The Quest of the Silver Fleece (Chapter I) by W.E.B. DuBois
The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man (Chapter I)
by James Weldon Johnson.
The Wife of His Youth (Chapters I–II) by Charles Waddell Chesnutt
THE QUEST OF THE
SILVER FLEECE
by W.E.B. DuBois
One
DREAMS
Night fell. The red waters of the swamp grew
sinister and sullen. The tall pines lost their
slimness and stood in wide blurred blotches all
across the way, and a great shadowy bird arose,
wheeled and melted, murmuring, into the
black-green sky.
The boy wearily dropped his heavy bundle and
stood still, listening as the voice of crickets split
the shadows and made the silence audible. A
tear wandered down his brown cheek. They
were at supper now, he whispered—the father
and old mother, away back yonder beyond the
night. They were far away; they would never be
as near as once they had been, for he had
stepped into the world. And the cat and Old
Billy—ah, but the world was a lonely thing, so
wide and tall and empty! And so bare, so bitter
bare! Somehow he had never dreamed of the
world as lonely before; he had fared forth to
beckoning hands and luring, and to the eager
hum of human voices, as of some great, swelling
music.
Yet now he was alone; the empty night was
closing all about him here in a strange land,
and he was afraid. The bundle with his earthly
treasure had hung heavy and heavier on his
shoulder; his little horde of money was tightly
wadded in his sock, and the school lay hidden
somewhere far away in the shadows. He
wondered how far it was; he looked and
harkened, starting at his own heartbeats, and
fearing more and more the long dark fingers of
the night.
Then of a sudden up from the darkness came
music. It was human music, but of a wildness
and a weirdness that startled the boy as it
fluttered and danced across the dull red waters
of the swamp. He hesitated, then impelled by
some strange power, left the highway and
slipped into the forest of the swamp, shrinking,
yet following the song hungrily and half
forgetting his fear. A harsher, shriller note
struck in as of many and ruder voices; but above
it flew the first sweet music, birdlike,
abandoned, and the boy crept closer.
The cabin crouched ragged and black at the
edge of black waters. An old chimney leaned
drunkenly against it, raging with fire and
smoke, while through the chinks winked red
gleams of warmth and wild cheer. With a revel
of shouting and noise, the music suddenly
ceased. Hoarse staccato cries and peals of
laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood
there peering through the black trees, abruptly
the door flew open and a flood of light illumined
the wood.
Amid this mighty halo, as on clouds of flame, a
girl was dancing. She was black, and lithe, and
tall, and willowy. Her garments twined and flew
around the delicate moulding of her dark,
young, half-naked limbs. A heavy mass of hair
clung motionless to her wide forehead. Her
arms twirled and flickered, and body and soul
seemed quivering and whirring in the poetry of
her motion.
As she danced she sang. He heard her voice as
before, fluttering like a bird’s in the full
sweetness of her utter music. It was no tune nor
melody, it was just formless, boundless music.
The boy forgot himself and all the world
besides. All his darkness was sudden light;
dazzled he crept forward, bewildered,
fascinated, until with one last wild whirl the elfgirl
paused. The crimson light fell full upon the
warm and velvet bronze of her face—her
midnight eyes were aglow, her full purple lips
apart, her half hid bosom panting, and all the
music dead. Involuntarily the boy gave a
gasping cry and awoke to swamp and night and
fire, while a white face, drawn, red-eyed, peered
outward from some hidden throng within the
cabin.
“Who’s that?” a harsh voice cried.
“Where?” “Who is it?” and pale crowding faces
blurred the light.
The boy wheeled blindly and fled in terror
stumbling through the swamp, hearing strange
sounds and feeling stealthy creeping hands and
arms and whispering voices. On he toiled in
mad haste, struggling toward the road and
losing it until finally beneath the shadows of a
mighty oak he sank exhausted. There he lay a
while trembling and at last drifted into
dreamless sleep.
It was morning when he awoke and threw a
startled glance upward to the twisted branches
of the oak that bent above, sifting down
sunshine on his brown face and close curled
hair. Slowly he remembered the loneliness, the
fear and wild running through the dark. He
laughed in the bold courage of day and
stretched himself.
Then suddenly he bethought him again of that
vision of the night—the waving arms and flying
limbs of the girl, and her great black eyes
looking into the night and calling him. He could
hear her now, and hear that wondrous savage
music. Had it been real? Had he dreamed? Or
had it been some witch-vision of the night, come
to tempt and lure him to his undoing? Where
was that black and flaming cabin? Where was
the girl—the soul that had called him? She
must have been real; she had to live and dance
and sing; he must again look into the mystery of
her great eyes. And he sat up in sudden
determination, and, lo! gazed straight into the
very eyes of his dreaming.
She sat not four feet from him, leaning against
the great tree, her eyes now languorously
abstracted, now alert and quizzical with
mischief. She seemed but half-clothed, and her
warm, dark flesh peeped furtively through the
rent gown; her thick, crisp hair was frowsy and
rumpled, and the long curves of her bare young
arms gleamed in the morning sunshine,
glowing with vigor and life. A little mocking
smile came and sat upon her lips.
“What you run for?” she asked, with dancing
mischief in her eyes.
“Because—” he hesitated, and his cheeks grew
hot.
“I knows,” she said, with impish glee, laughing
low music.
“Why?” he challenged, sturdily.
“You was a-feared.”
He bridled. “Well, I reckon you’d be a-feared if
you was caught out in the black dark all alone.”
“Pooh!” she scoffed and hugged her knees.
“Pooh! I’ve stayed out all alone heaps o’ nights.”
He looked at her with a curious awe.
“I don’t believe you,” he asserted; but she tossed
her head and her eyes grew scornful.
“Who’s a-feared of the dark? I love night.” Her
eyes grew soft.
He watched her silently, till, waking from her
daydream, she abruptly asked:
“Where you from?”
“Georgia.”
“Where’s that?”
He looked at her in surprise, but she seemed
matter-of-fact.
“It’s away over yonder,” he answered.
“Behind where the sun comes up?”
“Oh, no!”
“Then it ain’t so far,” she declared. “I knows
where the sun rises, and I knows where it sets.”
She looked up at its gleaming splendor glinting
through the leaves, and, noting its height,
announced abruptly:
“I’se hungry.”
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“So’m I,” answered the boy, fumbling at his
bundle; and then, timidly: “Will you eat with
me?”
“Yes,” she said, and watched him with eager
eyes.
Untying the strips of cloth, he opened his box,
and disclosed chicken and biscuits, ham and
corn-bread. She clapped her hands in glee.
“Is there any water near?” he asked.
Without a word, she bounded up and flitted off
like a brown bird, gleaming dull-golden in the
sun, glancing in and out among the trees, till
she paused above a tiny black pool, and then
came tripping and swaying back with hands
held cupwise and dripping with cool water.
“Drink,” she cried. Obediently he bent over the
little hands that seemed so soft and thin. He
took a deep draught; and then to drain the last
drop, his hands touched hers and the shock of
flesh first meeting flesh startled them both,
while the water rained through. A moment their
eyes looked deep into each other’s—a timid,
startled gleam in hers; a wonder in his. Then
she said dreamily:
“We’se known us all our lives, and—before, ain’t
we?”
He hesitated.
“Ye—es—I reckon,” he slowly returned. And
then, brightening, he asked gayly: “And we’ll be
friends always, won’t we?”
“Yes,” she said at last, slowly and solemnly, and
another brief moment they stood still.
Then the mischief danced in her eyes, and a
song bubbled on her lips. She hopped to the
tree.
“Come—eat!” she cried. And they nestled
together amid the big black roots of the oak,
laughing and talking while they ate.
“What’s over there?” he asked pointing
northward.
“Cresswell’s big house.”
“And yonder to the west?”
“The school.”
He started joyfully.
“The school! What school?”
“Old Miss’ School.”
“Miss Smith’s school?”
“Yes.” The tone was disdainful.
“Why, that’s where I’m going. I was a-feared it
was a long way off; I must have passed it in the
night.”
“I hate it!” cried the girl, her lips tense.
“But I’ll be so near,” he explained. “And why do
you hate it?”
“Yes—you’ll be near,” she admitted; “that’ll be
nice; but—” she glanced westward, and the
fierce look faded. Soft joy crept to her face
again, and she sat once more dreaming.
“Yon way’s nicest,” she said.
“Why, what’s there?”
“The swamp,” she said mysteriously.
“And what’s beyond the swamp?”
She crouched beside him and whispered in
eager, tense tones: “Dreams!”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“Dreams?” vaguely—“dreams? Why, dreams
ain’t—nothing.”
“Oh, yes they is!” she insisted, her eyes flaming
in misty radiance as she sat staring beyond the
shadows of the swamp. “Yes they is! There ain’t
nothing but dreams—that is, nothing much.
“And over yonder behind the swamps is great
fields full of dreams, piled high and burning;
and right amongst them the sun, when he’s
tired o’ night, whispers and drops red things,
‘cept when devils make ‘em black.”
The boy stared at her; he knew not whether to
jeer or wonder.
“How you know?” he asked at last, skeptically.
“Promise you won’t tell?”
“Yes,” he answered.
She cuddled into a little heap, nursing her
knees, and answered slowly.
“I goes there sometimes. I creeps in ‘mongst the
dreams; they hangs there like big flowers,
dripping dew and sugar and blood—red, red
blood. And there’s little fairies there that hop
about and sing, and devils—great, ugly devils
that grabs at you and roasts and eats you if they
gits you; but they don’t git me. Some devils is
big and white, like ha’nts; some is long and
shiny, like creepy, slippery snakes; and some is
little and broad and black, and they yells—”
The boy was listening in incredulous curiosity,
half minded to laugh, half minded to edge away
from the black-red radiance of yonder dusky
swamp. He glanced furtively backward, and his
heart gave a great bound.
“Some is little and broad and black, and they
yells—” chanted the girl. And as she chanted,
deep, harsh tones came booming through the
forest:
“Zo-ra! Zo-ra! O—o—oh, Zora!”
He saw far behind him, toward the shadows of
the swamp, an old woman—short, broad, black
and wrinkled, with fangs and pendulous lips
and red, wicked eyes. His heart bounded in
sudden fear; he wheeled toward the girl, and
caught only the uncertain flash of her
garments—the wood was silent, and he was
alone.
He arose, startled, quickly gathered his bundle,
and looked around him. The sun was strong and
high, the morning fresh and vigorous. Stamping
one foot angrily, he strode jauntily out of the
wood toward the big road.
But ever and anon he glanced curiously back.
Had he seen a haunt? Or was the elf-girl real?
And then he thought of her words:
“We’se known us all our lives.”
1. Which element has the most profound impact on the mood of the story?
a. setting2. Which literary element is employed in the following sentences?
b. plot
c. character development
d. point of view
The cabin crouched ragged and black at the edge of black waters. An old chimney leaned
drunkenly against it, raging with fire and smoke, while through the chinks winked red gleams
of warmth and wild cheer.
a. metaphor3. Read the sentence and then select, from the choices below, the word closest in meaning to the
b. oxymoron
c. personification
d. allusion
word in bold-faced type.
Hoarse staccato cries and peals of laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood there
peering through the black trees, abruptly the door flew open and a flood of light illumined the
wood.
a. easily fluent4. Read the sentence and select, from the choices below, the word closest in meaning to the
b. evenly smooth
c. soon hushed
d. cut short crisply
word in bold-faced type.
She sat not four feet from him, leaning against the great tree, her eyes now languorously
abstracted, now alert and quizzical with mischief.
a. lazily5. Describe the boy’s situation. What is he doing? Where is he going? How does he feel?
b. confidently
c. powerfully
d. dangerously
6. Describe the scene that the boy witnesses after he follows the sound of the music. Who is
there? What is the person doing?
7. How do you interpret the girl’s comment, “We’se known us all our lives, and—before, ain’t
we?” What is she implying?
8. Why do you think the strange girl hates the school?
9. Explain the description the girl supplies of the field of dreams.
10. Was the boy’s experience real or did he dream it? On what evidence or thoughts do you base
your response?
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF AN
EX-COLORED MAN
by James Weldon Johnson
I
I know that in writing the following pages I am
divulging the great secret of my life, the secret
which for some years I have guarded far more
carefully than any of my earthly possessions;
and it is a curious study to me to analyze the
motives which prompt me to do it. I feel that I
am led by the same impulse which forces the
un-found-out criminal to take somebody into his
confidence, although he knows that the act is
likely, even almost certain, to lead to his
undoing. I know that I am playing with fire, and
I feel the thrill which accompanies that most
fascinating pastime; and, back of it all, I think I
find a sort of savage and diabolical desire to
gather up all the little tragedies of my life, and
turn them into a practical joke on society.
And, too, I suffer a vague feeling of
unsatisfaction, of regret, of almost remorse,
from which I am seeking relief, and of which I
shall speak in the last paragraph of this
account.
I was born in a little town of Georgia a few
years after the close of the Civil War. I shall not
mention the name of the town, because there
are people still living there who could be
connected with this narrative. I have only a
faint recollection of the place of my birth. At
times I can close my eyes and call up in a
dreamlike way things that seem to have
happened ages ago in some other world. I can
see in this half vision a little house—I am quite
sure it was not a large one—I can remember
that flowers grew in the front yard, and that
around each bed of flowers was a hedge of varicolored
glass bottles stuck in the ground neck
down. I remember that once, while playing
around in the sand, I became curious to know
whether or not the bottles grew as the flowers
did, and I proceeded to dig them up to find out;
the investigation brought me a terrific
spanking, which indelibly fixed the incident in
my mind. I can remember, too, that behind the
house was a shed under which stood two or
three wooden wash-tubs. These tubs were the
earliest aversion of my life, for regularly on
certain evenings I was plunged into one of them
and scrubbed until my skin ached. I can
remember to this day the pain caused by the
strong, rank soap’s getting into my eyes.
Back from the house a vegetable garden ran,
perhaps seventy-five or one hundred feet; but to
my childish fancy it was an endless territory. I
can still recall the thrill of joy, excitement, and
wonder it gave me to go on an exploring
expedition through it, to find the blackberries,
both ripe and green, that grew along the edge of
the fence.
I remember with what pleasure I used to arrive
at, and stand before, a little enclosure in which
stood a patient cow chewing her cud, how I
would occasionally offer her through the bars a
piece of my bread and molasses, and how I
would jerk back my hand in half fright if she
made any motion to accept my offer.
I have a dim recollection of several people who
moved in and about this little house, but I have
a distinct mental image of only two: one, my
mother; and the other, a tall man with a small,
dark mustache. I remember that his shoes or
boots were always shiny, and that he wore a
gold chain and a great gold watch with which he
was always willing to let me play. My
admiration was almost equally divided between
the watch and chain and the shoes. He used to
come to the house evenings, perhaps two or
three times a week; and it became my
appointed duty whenever he came to bring him
a pair of slippers and to put the shiny shoes in
a particular corner; he often gave me in return
for this service a bright coin, which my mother
taught me to promptly drop in a little tin bank.
I remember distinctly the last time this tall
man came to the little house in Georgia; that
evening before I went to bed he took me up in
his arms and squeezed me very tightly; my
mother stood behind his chair wiping tears from
her eyes. I remember how I sat upon his knee
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and watched him laboriously drill a hole
through a ten-dollar gold piece, and then tie the
coin around my neck with a string. I have worn
that gold piece around my neck the greater part
of my life, and still possess it, but more than
once I have wished that some other way had
been found of attaching it to me besides putting
a hole through it.
On the day after the coin was put around my
neck my mother and I started on what seemed
to me an endless journey. I knelt on the seat and
watched through the train window the corn and
cotton fields pass swiftly by until I fell asleep.
When I fully awoke, we were being driven
through the streets of a large city—Savannah. I
sat up and blinked at the bright lights. At
Savannah we boarded a steamer which finally
landed us in New York. From New York we went
to a town in Connecticut, which became the
home of my boyhood.
My mother and I lived together in a little
cottage which seemed to me to be fitted up
almost luxuriously; there were horse-haircovered
chairs in the parlor, and a little square
piano; there was a stairway with red carpet on
it leading to a half second story; there were
pictures on the walls, and a few books in a
glass-doored case. My mother dressed me very
neatly, and I developed that pride which welldressed
boys generally have. She was careful
about my associates, and I myself was quite
particular. As I look back now I can see that I
was a perfect little aristocrat. My mother rarely
went to anyone’s house, but she did sewing, and
there were a great many ladies coming to our
cottage. If I was around they would generally
call me, and ask me my name and age and tell
my mother what a pretty boy I was. Some of
them would pat me on the head and kiss me.
My mother was kept very busy with her sewing;
sometimes she would have another woman
helping her. I think she must have derived a
fair income from her work. I know, too, that at
least once each month she received a letter; I
used to watch for the postman, get the letter,
and run to her with it; whether she was busy or
not, she would take it and instantly thrust it
into her bosom. I never saw her read one of
these letters. I knew later that they contained
money and what was to her more than money.
As busy as she generally was, she found time,
however, to teach me my letters and figures and
how to spell a number of easy words. Always on
Sunday evenings she opened the little square
piano and picked out hymns. I can recall now
that whenever she played hymns from the book
her tempo was always decidedly largo.
Sometimes on other evenings, when she was
not sewing, she would play simple
accompaniments to some old Southern songs
which she sang. In these songs she was freer,
because she played them by ear. Those evenings
on which she opened the little piano were the
happiest hours of my childhood. Whenever she
started toward the instrument, I used to follow
her with all the interest and irrepressible joy
that a pampered pet dog shows when a package
is opened in which he knows there is a sweet bit
for him. I used to stand by her side and often
interrupt and annoy her by chiming in with
strange harmonies which I found on either the
high keys of the treble or the low keys of the
bass. I remember that I had a particular
fondness for the black keys. Always on such
evenings, when the music was over, my mother
would sit with me in her arms, often for a very
long time. She would hold me close, softly
crooning some old melody without words, all the
while gently stroking her face against my head;
many and many a night I thus fell asleep. I can
see her now, her great dark eyes looking into
the fire, to where? No one knew but her. The
memory of that picture has more than once kept
me from straying too far from the place of
purity and safety in which her arms held me.
At a very early age I began to thump on the piano
alone, and it was not long before I was able to
pick out a few tunes. When I was seven years old,
I could play by ear all of the hymns and songs
that my mother knew. I had also learned the
names of the notes in both clefs, but I preferred
not to be hampered by notes. About this time
several ladies for whom my mother sewed heard
me play and they persuaded her that I should at
once be put under a teacher; so arrangements
were made for me to study the piano with a lady
who was a fairly good musician; at the same time
arrangements were made for me to study my
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books with this lady’s daughter. My music
teacher had no small difficulty at first in pinning
me down to the notes. If she played my lesson
over for me, I invariably attempted to reproduce
the required sounds without the slightest
recourse to the written characters. Her daughter,
my other teacher, also had her worries. She
found that, in reading, whenever I came to words
that were difficult or unfamiliar, I was prone to
bring my imagination to the rescue and read
from the picture. She has laughingly told me,
since then, that I would sometimes substitute
whole sentences and even paragraphs from what
meaning I thought the illustrations conveyed.
She said she not only was sometimes amused at
the fresh treatment I would give an author’s
subject, but, when I gave some new and sudden
turn to the plot of the story, often grew interested
and even excited in listening to hear what kind
of a denouement I would bring about. But I am
sure this was not due to dullness, for I made
rapid progress in both my music and my books.
And so for a couple of years my life was divided
between my music and my school books. Music
took up the greater part of my time. I had no
playmates, but amused myself with games—
some of them my own invention—which could
be played alone. I knew a few boys whom I had
met at the church which I attended with my
mother, but I had formed no close friendships
with any of them. Then, when I was nine years
old, my mother decided to enter me in the public
school, so all at once I found myself thrown
among a crowd of boys of all sizes and kinds;
some of them seemed to me like savages. I shall
never forget the bewilderment, the pain, the
heart-sickness, of that first day at school. I
seemed to be the only stranger in the place;
every other boy seemed to know every other boy.
I was fortunate enough, however, to be assigned
to a teacher who knew me; my mother made her
dresses. She was one of the ladies who used to
pat me on the head and kiss me. She had the
tact to address a few words directly to me; this
gave me a certain sort of standing in the class
and put me somewhat at ease.
Within a few days I had made one staunch
friend and was on fairly good terms with most
of the boys. I was shy of the girls, and remained
so; even now a word or look from a pretty
woman sets me all a-tremble. This friend I
bound to me with hooks of steel in a very simple
way. He was a big awkward boy with a face full
of freckles and a head full of very red hair. He
was perhaps fourteen years of age; that is, four
or five years older than any other boy in the
class. This seniority was due to the fact that he
had spent twice the required amount of time in
several of the preceding classes. I had not been
at school many hours before I felt that “Red
Head”—as I involuntarily called him—and I
were to be friends. I do not doubt that this
feeling was strengthened by the fact that I had
been quick enough to see that a big, strong boy
was a friend to be desired at a public school;
and, perhaps, in spite of his dullness, “Red
Head” had been able to discern that I could be
of service to him. At any rate there was a
simultaneous mutual attraction.
The teacher had strung the class promiscuously
around the walls of the room for a sort of trial
heat for places of rank; when the line was
straightened out, I found that by skillful
maneuvering I had placed myself third and had
piloted “Red Head” to the place next to me. The
teacher began by giving us to spell the words
corresponding to our order in the line. “Spell
first.” “Spell second.” “Spell third.”
I rattled off: “T-h-i-r-d, third,” in a way which
said: “Why don’t you give us something hard?”
As the words went down the line, I could see
how lucky I had been to get a good place
together with an easy word. As young as I was,
I felt impressed with the unfairness of the
whole proceeding when I saw the tailenders
going down before twelfth and twentieth, and I
felt sorry for those who had to spell such words
in order to hold a low position.
“Spell fourth.” “Red Head,” with his hands
clutched tightly behind his back, began bravely:
“F-o-r-t-h.”
Like a flash a score of hands went up, and the
teacher began saying: “No snapping of fingers,
no snapping of fingers.”
This was the first word missed, and it seemed to
me that some of the scholars were about to lose
their senses; some were dancing up and down
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on one foot with a hand above their heads, the
fingers working furiously, and joy beaming all
over their faces; others stood still, their hands
raised not so high, their fingers working less
rapidly, and their faces expressing not quite so
much happiness; there were still others who did
not move or raise their hands, but stood with
great wrinkles on their foreheads, looking very
thoughtful.
The whole thing was new to me, and I did not
raise my hand, but slyly whispered the letter “u”
to “Red Head” several times.
“Second chance,” said the teacher. The hands
went down and the class became quiet.
“Red Head,” his face now red, after looking
beseechingly at the ceiling, then pitiably at the
floor, began very haltingly: “F-u—” Immediately
an impulse to raise hands went through the
class, but the teacher checked it, and poor “Red
Head,” though he knew that each letter he
added only took him farther out of the way, went
doggedly on and finished: “—r-t-h.”
The hand-raising was now repeated with more
hubbub and excitement than at first. Those who
before had not moved a finger were now waving
their hands above their heads. “Red Head” felt
that he was lost. He looked very big and foolish,
and some of the scholars began to snicker. His
helpless condition went straight to my heart,
and gripped my sympathies. I felt that if he
failed, it would in some way be my failure. I
raised my hand, and, under cover of the
excitement and the teacher’s attempts to regain
order, I hurriedly shot up into his ear twice,
quite distinctly: “F-o-u-r-t-h, f-o-u-r-t-h.”
The teacher tapped on her desk and said: “Third
and last chance.”
The hands came down, the silence became
oppressive. “Red Head” began: “F—” Since that
day I have waited anxiously for many a turn of
the wheel of fortune, but never under greater
tension than when I watched for the order in
which those letters would fall from “Red’s” lips—
“o-u-r-t-h.” A sigh of relief and disappointment
went up from the class.
Afterwards, through all our school days, “Red
Head” shared my wit and quickness and I
benefited by his strength and dogged
faithfulness.
There were some black and brown boys and
girls in the school, and several of them were in
my class. One of the boys strongly attracted my
attention from the first day I saw him. His face
was as black as night, but shone as though it
were polished; he had sparkling eyes, and when
he opened his mouth, he displayed glistening
white teeth. It struck me at once as appropriate
to call him “Shiny Face,” or “Shiny Eyes,” or
“Shiny Teeth,” and I spoke of him often by one
of these names to the other boys. These terms
were finally merged into “Shiny,” and to that
name he answered good-naturedly during the
balance of his public school days.
“Shiny” was considered without question to be
the best speller, the best reader, the best
penman—in a word, the best scholar, in the
class. He was very quick to catch anything, but,
nevertheless, studied hard; thus he possessed
two powers very rarely combined in one boy. I
saw him year after year, on up into the high
school, win the majority of the prizes for
punctuality, deportment, essay writing, and
declamation. Yet it did not take me long to
discover that, in spite of his standing as a
scholar, he was in some way looked down upon.
The other black boys and girls were still more
looked down upon. Some of the boys often spoke
of them as “niggers.” Sometimes on the way
home from school a crowd would walk behind
them repeating:
“Nigger, nigger, never die, Black face and shiny
eye.”
On one such afternoon one of the black boys
turned suddenly on his tormentors and hurled a
slate; it struck one of the white boys in the
mouth, cutting a slight gash in his lip. At sight
of the blood the boy who had thrown the slate
ran, and his companions quickly followed. We
ran after them pelting them with stones until
they separated in several directions. I was very
much wrought up over the affair, and went
139 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
home and told my mother how one of the
“niggers” had struck a boy with a slate. I shall
never forget how she turned on me. “Don’t you
ever use that word again,” she said, “and don’t
you ever bother the colored children at school.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” I did hang
my head in shame, not because she had
convinced me that I had done wrong, but
because I was hurt by the first sharp word she
had ever given me.
My school days ran along very pleasantly. I
stood well in my studies, not always so well
with regard to my behavior. I was never guilty
of any serious misconduct, but my love of fun
sometimes got me into trouble. I remember,
however, that my sense of humor was so sly
that most of the trouble usually fell on the head
of the other fellow. My ability to play on the
piano at school exercises was looked upon as
little short of marvelous in a boy of my age. I
was not chummy with many of my mates, but,
on the whole, was about as popular as it is good
for a boy to be.
One day near the end of my second term at
school the principal came into our room and,
after talking to the teacher, for some reason
said: “I wish all of the white scholars to stand
for a moment.”
I rose with the others. The teacher looked at me
and, calling my name, said: “You sit down for
the present, and rise with the others.”
I did not quite understand her, and questioned:
“Ma’m?”
She repeated, with a softer tone in her voice:
“You sit down now, and rise with the others.”
I sat down dazed. I saw and heard nothing.
When the others were asked to rise, I did not
know it. When school was dismissed, I went out
in a kind of stupor.
A few of the white boys jeered me, saying: “Oh,
you’re a nigger too.”
I heard some black children say: “We knew he
was colored.”
“Shiny” said to them: “Come along, don’t tease
him,” and thereby won my undying gratitude.
I hurried on as fast as I could, and had gone
some distance before I perceived that “Red
Head” was walking by my side. After a while he
said to me: “Le’ me carry your books.”
I gave him my strap without being able to
answer. When we got to my gate, he said as he
handed me my books: “Say, you know my big
red agate? I can’t shoot with it any more. I’m
going to bring it to school for you tomorrow.”
I took my books and ran into the house. As I
passed through the hallway, I saw that my
mother was busy with one of her customers; I
rushed up into my own little room, shut the
door, and went quickly to where my lookingglass
hung on the wall. For an instant I was
afraid to look, but when I did, I looked long and
earnestly. I had often heard people say to my
mother: “What a pretty boy you have!” I was
accustomed to hear remarks about my beauty;
but now, for the first time, I became conscious of
it and recognized it. I noticed the ivory
whiteness of my skin, the beauty of my mouth,
the size and liquid darkness of my eyes, and
how the long, black lashes that fringed and
shaded them produced an effect that was
strangely fascinating even to me. I noticed the
softness and glossiness of my dark hair that fell
in waves over my temples, making my forehead
appear whiter than it really was. How long I
stood there gazing at my image I do not know.
When I came out and reached the head of the
stairs, I heard the lady who had been with my
mother going out. I ran downstairs and rushed
to where my mother was sitting, with a piece of
work in her hands. I buried my head in her lap
and blurted out: “Mother, mother, tell me, am I
a nigger?”
I could not see her face, but I knew the piece of
work dropped to the floor and I felt her hands
on my head. I looked up into her face and
repeated: “Tell me, mother, am I a nigger?”
There were tears in her eyes and I could see
that she was suffering for me. And then it was
that I looked at her critically for the first time.
I had thought of her in a childish way only as
the most beautiful woman in the world; now I
looked at her searching for defects. I could see
that her skin was almost brown, that her hair
was not so soft as mine, and that she did differ
in some way from the other ladies who came to
the house; yet, even so, I could see that she was
very beautiful, more beautiful than any of
them.
She must have felt that I was examining her,
for she hid her face in my hair and said with
difficulty: “No, my darling, you are not a
nigger.” She went on: “You are as good as
anybody; if anyone calls you a nigger, don’t
notice them.”
But the more she talked, the less was I
reassured, and I stopped her by asking: “Well,
mother, am I white? Are you white?”
She answered tremblingly: “No, I am not white,
but you—your father is one of the greatest men
in the country—the best blood of the South is in
you—”
This suddenly opened up in my heart a fresh
chasm of misgiving and fear, and I almost
fiercely demanded: “Who is my father? Where is
he?”
She stroked my hair and said: “I’ll tell you
about him some day.”
I sobbed: “I want to know now.”
She answered: “No, not now.”
Perhaps it had to be done, but I have never
forgiven the woman who did it so cruelly. It may
be that she never knew that she gave me a
sword-thrust that day in school which was
years in healing.
1. The item given to the narrator when he was a little boy was a
a. bicycle.b. Bible.c. gold coin.d. silver whistle.
2. Read the sentence and select, from the choices below, the word closest in meaning to the
word in bold-faced type.
She said she not only was sometimes amused at the fresh treatment I would give an author’s
subject, but, when I gave some new and sudden turn to the plot of the story, often grew
interested and even excited in listening to hear what kind of a denouement I would bring
about.
a. conflictb. resolutionc. climaxd. calamity
3. Early in his school career, the narrator learns, unknowingly, about the ugly concept of
a. gluttony.b. dishonesty.c. selfishnessd. intolerance.
4. Describe the house the narrator remembers from his time in Georgia.
5. What can you deduce about the narrator’s childhood? Was it a happy one? Give examples
from the story to support your response.
6. What helped to spur the relationship between the narrator and “Red Head” at school? In
other words, how was it a mutually beneficial one?
7. Discuss the narrator’s statement:
Since that day I have waited anxiously for many a turn of the wheel of fortune, but never
under greater tension than when I watched for the order in which those letters would fall from
“Red’s” lips—“o-u-r-t-h.”
What sentiment or emotion was he feeling? What does this tell you about him?
8. What small message is the author trying to send when he has the narrator describe himself
as being “about as popular as it is good for a boy to be . . . ”?
9. At the end of the passage, the boy realizes that his mother is black and that he is the product
of a racially-mixed union. Suddenly, he is faced with issues and concerns he has never
entertained before. Why is this revelation so painful to him? Will it change the person he is?
Will it change the way others treat him? Is this fair?
THE WIFE OF
HIS YOUTH
by Charles Waddell Chesnutt
I
Mr. Ryder was going to give a ball. There were
several reasons why this was an opportune time
for such an event.
Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean of the
Blue Veins. The original Blue Veins were a little
society of colored persons organized in a certain
Northern city shortly after the war. Its purpose
was to establish and maintain correct social
standards among a people whose social
condition presented almost unlimited room for
improvement. By accident, combined perhaps
with some natural affinity, the society consisted
of individuals who were, generally speaking,
more white than black. Some envious outsider
made the suggestion that no one was eligible for
membership who was not white enough to show
blue veins. The suggestion was readily adopted
by those who were not of the favored few, and
since that time the society, though possessing a
longer and more pretentious name, had been
known far and wide as the “Blue Vein Society,”
and its members as the “Blue Veins.”
The Blue Veins did not allow that any such
requirement existed for admission to their
circle, but, on the contrary, declared that
character and culture were the only things
considered; and that if most of their members
were light-colored, it was because such persons,
as a rule, had had better opportunities to
qualify themselves for membership. Opinions
differed, too, as to the usefulness of the society.
There were those who had been known to assail
it violently as a glaring example of the very
prejudice from which the colored race had
suffered most; and later, when such critics had
succeeded in getting on the inside, they had
been heard to maintain with zeal and
earnestness that the society was a lifeboat, an
anchor, a bulwark and a shield,—a pillar of
cloud by day and of fire by night, to guide their
people through the social wilderness. Another
alleged prerequisite for Blue Vein membership
was that of free birth; and while there was
really no such requirement, it is doubtless true
that very few of the members would have been
unable to meet it if there had been. If there
were one or two of the older members who had
come up from the South and from slavery, their
history presented enough romantic
circumstances to rob their servile origin of its
grosser aspects.
While there were no such tests of eligibility, it is
true that the Blue Veins had their notions on
these subjects, and that not all of them were
equally liberal in regard to the things they
collectively disclaimed. Mr. Ryder was one of
the most conservative. Though he had not been
among the founders of the society, but had come
in some years later, his genius for social
leadership was such that he had speedily
become its recognized adviser and head, the
custodian of its standards, and the preserver of
its traditions. He shaped its social policy, was
active in providing for its entertainment, and
when the interest fell off, as it sometimes did,
he fanned the embers until they burst again
into a cheerful flame.
There were still other reasons for his
popularity. While he was not as white as some
of the Blue Veins, his appearance was such as to
confer distinction upon them. His features were
of a refined type, his hair was almost straight;
he was always neatly dressed; his manners
were irreproachable, and his morals above
suspicion. He had come to Groveland a young
man, and obtaining employment in the office of
a railroad company as messenger had in time
worked himself up to the position of stationery
clerk, having charge of the distribution of the
office supplies for the whole company. Although
the lack of early training had hindered the
orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it
had not prevented him from doing a great deal
of reading or from forming decidedly literary
tastes. Poetry was his passion. He could repeat
whole pages of the great English poets; and if
his pronunciation was sometimes faulty, his
eye, his voice, his gestures, would respond to
the changing sentiment with a precision that
revealed a poetic soul and disarmed criticism.
He was economical, and had saved money; he
owned and occupied a very comfortable house
on a respectable street. His residence was
handsomely furnished, containing among other
things a good library, especially rich in poetry, a
piano, and some choice engravings. He
generally shared his house with some young
couple, who looked after his wants and were
company for him; for Mr. Ryder was a single
man. In the early days of his connection with
the Blue Veins he had been regarded as quite a
catch, and young ladies and their mothers had
manoeuvred with much ingenuity to capture
him. Not, however, until Mrs. Molly Dixon
visited Groveland had any woman ever made
him wish to change his condition to that of a
married man.
Mrs. Dixon had come to Groveland from
Washington in the spring, and before the
summer was over she had won Mr. Ryder’s
heart. She possessed many attractive qualities.
She was much younger than he; in fact, he was
old enough to have been her father, though no
one knew exactly how old he was. She was
whiter than he, and better educated. She had
moved in the best colored society of the country,
at Washington, and had taught in the schools of
that city. Such a superior person had been
eagerly welcomed to the Blue Vein Society, and
had taken a leading part in its activities. Mr.
Ryder had at first been attracted by her charms
of person, for she was very good looking and not
over twenty-five; then by her refined manners
and the vivacity of her wit. Her husband had
been a government clerk, and at his death had
left a considerable life insurance. She was
visiting friends in Groveland, and, finding the
town and the people to her liking, had
prolonged her stay indefinitely. She had not
seemed displeased at Mr. Ryder’s attentions,
but on the contrary had given him every proper
encouragement; indeed, a younger and less
cautious man would long since have spoken.
But he had made up his mind, and had only to
determine the time when he would ask her to be
his wife. He decided to give a ball in her honor,
and at some time during the evening of the ball
to offer her his heart and hand. He had no
special fears about the outcome, but, with a
little touch of romance, he wanted the
surroundings to be in harmony with his own
feelings when he should have received the
answer he expected.
Mr. Ryder resolved that this ball should mark
an epoch in the social history of Groveland. He
knew, of course,—no one could know better,—
the entertainments that had taken place in past
years, and what must be done to surpass them.
His ball must be worthy of the lady in whose
honor it was to be given, and must, by the
quality of its guests, set an example for the
future. He had observed of late a growing
liberality, almost a laxity, in social matters,
even among members of his own set, and had
several times been forced to meet in a social
way persons whose complexions and callings in
life were hardly up to the standard which he
considered proper for the society to maintain.
He had a theory of his own.
“I have no race prejudice,” he would say, “but we
people of mixed blood are ground between the
upper and the nether millstone. Our fate lies
between absorption by the white race and
extinction in the black. The one doesn’t want us
yet, but may take us in time. The other would
welcome us, but it would be for us a backward
step. ‘With malice towards none, with charity
for all,’ we must do the best we can for ourselves
and those who are to follow us. Selfpreservation
is the first law of nature.”
His ball would serve by its exclusiveness to
counteract leveling tendencies, and his
marriage with Mrs. Dixon would help to further
the upward process of absorption he had been
wishing and waiting for.
II
The ball was to take place on Friday night. The
house had been put in order, the carpets covered
with canvas, the halls and stairs decorated with
palms and potted plants; and in the afternoon
Mr. Ryder sat on his front porch, which the shade
of a vine running up over a wire netting made a
cool and pleasant lounging place. He expected to
respond to the toast “The Ladies” at the supper,
and from a volume of Tennyson—his favorite
poet—was fortifying himself with apt quotations.
The volume was open at “A Dream of Fair
Women.” His eyes fell on these lines, and he read
them aloud to judge better of their effect:——
“At length I saw a lady within call
Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing
there;
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.”
He marked the verse, and turning the page read
the stanza beginning,——
“O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret.”
He weighed the passage a moment, and decided
that it would not do. Mrs. Dixon was the palest
lady he expected at the ball, and she was of a
rather ruddy complexion, and of lively
disposition and buxom build. So he ran over the
leaves until his eye rested on the description of
Queen Guinevere:——
“She seem’d a part of joyous Spring;
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before;
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
Closed in a golden ring.
* * * * *
“She look’d so lovely, as she sway’d The rein
with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all
other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her
perfect lips.”
As Mr. Ryder murmured these words audibly,
with an appreciative thrill, he heard the latch of
his gate click, and a light footfall sounding on
the steps. He turned his head, and saw a
woman standing before his door.
She was a little woman, not five feet tall, and
proportioned to her height. Although she stood
erect, and looked around her with very bright
and restless eyes, she seemed quite old; for her
face was crossed and recrossed with a hundred
wrinkles, and around the edges of her bonnet
could be seen protruding here and there a tuft
of short gray wool. She wore a blue calico gown
of ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened
around her shoulders with an old-fashioned
brass brooch, and a large bonnet profusely
ornamented with faded red and yellow artificial
flowers. And she was very black,—so black that
her toothless gums, revealed when she opened
her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue. She
looked like a bit of the old plantation life,
summoned up from the past by the wave of a
magician’s wand, as the poet’s fancy had called
into being the gracious shapes of which Mr.
Ryder had just been reading.
He rose from his chair and came over to where
she stood.
“Good-afternoon, madam,” he said.
“Good-evenin’, suh,” she answered, ducking
suddenly with a quaint curtsy. Her voice was
shrill and piping, but softened somewhat by
age. “Is dis yere whar Mistuh Ryduh lib, suh?”
she asked, looking around her doubtfully, and
glancing into the open windows, through which
some of the preparations for the evening were
visible.
“Yes,” he replied, with an air of kindly
patronage, unconsciously flattered by her
manner, “I am Mr. Ryder. Did you want to see
me?”
“Yas, suh, ef I ain’t ‘sturbin’ of you too much.”
“Not at all. Have a seat over here behind the
vine, where it is cool. What can I do for you?”
“ ‘Scuse me, suh,” she continued, when she had
sat down on the edge of a chair, “ ‘scuse me, suh,
I ‘s lookin’ for my husban’. I heerd you wuz a big
man an’ had libbed heah a long time, an’ I
‘lowed you would n’t min’ ef I ‘d come roun’ an’
ax you ef you ‘d ever heerd of a merlatter man
by de name er Sam Taylor ‘quirin’ roun’ in de
chu’ches ermongs’ de people fer his wife ‘Liza
Jane?”
Mr. Ryder seemed to think for a moment.
“There used to be many such cases right after
the war,” he said, “but it has been so long that I
have forgotten them. There are very few now.
But tell me your story, and it may refresh my
memory.”
She sat back farther in her chair so as to be
more comfortable, and folded her withered
hands in her lap.
“My name ‘s ‘Liza,” she began, “ ‘Liza Jane.
W’en I wuz young I us’ter b’long ter Marse Bob
Smif, down in ole Missoura. I wuz bawn down
dere. Wen I wuz a gal I wuz married ter a man
named Jim. But Jim died, an’ after dat I
married a merlatter man named Sam Taylor.
Sam wuz free-bawn, but his mammy and daddy
died, an’ de w’ite folks ‘prenticed him ter my
marster fer ter work fer ‘im ‘tel he wuz growed
up. Sam worked in de fiel’, an’ I wuz de cook.
One day Ma’y Ann, ole miss’s maid, came
rushin’ out ter de kitchen, an’ says she, ‘’Liza
Jane, ole marse gwine sell yo’ Sam down de
ribber.’
“ ‘Go way f’m yere,’ says I; ‘my husban’ ‘s free!’
“ ‘Don’ make no diff’ence. I heerd ole marse tell
ole miss he wuz gwine take yo’ Sam ‘way wid ‘im
ter-morrow, fer he needed money, an’ he knowed
whar he could git a t’ousan’ dollars fer Sam an’
no questions axed.’
“W’en Sam come home f’m de fiel’ dat night, I
tole him ‘bout ole marse gwine steal ‘im, an’
Sam run erway. His time wuz mos’ up, an’ he
swo’ dat w’en he wuz twenty-one he would come
back an’ he’p me run erway, er else save up de
money ter buy my freedom. An’ I know he ‘d ‘a’
done it, fer he thought a heap er me, Sam did.
But w’en he come back he didn’ fin’ me, fer I
wuzn’ dere. Ole marse had heerd dat I warned
Sam, so he had me whip’ an’ sol’ down de ribber.
“Den de wah broke out, an’ w’en it wuz ober de
cullud folks wuz scattered. I went back ter de
ole home; but Sam wuzn’ dere, an’ I could n’
l’arn nuffin’ ‘bout ‘im. But I knowed he ‘d be’n
dere to look fer me an’ had n’ foun’ me, an’ had
gone erway ter hunt fer me.
“I ‘s be’n lookin’ fer ‘im eber sence,” she added
simply, as though twenty-five years were but a
couple of weeks, “an’ I knows he ‘s be’n lookin’
fer me. Fer he sot a heap er sto’ by me, Sam did,
an’ I know he ‘s be’n huntin’ fer me all dese
years,—’less’n he ‘s be’n sick er sump’n, so he
could n’ work, er out’n his head, so he could n’
‘member his promise. I went back down de
ribber, fer I ‘lowed he ‘d gone down dere lookin’
fer me. I ‘s be’n ter Noo Orleens, an’ Atlanty, an’
Charleston, an’ Richmon’; an’ w’en I ‘d be’n all
ober de Souf I come ter de Norf. Fer I knows I ‘ll
fin’ ‘im some er dese days,” she added softly, “er
he ‘ll fin’ me, an’ den we ‘ll bofe be as happy in
freedom as we wuz in de ole days befo’ de wah.”
A smile stole over her withered countenance as
she paused a moment, and her bright eyes
softened into a far-away look.
This was the substance of the old woman’s
story. She had wandered a little here and there.
Mr. Ryder was looking at her curiously when
she finished.
“How have you lived all these years?” he asked.
“Cookin’, suh. I ‘s a good cook. Does you know
anybody w’at needs a good cook, suh? I ‘s
stoppin’ wid a cullud fam’ly roun’ de corner
yonder ‘tel I kin git a place.”
“Do you really expect to find your husband? He
may be dead long ago.”
She shook her head emphatically. “Oh no, he
ain’ dead. De signs an’ de tokens tells me. I
dremp three nights runnin’ on’y dis las’ week
dat I foun’ him.”
“He may have married another woman. Your
slave marriage would not have prevented him,
for you never lived with him after the war, and
without that your marriage does n’t count.”
“Would n’ make no diff’ence wid Sam. He would
n’ marry no yuther ‘ooman ‘tel he foun’ out ‘bout
me. I knows it,” she added. “Sump’n ‘s be’n
tellin’ me all dese years dat I ‘s gwine fin’ Sam
‘fo’ I dies.”
“Perhaps he ’s outgrown you, and climbed up in
the world where he would n’t care to have you
find him.”
“No, indeed, suh,” she replied, “Sam ain’ dat kin’
er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam wuz, but he
wuz n’ much good ter nobody e’se, fer he wuz
one er de triflin’es’ han’s on de plantation. I
‘spec’s ter haf ter suppo’t ‘im w’en I fin’ ‘im, fer
he nebber would work ‘less’n he had ter. But
den he wuz free, an’ he did n’ git no pay fer his
work, an’ I don’ blame ‘im much. Mebbe he ‘s
done better sence he run erway, but I ain’
‘spectin’ much.”
“You may have passed him on the street a
hundred times during the twenty-five years,
and not have known him; time works great
changes.”
She smiled incredulously. “I ‘d know ‘im ‘mongs’
a hund’ed men. Fer dey wuz n’ no yuther
merlatter man like my man Sam, an’ I could n’
be mistook. I ‘s toted his picture roun’ wid me
twenty-five years.”
“May I see it?” asked Mr. Ryder. “It might help
me to remember whether I have seen the
original.”
As she drew a small parcel from her bosom he
saw that it was fastened to a string that went
around her neck. Removing several wrappers,
she brought to light an old-fashioned
daguerreotype in a black case. He looked long
and intently at the portrait. It was faded with
time, but the features were still distinct, and it
was easy to see what manner of man it had
represented.
He closed the case, and with a slow movement
handed it back to her.
“I don’t know of any man in town who goes by
that name,” he said, “nor have I heard of any
one making such inquiries. But if you will leave
me your address, I will give the matter some
attention, and if I find out anything I will let
you know.”
She gave him the number of a house in the
neighborhood, and went away, after thanking
him warmly.
He wrote the address on the fly-leaf of the
volume of Tennyson, and, when she had gone,
rose to his feet and stood looking after her
curiously. As she walked down the street with
mincing step, he saw several persons whom she
passed turn and look back at her with a smile of
kindly amusement. When she had turned the
corner, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and
stood for a long time before the mirror of his
dressing-case, gazing thoughtfully at the
reflection of his own face.
1. The purpose of the group known as the Blue Veins was to
a. promote the segregation of blacks and whites in public education.b. establish and maintain correct social standards among a group whose social conditioncould only improve.c. ensure gender and racial equality nationwide.d. establish and maintain legal rights among the black population.
2. According to the members of the society, what were the only two requirements for
membership?
a. character and cultureb. character and intelligencec. culture and civic involvementd. royal heritage and ambition
3. Explain why Mr. Ryder was such a popular adviser of the Blue Veins. Make certain to
mention at least three definite attributes.
4. Who is Molly Dixon? How does she become a part of Mr. Ryder’s life?
5. Discuss Mr. Ryder’s own personal theory of society.
6. Describe the woman who comes to visit Mr. Ryder. What is the purpose of her visit?
Summarize her story.
7. Mr. Ryder says to Liza, “Perhaps he ’s outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he
would n’t care to have you find him.” Why does he say this? What might you infer from his
comment? Consider the title of the story when responding to this question.
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