Miss Smith bent forward—not a beautiful
pose, but earnest.
“I want you to count, and I want to count, too;
but I don’t want us to be the only ones that
count. I want to live in a world where every soul
counts—white, black, and yellow—all.
That’s what I’m teaching these
children here—to count, and not to be like
dumb, driven cattle. If you don’t believe
in this, of course you cannot help us.”
“Your spirit is admirable, Miss Smith,”
she had said very softly; “I only wish I could
feel as you do. Good-afternoon,” and she
had rustled gently down the narrow stairs, leaving
an all but imperceptible suggestion of perfume.
Miss Smith could smell it yet as she went down this
morning.
The breakfast bell jangled. “Five thousand
dollars,” she kept repeating to herself, greeting
the teachers absently—“five thousand
dollars.” And then on the porch she was
suddenly aware of the awaiting boy. She eyed
him critically: black, fifteen, country-bred,
strong, clear-eyed.
“Well?” she asked in that brusque manner
wherewith her natural timidity was wont to mask her
kindness. “Well, sir?”
“I’ve come to school.”
“Humph—we can’t teach boys
for nothing.”
The boy straightened. “I can pay my way,”
he returned.
“You mean you can pay what we ask?”
“Why, yes. Ain’t that all?”
“No. The rest is gathered from the crumbs
of Dives’ table.”
Then he saw the twinkle in her eyes. She laid
her hand gently upon his shoulder.
“If you don’t hurry you’ll be late
to breakfast,” she said with an air of confidence.
“See those boys over there? Follow them,
and at noon come to the office—wait!
What’s your name?”
“Blessed Alwyn,” he answered, and the
passing teachers smiled.
Three
Miss Mary Taylor did not take a college course for
the purpose of teaching Negroes. Not that she
objected to Negroes as human beings—quite
the contrary. In the debate between the senior
societies her defence of the Fifteenth Amendment had
been not only a notable bit of reasoning, but delivered
with real enthusiasm. Nevertheless, when the
end of the summer came and the only opening facing
her was the teaching of children at Miss Smith’s
experiment in the Alabama swamps, it must be frankly
confessed that Miss Taylor was disappointed.
Her dream had been a post-graduate course at Bryn
Mawr; but that was out of the question until money
was earned. She had pictured herself earning
this by teaching one or two of her “specialties”
in some private school near New York or Boston, or
even in a Western college. The South she had
not thought of seriously; and yet, knowing of its delightful
hospitality and mild climate, she was not averse to
Charleston or New Orleans. But from the offer
that came to teach Negroes—country Negroes,
and little ones at that—she shrank, and,
indeed, probably would have refused it out of hand
had it not been for her queer brother, John. John
Taylor, who had supported her through college, was
interested in cotton. Having certain schemes
in mind, he had been struck by the fact that the Smith
School was in the midst of the Alabama cotton-belt.
