make of this,” I said. “I have never known her to balk before. Have you, Julius?”

 

“No, suh,” replied the old man, “I nebber has. It’s a cu’ous thing ter me, suh.”

 

“What’s the best way to make her go?”

 

“I ‘spec’s, suh, dat ef I’d tu’n her roun’ she’d go de udder way.”

 

“But we want her to go this way.”

 

“Well, suh, I ‘low ef we des set heah fo’ er fibe minutes, she’ll sta’t up by herse’f.”

 

“All right,” I rejoined, “it is cooler here than any place I have struck to-day. We’ll let her stand for a while, and see what she does.”

 

We had sat in silence for a few minutes, when Julius suddenly ejaculated, “Uh huh! I knows w’y dis mare doan go. It des flash ‘cross my reccommemb’ance.”

 

“Why is it, Julius?” I inquired.

 

“Ca’se she sees Chloe.”

 

“Where is Chloe?” I demanded.

 

“Chloe’s done be’n dead dese fo’ty years er mo’,” the old man returned. “Her ha’nt is settin’ ober yander on de udder side er de branch, unner dat willer tree, dis blessed minute.”

 

“Why, Julius!” said my wife, “do you see the haunt?”

 

“No’m,” he answered, shaking his head, “I doan see ‘er, but de mare sees ‘er.”

 

“How do you know?” I inquired.

 

“Well, suh, dis yer is a gray hoss, en dis yer is a Friday; en a gray hoss kin alluz see a ha’nt w’at walks on Friday.”

 

“Who was Chloe?” said Mabel.

 

“And why does Chloe’s haunt walk?” asked my wife.

 

“It’s all in de tale, ma’am,” Julius replied, with a deep sigh.

“It’s all in de tale.”

 

“Tell us the tale,” I said. “Perhaps, by the time you get through, the haunt will go away and the mare will cross.”

 

I was willing to humor the old man’s fancy. He had not told us a story for some time; and the dark and solemn swamp around us; the amber-colored stream flowing silently and sluggishly at our feet, like the waters of Lethe; the heavy, aromatic scent of the bays, faintly suggestive of funeral wreaths,—all made the place an ideal one for a ghost story.

 

“Chloe,” Julius began in a subdued tone, “use’ ter b’long ter ole Mars’ Dugal’ McAdoo—my ole marster. She wuz a ladly gal en a smart gal, en ole mis’ tuk her up ter de big house, en l’arnt her ter wait on de w’ite folks, ‘tel bimeby she come ter be mis’s own maid, en ‘peared ter ‘low she run de