A “striker”?  Yes! 
     But he struck the insurgent
     And raised the flag.

     An ingrate? 
     Treacherous? 
     A violator? 
     When—­oh, spectacle that moved the world! 
     For five bloody years
     Of fratricidal strife—­
     Red days when brothers warred—­
     He fed the babe,
     Shielded the mother. 
     Guarded the doorsill
     Of a million southern homes?

     Penniless when freedom came?  Most true;
     But his accumulations of fifty years
     Could finance a group of principalities.

     Homeless?  Yes; but the cabin and the hut
     Of Lincoln’s day—­uncover at that name!—­
     Are memories; the mansion of today,
     Dowered with culture and refinement,
     Sweetened by clean lives,
     Is a fact.

     Unlettered?  Yes;
     But the alumni of his schools,
     Triumphant over the handicap
     Of “previous condition,”
     Are to be found the world over
     In every assemblage inspired
     By the democracy of letters.

     In the casting up what appears? 
     The progeny of lust and helplessness,
     He inherited a mottled soul—­
     “Damned spots” that biased the looker on.

     Clothed a freeman,
     Turned loose in the land
     Creditless, without experience,
     He often stumbled, the way being strange,
     Sometimes fell.

Mocked, sneered at from every angle, spurned, hindered in every section, North, south, east, west, Refused the most primitive rights, His slightest mistakes Made mountains of, Hunted, burned, hanged, The death rattle in his throat Drowned by shouts and laughter And—­think of it!—­ The glee of little children.  Still he pressed on, wrought, Sowed, reaped, builded.

     His smile ever ready,
     His perplexed soul lighted
     With the radiance
     Of an unquenchable optimism,
     God’s presence visualized,
     He has risen, step by step. 
     To the majesty of the home builder,
     Useful citizen,
     Student, teacher,
     Unwavering patriot.

     This of the Other Fellow. 
     What of you, his judges and his patrons?

     If it has been your wont
     In your treatment of him
     Not to reflect,
     Or to stand by in idle unconcern
     While, panting on his belly,
     Ambushed by booted ruffianism,
     He lapped in sublime resignation
     The bitter waters
     Of unreasoning intolerance,
     Has not the hour of his deliverance,
     Of your escape from your “other selves”
     Struck?

     If you have erred,
     Will you refuse to know it?

     Has not the time arrived
     To discriminate between
     Those who lower
     Those who raise him?