CARRIE BERRY

Gen. Johnston fell back across the river on July 19th, 1864, and up to this time we have had but few quiet days. We can hear the canons and muskets very plane, but the shells we dread. One has busted under the dining room which frightened us very much. One passed through the smoke-house and a piece hit the top of the house and fell through but we were at Auntie Markham's, so none of us were hurt. We stay very close in the cellar when they are shelling.

Aug. 1. Monday. It was raining this morning and we thought we would not have any shelling today so I nurst Sister while Mama would do a little work, but before night we had to run to the cellar.

Aug. 2. Tuesday. We have not been shelled much today, but the muskets have been going all day. I have done but little today but nurse Sister. She has not been well today.

Aug. 3. Wednesday. this was my birthday. I was ten years old, But I did not have a cake times were too hard so I celebrated with ironing. I hope by my next birthday we will have peace in our land so that I can have a nice dinner.

Aug. 4. Thurs. The shells have ben flying all day and we have stayed in the cellar. Mama put me on some stockings this morning and I will try to finish them before school commences.

Aug. 5. Friday. I knit all the morning. In the evening we had to run to Auntie's and get in the cellar. We did not feel safe in our cellar, they fell so thick and fast.

Aug. 6. Sat. We have ben in the cellar all day. Cousin Henry Beatty came this evening and brought some Yankee coffee for me to grind for him. some he had captured yesterday in a skirmish.

Aug. 7. Sun. We have had a quiet day it all most seems like Sunday of old. Papa and I went to Trinity Church. Mr. Haygood preached. It is the first time I have been to Church in a month.

Aug. 8. Mon. I got up early this morning and cleaned up the house for Mama. I nursed Sister while Mama got dinner. We had Cousin Eddie Stow to take dinner with us to day. I did not knit much to day. I went up to Auntie's in the afternoon. We have not had many shells to day.

Aug. 9. Tues. We have had to stay in the cellar all day the shells have ben falling so thick around the house. Two have fallen in the garden, but none of us were hurt. Cousin Henry Beatty came in a and wanted us to move, he thought that we were in danger, but we will try it a little longer.

Aug. 10. Wed. We have had but few shells to day. It has ben raining nearly all day and we had to stay in the house very close.

Aug. 11. Thurs. Mama has ben very buisy to day and I have ben trying to help her all I could. We had to go in the cellar often out of the shells. How I wish the federals would quit shelling us so that we could get our and get some fresh air.

Aug. 12. Fri. Mary came home yesterday and we have not had so much wirk to do so I have ben knitting on my stocking. We had a present to day of a bag of nice pears fro our friend Mrs. Green. We enjoyed them very much. We do not get any nice fruit since the army has been here.

Aug. 13. Sat. We have had a very quiet day to day. We have all ben very buisy trying to work some while we could get out in safety. We fear that we will have shells to night. We can hear muskets so plane.

Aug. 14. Sun. Sure enough we had shells in abundance last night. We averaged one every moment during the night. We expected every one would come through and hurt some of us but to our joy nothing on the lot was hurt. They have ben throwing them at us all day to day but they have not ben dangerous. Papa has ben at work all day making the cellar safe. Now we feel like we could stay at home in safety. I dislike to stay in the cellar so close but our soldiers have to stay in ditches. Aug. 15. Mon. We had no shells this morning when we got up and we thought that we would not have any to day (but, my, when will they stop) but soon after breakfast Zuie and I were standing on the platform between the house and the dining room. It made a very large hole in the garden and threw the dirt all over the yard. I never was so frightened in my life. Zuie was as pale as a corpse and I expect I was too. It did not take us long to fly to the cellar. We stayed out till night though we had them all day but they did not come so near us again.

Aug. 16. Tues. We had shells all night. There was a large piece came through Mama's room directly after we went to bed and fell on the little bed and I expect if we had been sleeping there some of us would have ben hurt. Cousin Henry and Cousin Eddy came to see us to day. They told us that they did not think the Federals would be here much longer to torment us and I hope that it may be so for we are getting very tired of living so.

Aug. 17. Wed. Nothing of interest has hapined to day. We have stayed very closed in the cellar. Mama ran up to Aunties to see how a shell had ruined her house yesterday.

Aug. 18. Thurs. When I woke this morning I thought the hole town would be torn up. The cannons were so near and so loud but we soon found out that it was our guns so we have ben very well content all day. We have had less shells to day tan we have had in a week.

Aug. 19. Fri. Auntie went down to Grandpa's this morning and I missed her so much. That is the only place I had to run to. I have ben knitting on my stocking some today and sewing some to day.

Aug 20. Sat. We have had shells all day. They have not ben hitting very close to us but they have been giving them to Uncle Markham. He like to had his house burnt up by one passing through the house and set some cotton on fire which they had layed on the flore. I expect if they had ben at home some of them would have ben hurt.

Aug. 21. Sun. This was a dark rainy morning and we thought we would have a quiet Sunday but we were disappointed. Papa says that we will have to move down town some where. Our cellar is not safe.

Aug 22. Mon. I got up this morning and helped Mama pact up to move. We were glad to get out of our small cellar. We have a nice large cellar here where we can run as much as we please and enjoy it. Mama says that we make so much noise that she can't here the shells. (Cellar of house on Alabama street between Pryor and Central Avenue).

Aug. 23. Tues. We feel very comfortable since we have moved but Mama is fretted to death all the time for fear of fire. There is a fire in town nearly every day. I get so tired of being housed up all the time. The shells get worse and worse every day. O that something would stop them.

Aug 24. Wed. We have ben frightened twice to day by fire. I have ben wanting to go home all day to get some grapes but it has ben too dangerous.

Aug. 25. Thurs. Mama woke me up irly this morning and told me there were no shells falling and told me I must run over and see what had become of Aunt Healy. We had not herd from her in so long. I stayed til after dinner. We had such a nice dinner and so many nice grapes but best of all we had no shells all day.

Aug. 26. Fri. Cousin Henry came in this morning and told us we need not fear the shells any more. The Yankees left there brest works and he hoped they were on the way back to Tennessee. We have had such a delightful day. We all wanted to move to day but we will wait til to morrow and see if the Yankees have gone.

Aug. 27. Sat. We moved home this morning and we have ben buisy trying to get things regulated. I feel so glad to get home and have no shells around us.

Aug. 28. Sun. Everything seemed so quiet this morning. I wish the people would come back so we could have Church and Sunday School. Mr. came in this morning and brought some shells which Cousin Henry sent us. He got them from the Yankees. Cousin Eddy came in this morning to tell us goodby. We feel sorry he was going to move so far. We all ways love to see him and Cousin Henry.

Aug. 29. Mon. Zuie and I went over to Aunt Hattie Smiths this morning to see if we could find our school teacher We stayed all day with her. We had a very pleasant time playing with Ellen.

Aug. 30. Tues. Miss Fannie Homes came around this morning to see about her school. I was so glad to see my old teacher once more. I hope she will commence her school. I am tired of staying at home.

Aug. 31. Wed. I have ben knitting all the morning and Zuie and I are going over to spend the night with Aunt Healy. I know we will enjoy ourselves.

Sept. 1. Thurs. We did not get home untill twelve o'clock. We had a very pleasant time and every thing seemed quiet. Directly after dinner Cousin Emma came down and told us that Atlanta would be evacuated this evening and we might look for the federals in the morning. It was not long till the hole town found it out and such excitement there was. We have ben looking for them all the evening but they have not come yet. Mr. came in to tell us that dear Cousin Henry was wounded and he thought he would not get well. We are so sory to here it. We loved him so much. I finished my stockings to day.

Sept. 2. Fri. We all woke up this morning without sleeping much last night. The Confederates had four engenes and a long train of box cars filled with amunition and set it on fire last night which caused a grate explosion which kept us all awake. It reminded us of the shells - of all the days of excitement we have had it to day. Every one has been trying to get all they could before the Federals come in the morning. They have ben running with saques of meal, salt and tobacco. They did act rediculous breaking open stores and robbing them. About twelve o'clock there were a few federals came in. They were all frightened. We were afraid they were going to treat us badly. It was not long till the Infantry came in. They were orderely and behaved very well. I think I shall like the Yankees very well.

Sept. 3. Sat. 1864. The soldiers have ben coming in all day. I went up to Aunties this morning and she said that she had a yankee officer to spend the night with her. We have not seen much of them. Only two of them have ben here to beg some thing to eat. We have had a rainy day and we all feel gloomy.

Sun. Sept 4. Another long and lonesome Sunday. How I wish we could have Church and Sunday School. We have ben looking at the soldiers all day. They have come in by the thousand. They were playing bands and they seemed to be rejoiced. It has not seemed like Sunday.

Mon. Sept. 5. I helped Papa tack a matress and it blistered my hands but it was for my bed and I think I shall sleep so nice that it will pay me. We have seen nothing to day.

Tues. Sept. 6. This has been a dark gloomy day and we feel gloomy too. I have ben wanting to see Grandma all day. I commenced knitting me a pair of gloves but I don't know when I will get them done.

Wed. Sept. 7. The times get a little worse every day. Mary went of this evening and I don't expect that she will come back any more but we can do very well without her. I will have to go to work to help Mama.

Thurs. Sept. 8. We all went to wirk in glad spirits this morning. Me and Tilo went to ironing. Mama was buisy regulating things when Papa came and told us that Gen. Sherman had ordered us to move. It broke all into our rangements.

Fri. Sept. 9. We all comenced this morning to prepare for moving. We don't know how long we will get to stay here. We are all in so much trouble.

Sat. Sept. 10. Every one I see seems sad. The citizens all think that it is the most cruel thing to drive us from our home but I think it would be so funny to move. Mama seems so troubled and she can't do any thing. Papa says he don't know where on earth to go.

Sun. Sept. 11. We all have been trying to rest to day and feel contented. Mama went over to see Aunt Healy this evening and she felt as sad as we.

Mon. Sept. 12. We commenced packing up to move. We did not do much. Papa herd up town there was a chance for us to stay if he could get into business.

Tues. Sept. 13. Papa got into business to day and the rest of us went to wirk in good earnest thinking that we will get to stay. I hope that we will get to stay. Mama dislikes to move so much.

Wed. Sept. 14. I helpt to wash till dinner time and then I got dinner by myself. It made me very warm and tired but I supose I will have to learn to wirk. I have ben resting all the evening and I think I will sleep right sound to night if the musquitoes dont bite me too much.

Thurs. Sept 15. We had a general cleaning up this morning. Everything seems so clean and I hope that it would stay so.

Fri. Sept. 16. I ironed till dinner and got through and I had a hollowday the rest of the evening. We have had a nice time playing and I think I will sleep sound to night.

Sat. Sept. 17. Mama went up to Aunties this morning and I had to keep house for her. I hemmed Sisters dress this evening.

Sun. Sept 18. This has ben a dark rainy day. We had stewed chickens for dinner.

Mon. Sept. 19. I went over to Aunt Healy this morning. She is packing up to move and I feel sorry that she is going away. We will miss her so much.

Tues. Sept. 20. It has ben raining nearly all day. I went up to Aunties this evening to see Willie. He is mighty cute and took three or four steps while I was there. Cousin Emma is packing up to leave.

Wed. Sept. 21. It is still raining. I have ben making Mama an apron. We are feeling so sad. We have received a letter from Aunt Maggie Shaw that dear Cousin Maggie was dead. She died the 8th of the month. I am so sorry. I loved her so much.

Thurs. Sept. 22. Mama and Buddy and I went over to see Aunt Healy for the last time. We felt so sorry to see her feel so grieved too. As we were coming home we were caught in the hardest rain and we got soaking wet and we fear that it will make us every one sick.

Fri. Sept. 23. Mama got up this morning and went to washing in the rain and we could not get them out. It was so cloudy she would not let me help her. My throat was so sore that I could not help her.

Sat. Sept 24. This has ben a bright day and we all have ben ironing and cleaning up. We have had so much rain that a sun shiny day seems quite pleasant.

Sun. Sept. 25. Another long and lonely Sunday with out Church. So cloudy we all lay about and read until we are all tired.

Mon. Sept. 26. I have not done much to day. I have be up to Aunties several times to day to see Cousin Emma and Willie for the last time. They are going off to night for the north. Wee all feel so sorry to see her leave for we will feel so lonesome.

Tues. Sept. 27. This has been wash day. I went up to Aunties this evening and she gave me some quilt peaces and some doll clothes.

Wed. Sept. 28. His has been another rainy day. I have ben sewing some to day. I went up to Aunties and we brushed her hair for her.

Thurs. Sept. 29. We and ironed to day and we got done by two o'clock and I went up to Aunties after I was done here and she gave me some rasenes.

Fri. Sept. 30. I have ben sewing some to day on my apron. There are so many soldiers pacing backward and forward.

Sat. Oct. 1. It is very warm for the first day of October but we will look out for a frost before long. I have been making my doll a frock for Sunday.

Sun. Oct. 2. This has ben a very pretty day. I went around to Mrs. Lesters. Ella and I took a walk to see how the soldiers had torn down the fine houses. It is a shame to see the fine houses torn down.

Mon. Oct 3. We herd that General Hood had go away around towards Chattanooga tearing up the railroad. The federals seemed very much trouble about it. I commenced Sister a little worsted dress. I love to sew for her because she loves me.

Tues. Oct. 4. I finished Sister's little dress to day and I have be up to Aunties once or twice. I feel so lonesome I cant stay at home. I wish it was so that I could go to school.

Wed. Oct. 5. We and Tilo have ben washing. Mama cut her hand so that she could not wash. After I got done I went up to Aunties and she was selling out to go north. She is afraid that Gen. Hood will get back and commence shelling as the federals did. I dont blame her for I never would stay and be shelled again if I could get away, though we will be very sorry when she leaves.

Thurs. Oct. 6. I have ben up to Aunties' nearly all day getting quilt scraps and doll scraps. I am right sorry Auntie is going away. I don't know what I will do for some place to run to. It has ben raining nearly all day.

Fri. Oct. 7. I have ben sick all day. I have not ben doing much of anything. It has cleared off but it is windy and we expect that it will turn cold and we may look out for frost.

Sat. Oct. 8. I was sick this morning and did'nt get up until after breakfast but got better towards dinner and went up to Auntie's after dinner and she gave me so many nice scraps. It has ben right cold all day.

Sun. Oct. 9. It has ben cold allmost like winter time. We herd that the federals had whipped Gen. Hood and driven him back.

Mon. Oct. 10. Mama hired a black woman to work for her to day. I hemmed a towel and Ella came to see me. It is not so cold to day but we had a white frost last night.

Tues. Oct. 11. We have ben ironing to day. We have got our clothes washed, ironed and put away. We will not have anything to do all the rest of the week.

Wed. Oct 12. I mad me and apron today and my doll a dress, I did not get up to see Auntie to day. We are having nice and fine weather now.

Thurs. Oct. 13. We had quite a here last night. Some body trying to steel our hogs. They did not get them though. They will be right smart if they do. I have hemmed a foot towel and that is all I have done to day.

Friday. Oct. 14. I went around to see Ella this evening. When I cam back Papa had killed a pig and while I was at Mrs. Lesters a little crazy girl came in and she cut up all sorts of shines.

Sat. Oct. 15. This has ben a dark gloomy day. I have not done much wirk to say but make my doll a dress.

Sun. Oct. 16. We had some nice brains for breakfast and some stewed dumplings for dinner. I have ben at home all day.

Mon. Oct 17. I got up this morning and washed the dishes and cleaned up the house and nursed Sister while mama was washing. Sister was sick.

Tues. Oct. 18. I went up to auntie's this morning and Ella came to see me this evening and we had a good time. she is the only associate that I have now.

Wed. Oct 19. We and ironed today. We wirked in a hurry and got through by three o'clock and I went up to Auntie's and got her to cut out me an and I made it and I thought it was so pretty.

Thurs. Oct. 20. I went around to Mrs. Lesters this evening after I got through with my lessons. I have not done much wirk this week. Mama has been so buisy making Papa a coat to cut me any wirk out.

Fri. Oct. 21. Mama finished Papa's coat to day and it is very nice and I hope she will not be so buisy so that I can get some wirk. I went up to Auntie's and she said that she thought she would get off soon.

Sat. Oct 22. This has ben a cold and rainy day. I have not be doing anything but sitting by the fire.

Sun. Oct 23. This has ben a beautiful day since the sun has come out. Mama and Papa took a walk this evening and they say that they never saw a place torn up like Atlanta is. Half of the houses are torn down.

Mon. Oct. 24. I went to see Ellen Flemming this evening, one of my old school mates. I had a nice time. She is a very nice little girl.

Tues. Oct. 25. Zuie and I went around to spend the evening and we had a very nice time playing with our dolls. That is all I have to interest me. Ella has had my doll a week or two and Ella made her so many nice clothes that she was dressed up so fine.

Wednesday. Oct. 26. I have ben ironing nearly all day to day. I ran up to Aunties a little while this evening and she told me that she was going away and I want to go too. I have ben begging Papa all of the evening.

Thurs. Oct. 27. I have ben running back and forth to Aunties all day carrying things what she gave me. She gave me so many things Mama says that I have got the house packing full of boxes but I have got all I will get for Auntie is the last one that is left.

Fri. Oct. 28. Auntie left us this morning at eight o'clock. We all feel so sad to think that we are left alone. I don't know what I will do for some place to run to when I get lonesome.

Sat. Oct. 29. We all have felt very lonely to day. I went down to see Ella this evening and came by to see Aunt Marthy. She looks very lonely since Auntie has gone.

Sun. Oct. 30. I have ben over to Julia Lowry this evening. They are all ready to move and it looks like every body is going to leave here from the way the soldiers are moving about. Our sargent left us this morning. We all were sorry to part with him. He has ben a very good friend to us.

Mon. Oct. 31. All of the soldiers have left from behind the garden and all ,but every thing seems so quiet. Ella came up this evening and spent the evening with me.

Tues. Nov. 1. I have ben sewing on Sisters apron while Mama made me a pare of shoes and I have ben up to Aunt Marthy once or twice.

Wed. Nov. 2. It has ben a cold and rainy day. I have ben sewing to day and studying some too. Papa has made my shoes and they are very nice.

Thurs. Nov. 3. I ironed some this morning and sewed some this evening. Me and Zuie went up to see Aunt Marthy.

Fri. Nov. 4. Nothing of interest has happened to day. It is the repote that the federals are going to have to leave Atlanta and we are afraid that we will have to leave too.

Sat. Nov. 5. I have hemmed Sister an apron and skirt. Mama has ben buisy drying up some tallow and I had to stay in the house.

Sun Nov. 6. Cold and cloudy day. Mama sent me around to Mrs. Lesters this morning to see if she was going away and she said she was going to stick tite to her house.

Mon Nov. 7. Every boddie seems to be in confusion. The black wimmen are running around trying to get up north for fear that the Rebels will come in and take them.

Tues. Nov. 8. This is Zuie's birthday and she has be very smart. We lost our last hog this morning early. Soldiers took him out of the pen. Me and Buddie went around to hunt for him and every where that we inquired they would say that they saw two soldiers driving off to kill him. We will have to live on bread.

Wed. Nov. 9. Aunt Marthy got fritened last night and began to pack to leave and we have ben bringing thing home that she gave us.

Thurs. Nov. 10. Me and silvie ironed to day and we were done by twelve o'clock and I hemmed Sister and apron in the afternoon. Aunt Marthy did not get off to day and we hope that she will stay.

Fri. Nov. 11. This is the last day that cars are going out to Chattanooga. We are erbliged to stay here now. Aunt Marthy went down to the carshed and I expect that she got off as she has not ben back.

Sat. Nov. 12. We were fritened almost to death last night. Some mean soldiers set several houses on fire in different parts of the town. I could not go to sleep for fear that they would set our house on fire. We all dred the next few days to come for they said that they would set the last house on fire if they had to leave this place.

Sun. Nov. 13. The federal soldiers have ben coming to day and burning houses and I have ben looking at them come in nearly all day. Mon. Nov. 14. They came burning Atlanta to day. We all dread it because they say that they will burn the last house before they stop. We will dread it.

Tues. Nov. 15. This has ben a dreadful day. Things have ben burning all around us. We dread to night because we do not know what moment that they will set our house on fire. We have had a gard a little while after dinner and we feel a little more protected.

Wed. Nov. 16. Oh what a night we had. They came burning the store house and about night it looked like the whole town was on fire. We all set up all night. If we had not set up our house would have ben burnt up for the fire was very near and the soldiers were going around setting houses on fire where they were not watched. They behaved very badly. They all left the town about one o'clock this evening and we were glad when they left for no body know what we have suffered since they came in.

Thurs. Nov. 17 Everything was so quiet we were afraid that the yankees will come back and finish burning the houses but they did not. They have left. Some Confederates came in here to day and the town is full of country people seeing what they can find. We have ben picking up some things.

Fri. Nov. 18. We children have ben plundering about to day seeing what we could find. Mama has been trying to straiten up for the house was torn up so bad.

Sat. Nov. 19. Mama and me have ben ironing all day. We have begun to feel at home but it does not look like Atlanta. The Citizens all met at the City Hall and . There are eighty men in town.

Sun. Nov 20. This has ben a cold and rainy day but the country people have ben in town plundering.

Mon. Nov. 21. This has ben such a bad day raining and snowing and we have stayed close by the fire.

Tues. Nov. 22. It is just a week to day since the federals were burning. Papa and Mama say that they feel very poor. We have not got anything but our little house. It is still very cold.

Wed. Nov. 23. It has ben more pleasant to day. I went over with Ella to the city hall to get some hickery nuts but we did not get many. As we came home I went down with Ella to bery her guinea pig.

Thurs. Nov. 24. Papa went down to Grandpa's this morning and Mama has ben washing and I have ben nursing Sister for she was not very well. We all feel very lonesome.

Fri. Nov. 25. We have ben very lonesome to day, Papa being gone. The Country people are picking up everything. Miss Hatttie Lester stayed all night with us.

Sat. Nov. 26. I ironed this morning and in the afternoon I picked up nails and when I came home Papa and Grandpa were here. The Yankees payed Grandpa a visit and took every thing he had and they browt bad news that Uncle Osker was dead.

Sun. Nov. 27. This has ben a beautiful day and everything seems so quiet. There have ben a grate many cittizens coming back.

Mon. Nov. 28. We have all ben picking up nails to day and we are all about tired down.

Tues. Nov. 29. We have ben picking up nails again to day and it has made me sore.

Wed. Nov. 30. We have ben resting to day. The cittizens are still coming in and it wont be very long untill they get the railroad fixed up from here to Macon and then I hope I can see Grandma.

Thurs. Dec. 1. This has ben such a pleasant day. I have ben ironing to day. It did not take me long.

Fri. Dec. 2. Ella came up here this evening and me and her went off and made calls.

Sat. Dec. 3. I have ben buisy mending my pettacoats. Mama has be making Buddie a pair of pants.

Sun. Dec. 4. It is as cold a Sunday as usual. Ella came up this evening and we took a walk and we got some sweet gum.

Mon. Dec. 5. I was up by times this morning getting ready for school and about half past eight went to Miss Mat Lester. I like her very much and I think she is a very nice teacher.

Tues. Dec. 6. Cousin Pink Butler came here to day to see us. She was just from Macon. She had such a sweet little babe. She is trying to get back here and Aunt Katie.

Wed. Dec. 7. This has ben a election day for Mayor and council men but the election was broken up. I had a little sister this morning at eight o'clock and Mama gave her to me. I think its very pretty. I had to cook breakfast and dinner and supper.

Thurs. Dec. 8. I have ben cooking and cleaning house and waiting on Mama and little sister Maggy. I have learnt to make nice egg bread and how to cook very nice.

Fri. Dec. 9. I made up some buiskets last night and Mama says that they were nice. Every moment I can get I am making things to do on the tree. Ella and I are going to have one together. This has ben a cold sleaty day.

Sat. Dec. 10. It has ben so cold that I couldnt make any thing for the tree. I ran down to Mrs. Lester to see what Ella was making for the tree.

Sun. Dec. 11. It has ben so cold to day that I have not done much cooking to day. came this evening and I the kitchen to her. I am glad that she came for I am getting tired of cooking.

Mon Dec. 12. I have ben making things for the tree. Mama has been helping me make things for the tree.

Tues. Dec. 13. I have made Papa some buesket and pies to take with him to Macon. He is going to try to get in business.

Wed. Dec. 14. Papa started to Macon this morning. Mama and me have ben buisy making Fannie and Zuie a rag doll. We feel very lonesome with Papa so far away and the weather is so bad we cant get out.

Thurs. Dec. 15. We finished the dolls today and they look very nice. I went down to Mrs. Lesters and got Ella to come and we washed doll clothes.

Fri. Dec. 16. I went down to Mrs. Lesters and ironed them and put them all away very nicely.

Sat. Dec. 17. Ella stayed all night with me. She is making her mother a present. We were looking for Papa home and he hasn't come.

Sun. Dec. 18. We are all very lonesome. Mama has ben lying down and I have ben trying to read. After dinner Ellen and me went to see Mrs. Spencer.

Mon. Dec. 19. It has ben pleasant to day. Ella came to stay all night with me and just as we were going to supper Papa came in and such joy as we all had. We were so glad to hear from Aunt Dundie.

Tues. Dec. 20. I have ben buisy making presents all day. I went down to Mrs. Lesters to make Mamas. Miss Matt helped me. I think it is so pretty. I fear we will not get through with our presents Christmas is getting so near.

Wed. Dec. 21. Papa has to go back to Macon next week and we fear he will be put in servis. He has ben buisy all day making me a pair of shoes. I do hope he will get off. the people are treating the citizens so mean that stayed here with the yankees.

Thurs. Dec. 22. We went to get our Christmas tree this evening. It was very cold but we did not feel it we were so excited about it.

Fri. Dec. 23. I went down to Mrs. Lesters and Ella and me planted the tree and finished making the last presents. I came home and strained some pumpkins to make some pies for Christmas.

Sat. Dec. 24. I have been buisy to day making cakes to trim the tree and Ella and I have it all ready trimed and we are all going to night to see it. I think it looks very pretty. We will be sorry when it is all over.

Sun. Dec. 25, 1864. We all went down last night to see the tree and how pretty it looked. The room was full of ladies and children and Cap. gave us music on the pianno and tried to do all he could to make us enjoy our selves and we did have a merry time. All came home perfectly satisfied. This has ben a cold dark day but we all went down to see how the tree looked in the day time but it was not as pretty as at night.

Mon. Dec. 26. Papa left us this morning. He has gone to Macon to be tried for staying here with the yankees. We are afraid they will put him in the army. We all feel very sad.

Tues. Dec. 28. Some little girls came up here last night and we had a concert and enjoyed our selves very much. At one o'clock we let the tree fall and then came home and had a party. Now our Christmas ended with a hail storm.

Wed. Dec. 29. I have had no Christmas to day. I have ben studying the multiplication to day. I have ben running about so much that it has made me sick.

Thurs. Dec. 29. I have ben studding the six line of the multiplication table and I think I will no it very well. We made some candy and wound up the Christmas. I went to take Miss Mary Come some and they thought it was very nice.

Fri. Dec. 30. I have ben studding the seventh line and I find it harder than the six. After I got the seven line I went down to Mrs. Lesters and me and Ella had a little dinner and we had turkee and rice and potato for dinner and we had a merry time of cooking.

Sat. Dec. 31. I learned the eight line and I learned it very well. It has ben a cold and we had to stay in the house very close.

Sunday. Jan. 1. 1865. This is New Year day. I woke up this morning and cant Mama New Years gift but did not get anything the times is too hard. I stayed at home untill evening and then I went down to Mrs. Lesters and I found there and we played around there and then we came around home and we sat down and wrote a little letter and then Ella and Anna went home.

Mon. Jan. 2. We all started to school this morning to Miss Mattie. Ella, me and Buddie are studying arithmetic, spelling, reading and geography. We are all trying to see which will learn the most.

Tues. Jan. 3. I had a hard geography lesson and Ella came home with me and we studied the geography untill we knowed it perfect. We have to study very hard and we dont get time to do much of anything but we have ben playing long enough to spend our time on our books.

Wed. Jan. 4. Miss Mattie reviewed us in the multiplication table and she said that we knowed the multiplication table very well. I had all of my lessons purfect.

From the Diary of a Young Northern Woman, 1861-1862

1861 March 4, 1861÷President Lincoln was inaugurated to-day.

March 5.÷I read the inaugural address aloud to Grandfather this evening. He dwelt with such pathos upon the duty that all, both North and South, owe to the Union, it does not seem as though there could be war!

April.÷We seem to have come to a sad, sad time. The Bible says, "A man's worst foes are those of his own household." The whole United States has been like one great household for many years. "United we stand, divided we fall!" has been our watchword, but some who should have been its best friends have proven false and broken the bond. Men are taking sides, some for the North, some for the South. Hot words and fierce looks have followed, and there has been a storm in the air for a long time.

April 15.÷The storm has broken upon us. The Confederates fired on Fort Sumter, just off the coast of South Carolina, and forced her on April 14 to haul down the flag and surrender. President Lincoln has issued a call for 75,000 men and many are volunteering to go all around us. How strange and awful it seems.

May, 1861.÷Many of the young men are going from Canandaigua and all the neighboring towns. It seems very patriotic and grand when they are singing, "It is sweet, Oh, 'tis sweet, for one's country to die," and we hear the martial music and see the flags flying and see the recruiting tents on the square and meet men in uniform at every turn and see train loads of the boys in blue going to the front, but it will not seem so grand if we hear they are dead on the battlefield, far from home. A lot of us girls went down to the train and took flowers to the soldiers as they were passing through and they cut buttons from their coats and gave to us as souvenirs. We have flags on our paper and envelopes, and have all our stationery bordered with red, white and blue ribbon and have pins and earrings made of the buttons the soldiers gave us. We are going to sew for them in our society and get the garments all cut from the older ladies society. They work every day in one of the rooms of the court house and cut out garments and make them and scrape lint and roll up bandages. They say they will provide us with all the garments we will make. We are going to write notes and enclose them in the garments to cheer up the soldier boys. It does not seem now as though I could give up any one who belonged to me The girls in our society say that if any of the members do send a soldier to the war they shall have a flag bed quilt, made by the society, and have the girls' names on the stars.

June, 1861.÷There was a patriotic rally this afternoon on the campus of Canandaigua Academy and we Seminary girls went. They raised a flag on the Academy building. General Granger presided, Dr. Coleman led the choir and they sang "The Star Spangled Banner." Mr Noah T. Clarke made a stirring speech and Mr Gideon Granger, James C. Smith and E.M. Morse followed. Canandaigua has already raised over $7,000 for the war. Capt. Barry drills the Academy boys in military tactics on the campus every day. Men are constantly enlisting. Lester P. Thompson, son of "Father Thompson," among the others.

A young man asked Anna to take a drive to-day, but Grandmother was not willing at first to let her go. She finally gave her consent, after Anna's plea that he was so young and his horse was so gentle. Just as they were ready to start, I heard Anna run upstairs and I heard him say, "What an Anna!" I asked her afterwards what she went for and she said she remembered that she had left the soap in the water.

1862 Washington's Birthday.÷Patriotic services were held in the Congregational Church this morning. Madame Anna Bishop sang, and National songs were sung. Hon. James C. Smith read Washington's Farewell Address. In the afternoon a party of twenty-two, young and old, took a ride in the Seminary boat and went to Mr. Paton's on the lake shore road. We carried flags and made it a patriotic occasion. I sat next to Spencer F. Lincoln, a young man from Naples who is studying law in Mr. Henry Chesebro's office. I never met him before but he told me he had made up his mind to go to the war. It is wonderful that young men who have brilliant prospects before them at home, will offer themselves upon the altar of their country. I have some new patriotic stationery. There is a picture of the flag on the envelope and underneath, "If any one attempts to haul down the American Flag shoot him on the spot.÷John A. Dix."

June.÷Anna and I had a serenade last night from the Academy Glee Club, I think, as their voices sounded familiar. We were awakened by the music, about 11 P.M., quite suddenly and I thought I would step across the hall to the front chamber for a match to light the candle. I was only half awake, however, and lost my bearings and stepped off the stairs and rolled or slid to the bottom. The stairs are winding, so I must have performed two or three revolutions before I reached my destination. I jumped up and ran back and found Anna sitting up in bed, laughing. She asked me where I had been and said if I had only told her where I was going she would have gone for me. We decided not to strike a light, but just listen to the singing. Anna said she was glad that the leading tenor did not know how quickly I "tumbled" to the words of his song, "O come my love and be my own, nor longer let me dwell alone," for she thought he would be too much flattered. Grandfather came into the hall and asked if any bones were broken and if he should send for a doctor. We told him we guessed not, we thought we would be all right in the morning. He thought it was Anna who fell down stairs, as he is never looking for such exploits in me. We girls received some verses from the Academy boys, written by Greig Mulligan, under the assumed name of Simon Snooks. The subject was "The Poor Unfortunate Academy Boys." We have answered them and now I fear Mrs. Grundy will see them and imagine something serious is going on. But she is mistaken and will find, at the end of the session, our hearts are still in our own possession.

July, 1862.÷The President has called for 300,000 more brave men to fill up the ranks of the fallen. We hear every day of more friends and acquaintances who have volunteered to go.

August 20.÷The 126th Regiment, just organized, was mustered into service at Camp Swift, Geneva. Those that I know who belong to it are Colonel E.S. Sherrill, Lieutenant Colonel James M. Bull, Captain Charles A. Richardson, Captain Charles M. Wheeler, Captain Ten Eyck Munson, Captain Orin G. Herendeen, Surgeon Dr. Charles S. Hoyt, Hospital Steward Henry T. Antes, First Lieutenant Charles Gage, Second Lieutenant Spencer F. Lincoln, First Sergeant Morris Brown, Corporal Hollister N. Grimes, Privates Darius Sackett, Henry Wilson, Oliver Castler, William Lamport.

Dr. Hoyt wrote home, "God bless the dear ones we leave behind; and while you try to perform the duties you owe to each other, we will try to perform ours."

We saw by the papers that the volunteers of the regiment before leaving camp at Geneva allotted over $15,000 of their monthly pay to their families and friends at home. One soldier sent this telegram to his wife, as the regiment started for the front: "God bless you. Hail Columbia. Kiss the baby. Write soon." A volume in ten words.

September 22.÷I read aloud to Grandfather this evening the Emancipation Proclamation issued as a war measure by President Lincoln, to take effect January 1, liberating over three million slaves. He recommends to all thus set free, to labor faithfully for reasonable wages and to abstain from all violence, unless in necessary self-defense, and he invokes upon this act "the considerate judgment of mankind and the gracious favor of Almighty God."

November 21.÷This is my twentieth birthday. Anna wanted to write a poem for the occasion and this morning she handed me what she called "An effort." She said she wrestled with it all night long and could not sleep and this was the result:

"One hundred years from now, Carrie, dear, In all probability you'll not be here; But we'll all be in the same boat, too, And there'll be no one left To say boo hoo!"

Grandfather gave me for a present a set of books called "Irving's Catechisms on Ancient Greeks and Romans." They are four little books bound in leather, which were presented to our mother for a prize. It is thus inscribed on the front page, "Miss Elizabeth Beals at a public examination of the Female Boarding School in East Bloomfield, October 15, 1825, was judged to excel the school in Reading. In testimony of which she received this Premium from her affectionate instructress, S. Adams."

I cannot imagine Grandmother sending us away to boarding school, but I suppose she had so many children then, she could spare one or two as well as not. She says they sent Aunt Ann to Miss Willard's school at Troy. I received a birthday letter from Mrs. Beaumont to-day. She wants to know how everything goes at the Seminary and if Anna still occupies the front seat in the school room most of the time. She says she supposes she is quite a sedate young lady now but she hopes there is a whole lot of the old Anna left. I think there is.

From Caroline Cowles Richards Clarke. Village Life in America, 1852-1872, including the period of the American Civil War, as told in the Diary of a School-girl. New York: H. Holt and Co., 1912. 130-41, 145, 147-48, 150-156.

The first day at school was rather trying. Most of my children were very small, and consequently restless. Some were too young to learn the alphabet. These little ones were brought to school because the older children - in whose care their parents leave them while at work - could not come without them. We were therefore willing to have them come, although they seemed to have discovered the secret of perpetual motion, and tried one's patience sadly. But after some days of positive, though not severe treatment, order was brought out of chaos, and I found but little difficulty in managing and quieting the tiniest and most restless spirits. I never before saw children so eager to learn, although I had had several years' experience in New England schools. Coming to school is a constant delight and recreation to them. They come here as other children go to play. The older ones, during the summer, work in the fields from early morning until eleven or twelve o'clock, and then come into school, after their hard toil in the hot sun, as bright and as anxious to learn as ever.

Of course there are some stupid ones, but these are the minority. The majority learn with wonderful rapidity. Many of the grown people are desirous of learning to read. It is wonderful how a people who have been so long crushed to the earth, so imbruted as these have been, - and they are said to be among the most degraded negroes of the South, - can have so great a desire for knowledge, and such a capability for attaining it. One cannot believe that the haughty Anglo Saxon race, after centuries of such an experience as these people have had, would be very much superior to them. And one's indignation increases against those who, North as well as South, taunt the colored race with inferiority while they themselves use every means in their power to crush and degrade them, denying them every right and privilege, closing against them every avenue of elevation and improvement. Were they, under such circumstances, intellectual and refined, they would certainly be vastly superior to any other race that ever existed.

After the lessons, we used to talk freely to the children, often giving them slight sketches of some of the great and good men. Before teaching them the " John Brown " song, which they learned to sing with great spirit. Miss T. told them the story of the brave old man who had died for them. I told them about Toussaint, thinking it well they should know what one of their own color had done for his race. They listened attentively, and seemed to understand. We found it rather hard to keep their attention in school. It is not strange, as they have been so entirely unused to intellectual concentration. It is necessary to interest them every moment, in order to keep their thoughts from wandering. Teaching here is consequently far more fatiguing than at the North. In the church, we had of course but one room in which to hear all the children; and to make one's self heard, when there were often as many as a hundred and forty reciting at once, it was necessary to tax the lungs very severely.

My walk to school, of about a mile, was part of the way through a road lined with trees, - on one side stately pines, on the other noble live-oaks, hung with moss and canopied with vines. The ground was carpeted with brown, fragrant pine-leaves; and as I passed through in the morning, the woods were enlivened by the delicious songs of mocking - birds, which abound here, making one realize the truthful felicity of the description in "Evangeline," -

"The mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music

That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen."

The hedges were all aglow with the brilliant scarlet berries of the cassena, and on some of the oaks we observed the mistletoe, laden with its pure white, pearl-like berries. Out of the woods the roads are generally bad, and we found it hard work plodding through the deep sand.

Source: Charlotte Forten, "Life on the Sea Islands," Atlantic Monthly 13 (May 1864): 587-596.

I WAS born under the slave law in Georgia, in 1848, and was brought up by my grandmother in Savannah. There were three of us with her, my younger sister and brother. My brother and I being the two eldest, we were sent to a friend of my grandmother, Mrs. Woodhouse, a widow, to learn to read and write. She was a free woman and lived on Bay Lane, between Habersham and Price streets, about half a mile from my house. We went every day about nine o'clock, with our books wrapped in paper to prevent the police or white persons from seeing them. We went in, one at a time, through the gate, into the yard to the L kitchen, which was the schoolroom. She had twenty-five or thirty children whom she taught, assisted by her daughter, Mary Jane. The neighbors would see us going in sometimes, but they supposed we were there learning trades, as it was the custom to give children a trade of some kind. After school we left the same way we entered, one by one, when we would go to a square, about a block from the school, and wait for each other. We would gather laurel leaves and pop them on our hands, on our way home. I remained at her school for two years or more, when I was sent to a Mrs. Mary Beasley, where I continued until May, 1860, when she told my grandmother she had taught me all she knew, and grandmother had better get some one else who could teach me more, so I stopped my studies for a while.

I had a white playmate about this time, named Katie O'Connor, who lived on the next corner of the street from my house, and who attended a convent. One day she told me, if I would promise not to tell her father, she would give me some lessons. On my promise not to do so, and getting her mother's consent, she gave me lessons about four months, every evening. At the end of this time she was put into the convent permanently, and I have never seen her since.

A month after this, James Blouis, our landlord's son, was attending the High School, and was very found of grandmother, so she asked him to give me a few lessons, which he did until the middle of 1861, when the Savannah Volunteer Guards, to which he and his brother belonged, were ordered to the front under General Barton. In the first battle of Manassas, his brother Eugene was killed, and James deserted over to the Union side, and at the close of the war went to Washington, D. C., where he has since resided. I often wrote passes for my grandmother, for all colored persons, free or slaves, were compelled to have a pass; free colored people having a guardian in place of a master. These passes were good until 10 or 10.30 P. M. for one night or every night for one month. The pass read as follows:--

Savannah, Ga ., March 1st, 1860.

Pass the bearer--from 9 to 10.30. P. M. Valentine Grest.

Every person had to have this pass, for at nine o'clock each night a bell was rung, and any colored persons found on the street after this hour were arrested by the watchman, and put in the guard-house until next morning, when their owners would pay their fines and release them. I knew a number of persons who went out at any time at night and were never arrested, as the watchman knew them so well he never stopped them, and seldom asked to see their passes, only stopping them long enough, sometimes, to say "Howdy," and then telling them to go along.

About this time I had been reading so much about the "Yankees" I was very anxious to see them. The whites would tell their colored people not to go to the Yankees, for they would harness them to carts and make them pull the carts around, in place of horses. I asked grandmother, one day, if this was true. She replied, "Certainly not!" that the white people did not want slaves to go over to the Yankees, and told them these things to frighten them. "Don't you see those signs pasted about the streets? one reading, 'I am a rattlesnake; if you touch me I will strike!' Another reads, 'I am a wild-cat! Beware,' etc. These are warnings to the North; so don't mind what the white people say." I wanted to see these wonderful "Yankees" so much, as I heard my parents say the Yankee was going to set all the slaves free. Oh, how these people prayed for freedom! I remember, one night, my grandmother went out into the suburbs of the city to a church meeting, and they were fervently singing this old hymn,-- "Yes, we all shall be free, Yes, we all shall be free, Yes, we all shall be free, When the Lord shall appear,"--

when the police came in and arrested all who were there, saying they were planning freedom, and sang "the Lord," in place of "Yankee," to blind any one who might be listening. Grandmother never forgot that night, although she did not stay in the guard-house, as she sent to her guardian, who came at once for her; but this was the last meeting she ever attended out of the city proper.

On April 1, 1862, about the time the Union soldiers were firing on Fort Pulaski, I was sent out into the country to my mother. I remember what a roar and din the guns made. They jarred the earth for miles. The fort was at last taken by them. Two days after the taking of Fort Pulaski, my uncle took his family of seven and myself to St. Catherine Island. We landed under the protection of the Union fleet, and remained there two weeks, when about thirty of us were taken aboard the gunboat P--, to be transferred to St. Simon's Island; and at last, to my unbounded joy, I saw the "Yankee."

After we were all settled aboard and started on our journey, Captain Whitmore, commanding the boat, asked me where I was from. I told him Savannah, Ga. He asked if I could read; I said, "Yes!" "Can you write?" he next asked. "Yes, I can do that also," I replied, and as if he had some doubts of my answers he handed me a book and a pencil and told me to write my name and where I was from. I did this; when he wanted to know if I could sew. On hearing I could, he asked me to hem some napkins for him. He was surprised at my accomplishments (for they were such in those days), for he said he did not know there were any negroes in the South able to read or write. He said, "You seem to be so different from the other colored people who came from the same place you did." "No!" I replied, "the only difference is, they were reared in the country and I in the city, as was a man from Darien, Ga, named Edward King." That seemed to satisfy him, and we had no further conversation that day on the subject.

In the afternoon the captain spied a boat in the distance, and as it drew nearer he noticed it had a white flag hoisted, but before it had reached the Putumoka he ordered all passengers between decks, so we could not be seen, for he thought they might be spies. The boat finally drew alongside of our boat, and had Mr. Edward Donegall on board, who wanted his two servants, Nick and Judith. He wanted these, as they were his own children. Our captain told him he knew nothing of them, which was true, for at the time they were on St. Simon's, and not, as their father supposed, on our boat. After the boat left, we were allowed to come up on deck again.

The village where I was born is situated in the province of Canton, on one of the banks of the Si-Kiang River. . . .

When I was ten years of age I worked on my father's farm, digging, hoeing, manuring, gathering and carrying the crop. We had no horses, as nobody under the rank of an official is allowed to have a horse in China. . . .

I worked on my father's farm till I was about sixteen years of age, when a man of our tribe came back from America and took ground as large as four city blocks and made a paradise of it. . . .

The man had gone away from our village a poor boy. Now he returned with unlimited wealth, which he had obtained in the country of the American wizards. . . .

When his palace and grounds were completed he gave a dinner to all the people who assembled to be his guests. One hundred pigs roasted whole were served on the tables, with chickens, ducks, geese and such an abundance of dainties that our villagers even now lick their fingers when they think of it. . . .

The wealth of this man filled my mind with the idea that I, too, would like to go to the country of the wizards and gain some of their wealth, and after a long time my father consented, and gave me his blessing, and my mother took leave of me with tears, while my grandfather laid his hand upon my head and told me to remember and live up to the admonitions of the Sages, to avoid gambling, bad women and men of evil minds. . . .

When I got to San Francisco, . . . [a] man got me work as a house servant in an American family, and my start was the same as that of almost all the Chinese in this country.

The Chinese laundryman does not learn his trade in China; there are no laundries in China. . . . All the Chinese laundrymen here were taught in the first place by American women just as I was taught. . . .

It was twenty years ago when I came to this country, and I worked for two years as a servant, getting at the least $35 a month. . . . I saved $50 in the first six months, $90 in the second, $120 in the third and $150 in the fourth. So I had $410 at the end of two years, and I was now ready to start in business.

When I first opened a laundry it was in company with a partner, who had been in the business for some years. We went to a town about 500 miles inland, where a railroad was building. We got a board shanty and worked for the men employed by the railroads. . . . We had to put up with many insults and some frauds, as men would come in and claim parcels that did not belong to them, saying they had lost their tickets, and would fight if they did not get what they asked for. Sometimes we were taken before Magistrates and fined for losing shirts that we had never seen. On the other hand, we were making money, and even after sending home $3 a week I was able to save about $15. When the railroad construction gang moved on we went with them. The men were rough and prejudiced against us, but not more so than in the big Eastern cities. It is only lately in the New York that the Chinese have been able to discontinue putting wire screens in front of their windows, and at the present time the street boys are still breaking the windows of Chinese laundries all over the city, while the police seem to think it a joke.

We were three years with the railroad, and then went to the mines, where we made plenty of money in gold dust, but had a hard time, for many of the miners were wild men who carried revolvers and after drinking would come into our place to shoot and steal shirts, for which we had to pay. One of these men hit his head hard against a flat iron and all the miners came and broke up our laundry, chasing us out of town. They were going to hang us. We lost all our property and $365 in money, which members of the mob must have found.

Luckily most of our money was in the hands of Chinese bankers in San Francisco. I drew $500 and went East to Chicago, where I had a laundry for three years, during which I increased my capital to $2,500. After that I was four years in Detroit. . . .

Work in a laundry begins early on Monday morning--about seven o'clock. There are generally two men, one of whom washes while the other does the ironing. The man who irons does not start in till Tuesday, as the clothes are not ready for him to begin till that time. . . . Each works only five days a week, but those are long days--from seven o'clock in the morning till midnight. . . .

Some fault is found with us for sticking to our old customs here, especially in the matter of clothes, but the reason is that we find American clothes much inferior, so far as comfort and warmth go. . . . Most of us have tried the American clothes, and they make us feel as if we were in the stocks.

I have found out, during my residence in this country, that much of the Chinese prejudice against Americans is unfounded, and I no longer put faith in the wild tales that were told about them in our village, though some of the Chinese, who have been here twenty years and who are learned men, still believe that there is no marriage in this country, that the land is infested with demons and that all the people are given over to general wickedness.

I know better. Americans are not all bad, nor are they wicked wizards. Still, they have their faults, and their treatment of us is outrageous.

The reason why so many Chinese go into the laundry business in this country is because it requires little capital and is one of the few opportunities that are open. Men of other nationalities who are jealous of the Chinese, because he is a more faithful worker than one of their people, have raised such a great outcry about Chinese cheap labor that they have shut him out of working on farms or in factories or building railroads or making streets or digging sewers. He cannot practice any trade, and his opportunities to do business are limited to his own countrymen. . . .

There is no reason for the prejudice against the Chinese. The cheap labor cry was always a falsehood. Their labor was never cheap, and is not cheap now. It has always commanded the highest market price. But the trouble is that the Chinese are such excellent and faithful workers that bosses will have no others when they can get them. If you look at men working on the street you will find an overseer for every four or five of them. That watching is not necessary for Chinese. . . .

It was the jealousy of laboring men of other nationalities--especially the Irish--that raised all the outcry against the Chinese. No one would hire an Irishman, German, Englishman or Italian when he could get a Chinese, because our countrymen are so much more honest, industrious, steady, sober and painstaking. Chinese were persecuted, not for their vices, but for their virtues. There never was any honesty in the pretended fear of leprosy or in the cheap labor scare, and the persecution continues still, because Americans make a mere practice of loving justice. They are all for money making, and they want to be on the strongest side always. They treat you as a friend while you are prosperous, but if you have a misfortune they don't know you.

There is nothing substantial in their friendship. . . . Under the circumstances, how can I call this my home, and how can any one blame me if I take my money and go back to my village in China?

Source: Lee Chew, "The Biography of a Chinaman," The Independent, 55:2829 (February 19, 1903), 417-423.

August 16, 1894, Jennie Curtis, being first duly sworn, testified as follows:

(Commissioner Wright). State your name, residence, and occupation.--ANS. Jennie Curtis; reside at Pullman; have been a seamstress for the Pullman company in the repair shops sewing room; worked for them five years.

(Commissioner Wright). Are you a member of any labor organization? --ANS. Yes, sir; I am a member of the American Railway Union.

(Commissioner Wright). How long have you been a member of that union? --ANS. Since about the 8th day of last May.

(Commissioner Wright). Do you hold any position in the union? --ANS. I am president of the girls' union, local, No. 269, at Pullman.

(Commissioner Wright). State briefly what you did as a member serving upon those committees. --ANS. I was on a committee that went from Pullman to speak for the girls in May before the strike, to ask for more wages.

(Commissioner Wright). State what took place at the first interview. --ANS. We went there and asked, as the men did, for more wages; we were cut lower than any of the men's departments throughout the works; in 1893 we were able to make 22 cents per hour, or $2.25 per day, in my department, and on the day of the strike we could only earn, on an average, working as hard as we possibly could, from 70 to 80 cents a day.

(Commissioner Wright). Can you give us how the wages changed from month to month? --ANS. Whenever the men were cut in their wages the girls also received a cut. We were cut twice inside of a week in November, 1893, and in January our wages were cut again; that was the last cut we received, and we worked as hard as we possibly could and doing all we could, too. The most experienced of us could only make 80 cents per day, and a great many of the girls could only average 40 to 50 cents per day.

(COMMISSIONER WRIGHT). Do you pay rent in Pullman? --ANS. No sir: not now.

(Commissioner Wright). You pay board? --ANS. Yes, sir. My father worked for the Pullman company for thirteen years. He died last September, and I paid the rent to the Pullman company up to the time he died; I was boarding at the time of my father's death. He being laid off and sick for three months, owed the Pullman company $60 at the time of his death for back rent, and the company made me, out of my small earnings, pay rent due from my father.

(COMMISSIONER WRIGHT). How did they make you do it? --ANS. The contract was that I should pay $3 on the back rent every pay day; out of my small earnings I could not give them $3 every pay day, and when I did not do so I was insulted and almost put out of the bank by the clerk for not being able to pay it to them. My wages were cut so low that I could not pay my board and give them $3 on the back rent, but if I had $2 or so over my board, I would leave it at the bank on the rent. On the day of the strike I still owed them $15, which I am afraid they never will give me a chance to pay back.

I was born in Trinidad, Colorado on January 11, 1869. My father's name was Damacio López. He came from New Mexico and was born in Santa Cruz near where Espanola is now. I don't know in what year he came to Trinidad but it must have been in 1866 or 1867. The first baby born to my parents was a boy named Miguel López. He only lived about two years and then I was born.

My father's father was Spanish and his mother I believe had some Indian blood in her. I knew both of them and they were good people.

My mother's father came from Spain and her mother also. I did not know either one of them. All I know about them is what my mother told us. She said that her father was a school teacher. His name was Juan DeArce, but mother always said that his name was Juan DeArcia. We have found out since that his name was Juan DeArce and that he was First Secretary in Santa Fe under Governor Perry. This is in history so I have found out. I have not seen the history but I am going to get a copy as soon as I can.

My mother's name was Lareta DeArcia as she called herself but she could not read and I found out that her right name was Laretta DeArce. In those days among the Spanish people it was not thought necessary to teach the girls to read and write. It was only necessary to teach them not to talk to boys at a dance and it was the order of the parents that a girl never refuse to dance with any man who asked for a dance. I think it was a good idea.

I remember that my mother used to tell us kids about the people in her time. Most of them were rather poor but they never let anyone do without something to eat. She said the people used to tell the neighbors to come and get food when they needed it and they would go to the neighbors and get food when they needed to. In those days a man that had a wagon and team was considered a rich man. There were quite a few that had 6 or 7 wagons and 8 or 10 ox teams and in the fall of the year the ones with wagons would ask the others to go with them to about where Colorado is now to kill buffalo. They killed buffalo with a spear on horseback. They would run into the buffalo herd and stick the spear in behind the buffalo's shoulder. Each man would try to kill 3 or 4. Other men would be on hand to do the skinning and cut up the mean and take it to camp and make sesinar or jerked meat. They dried the meat on ropes strung between posts. The next day they would kill more buffalo and sometimes the men would get killed themselves and a horse had to be a good one to catch a buffalo. When they got enough meat they would start for home in New Mexico. The poor men that went with wagons would get 2 or 3 sacks of dried meat and bing bone from the hind leg. They would take the bone home to season the food. This bone was called El Gueso Gisandero and the woman of the family would cook a pot of beans with the bone in it, and then lend it to another woman who did not have a bone for her beans. The next day it would go to another woman and so on. Maybe it would be 8 or 10 days before it would get back to the owner. Then it would make the rounds again. My mother said she knew of one bone that went around the neighborhood for two years. So I guess you could call that sure enough hard times but mother said she never did know of anyone to starve to death.

For shoes they made mocassins and they had very few clothes and sometimes they would have 3 or 4 patches in almost the same place. Usually they didn't have money to buy thread and so they would tear a flour sack and pull out threads and twist 2 or 3 together to sew with. The children had to work more than play. The children were taught to respect the older people. When my father would send me on an errand and I happened to meet an old man that wanted me to do something for him I would do it. When I got back my father would say why didn't you come quick and I would tell him about the old man and he would be pleased. I think it is good for children to work and keep busy as this keeps them out of devilment. The children today do not keep busy enough and do alot of mischief. Also if they had more to do they would learn how to work.

When I was 2 years old my father and eleven more men went to Red Rock to file on homesteads. They had ox teams. Of the twelve men only six could afford to buy shovels, the other six made shovels out of wood. The shovels were needed to make a irrigation ditch. They had no way to survey the ditch so they just started digging. The men that had good shovels broke the ground and the ones that had wood sholvels threw the loose dirt out. The ditch was very crooked and about 9 or 10 feet deep and 3 feet wide. They would let the water run behind them and bank it up and dig in front. Then they would let the water run ahead in the ditch to see if they needed to dig the ditch deeper and in this way they made their ditch and it took them four months.

After finishing the irrigation ditch they had to plow their fields. They had no plows, but they made them out of forks of trees. The plows have only one handle, and the points were made out of pieces of iron that the men had sharpened on a rock and nailed to the wood. It was very hard to plow with these plows as they would go every way but straight. They did manage to farm in this way, and they raised good crops of wheat, melons, beans, pumkins, chili, and almost anything they had to plant.

Each man would not plant more than 3 or 4 acres of wheat as they had no way to cut the wheat except by hand scyths. I still have a scar on my finger that I got trying to learn to cut wheat. When the wheat got ripe the men would get together and cut one field at a time and all of the women would gather to cook for the men. The women would grind blue corn for tortillas as they had no wheat flour. All of the cooking was done on fireplaces as they had no stoves. Tables were buffalo hides spread on the floor. They did not have many dishes mostly only saucers and teaspoons. Some of the spoons were made out of wood. After you got through eating there weren't many dishes to wash. I remember the women were very happy, they would sing songs and talk and just be jolly.

After they would finish cutting one man's wheat they would go to the next until they had finished the last one. The people would always work together and they never thought that they were doing too much for each other. When a child went to another house the women always gave them something to eat. It was that way with all of them. They did not really have much of anything but they always had something to eat.

You would never hear people complain about anything. Whatever happened seemed to be alright with them. They had dances and some of the-women had no shoes and others had mocassins. They danced just as happy as they do today but the girls couldn't talk to the boys while they danced. I remember going to dances. I never talked to the girls, and they never talked to me as the parents of the girls would tell them not to talk before they left home for the dances. Also the girls were told not to refuse to dance with anyone that asked them as that was the custom, and we all got along very well.

To thrash the wheat some of them used goats and sheep and there was always plenty of children. They would fix a place near the wheat stack which they called "era". This place was levelled good with hoes and then water was put on to get it good and wet. They would stomp the mud down and let it dry hard and sweep it clean with cedar brooms. One man would get up on the stack and pitch the wheat on this hard place and all the children would make the goats and sheep go around and around the stack until the wheat was thrashed. They would throw the straw away and put on more wheat until all was thrashed, and then they would wait for the wind to blow. This was the way they thrashed the wheat in those days.

In the fall of the year they would take their wheat to Trinidad and if I remember right the mill used to be about where John Marty has his grain house now. At the mill there was a ditch with lots of water in it and a big wooden wheel. The water would turn the wheel and the wheel did the work. The mill man took so much wheat for payment of grinding. I do not know how much he took but I do know he took wheat for the grinding payment for the men didn't have any money at that time. We camped the wagons where the Nichols hide house is now close to the river. There was good grass right there and lots of trees and bushes.

I remember the first time my father took me with him to grind wheat. We camped close to the river, and I did not sleep very much on account of so many buggies going to El Moro and back. They had lights on the corners of the buggies. The lights were the prettiest sight I had ever seen and it is still in my mind today and will be there until I am gone. I didn't sleep much that night. I had never seen anything like that and it sure looked good to me. After this first trip I went many times with my father to sell watermelons. We had good size melons and some small ones. The big melons sold for 25¢ and the small ones for as low as 5¢. We could not sell all of them in town so we would go on up the river and trade them for wheat. They had a rneasure for the wheat called Almude; it was about a foot square and about 4 inches high. My father would trade so many melons for so many measures of wheat. Sometimes they would say level full of wheat and some times "heaped full." We would go by the mill in Trinidad and grind our wheat on the way home. This way we managed to have flour on hand until the next year.

When my father first moved to Red Rock he said that when he turned the oxen out to graze they would sometimes lay down in the high blue stem grass and he would have a time finding them. He would cut enough hay in the summer with a scyth to feed the ox in the winter time. We had a good size meadow and my father would clean it out by setting it on fire. . . .

When I was six or seven years old my father moved to West Las Animas as they used to call it but what is Las Animas now. He went there to work on the railroad grade. There were several hundred men working. My father had 10 or 15 cows and after we moved to Las Animas I herded the town cows for $1 a head a month. We also sold some milk. There must have been 15 or 20 head besides my father's cows. I herded them on foot and bare footed. I didn't think anything much about the work but I did think alot about my $1 a head. I would go through town in the morning picking up the cows and come through town in the evening leaving the cows where they belonged.

At this time Las Animas was the end of the railroad. It sure was fun for me to see the trains. I would see them come from the east and go right back. I could not figure out how the engine could turn on that narrow track. I wanted to find out so I followed the railroad up and found they had a round house and they would run the engine in that place and push the track around by hand. It sure looked easy the way they would do it.

There are lots of wagons with ox teams coming to Las Animas to haul freight to New Mexico. Some wagons had as many as six teams of oxen.

At about this time the people of Las Animas were making the town jail. Freighters hauled the rock from a place called Tar Box Arroyo. The jail is still there but they don't use it for a jail anymore. I went back to Las Animas about a year ago. The town isn't anything like it used to be. I could not find any house that I used to know. It is a whole lot begger [bigger] now and there are lots of big buildings.

We lived in Las Animas for two years and then we went back to Red Rock to our old home. My father had more cows now and a little store. My father also had the Post Office (Bent Canyon) and he made a good living. I herded my father's cows on foot until my father bought a black pacing mare. She was a dandy but wild. My father had about 30 or 40 head of cows at this time.

When I was 21 years old I married Miss Rebecca Richards at Higbee, Colorado. She was 18 years old and a sweeter woman never was and I think alot more about this than she thinks I do. We met when I was about 12 years old and she came to visit some friends close to my home. I lost my handkerchief and she found it and wrapped it up in a piece of paper with a little red ribbon very nice and wrote a little note saying she had found it and was returning it. I could not read at all so I just copied her same note and sent it back to her. I tho[u]ght I was doing something pretty good and that was the beginning of our corresponding. So from then on I tried my best to learn how to write. I can't spell much but I make people understand me alright.

My wife's father was W. G. Richards and he came to Higbee about the same time that my father came to Red Rock. He was one of the old timers and he had a big family of 7 boys and 4 girls. They were good people. And speaking of families my father had 6 boys and 5 girls.

A while after I got married I took down with pneumonia and after I got well I could not work for over a year. I lived on credit and after I could work the doctor bill and all came to $500 and at $30 a month it took me 3 years to come clear.

At that time it was hard to get work except in the summer or about seven months out of the year and working this way I could make just about enough to live on the rest of the winter. It so happened that H. B. Brown from Trinidad where he used to own a hardward store had a cow ranch in Plum Canyon. He gave me $30 a month the year around to work for him. I boarded myself and when he was at the ranch he gave me 50¢ for three meals. After about a year he sold out to William Green who was the father of W. H. Green, County Commissioner. I worked for the Greens about five years a $30 a month and boarded myself. Out of the $30 I had my wife and 2 children and we kept having more children. We raised 8 children all together. We always had comers and goers but we managed to save $15 a month. We did not live high but we lived pretty good on $15 a month. I would go to town with $75 in the spring and would buy enough supplies for all summer and then I would go again in the fall and buy enough for the winter. In the spring I would buy 12 or 15 yearling heifers. This way I got up to 250 head of cattle and I had $800 in the bank. Then the bank advised me to buy more cattle with their money and this was the worst mistake I ever made. After I took their advice against my wife's advice I just worked for the bank all the time until they closed me out. I will tell any man to keep out of debt. If you have a cow don't put her against a note. As long as you have anything the bank will encourage you to use their money but when you havehard luck and go down they will say well we can't see how we can let you have anymore money. I would of been in good shape if I had stayed with my 250 head that I had clear and that I made at $1 a day but I let them talk me into a loan and when I really needed money they wouldn't let me have any. They are not there for anyone's benefit but their own. What I made by working for $1 a day they got quicker than I could think. It was nobody's fault bu[t] my own. But just the same that is what they will do.

Now I am 68 years old and my health is not good. I'm just like any other old man.

We raised 8 children and there are seven living today. The oldest died when he was 20 years old. I always tried to teach my children right to be truthful and not steal. I will tell any man or woman to be careful who they let their children run with. I was a boy once and I know by experience that when I was with a good boy I was just as good as he was but when I was with a bad boy I was a little worse than he was. I never did anything so awful bad that I couldn't tell about it but still I know that I did do some wrong.

Well I've had good times and bad times in this world but I would not trade my reputation for the First National Bank of Trinidad.

I could write a whole lot more that I've not told but I will quit for now.

Source: Elfido López, "Autobiography," 1937, Elfido López, Sr. Collection. Courtesy, Colorado Historical Society.

Our machines were on long tables in large rooms, and we operators sat on both sides of the tables. At last I was where I had longed to be, and here I worked for ten years. I was earning fairly good pay for those times, and I was happy. We would mark out the quantity of our work and keep account of our earnings. I still have that little book in which I kept my accounts. It is interesting to see how I gradually increased my weekly pay.

To drown the monotony of work, we used to sing. This was allowed because the foreman could see that the rhythm kept us going at high speed. We sang "Bicycle Built for Two" and other popular songs.

Before we began to sing we used to talk very loudly so as to be heard above the roar of the machines. We knew we must not stop our work just to hear what someone was saying; to stop work even for a minute meant a reduction in pay.

We did want to do a little talking, though. In order not to lose time by it, we worked out a plan. We all chipped in and bought a dollar alarm clock which we hung on the wall. We figured that we could do a dozen pairs of gloves in an hour. That meant five minutes for a pair. As we worked we could watch the clock to see if we were on schedule. If we saw ourselves falling behind, we could rush to catch up with our own time. No one was watching us or pushing us for production. It was our strategem for getting the most out of the piecework system. We wanted to earn as much as we possibly could.

But, though we all seemed happy at first, gradually it dawned dimly within us that we were not beating the piecework system; it was beating us. There were always "pacemakers," a few girls who could work faster than the rest, and they were the ones to get the new work before the price was set. Their rate of work had to be the rate for all of us, if we were to earn a decent wage. It kept us tensed to continual hurry.

Also, there were some unjust practices, outgrowths from another era, which nettled us because they whittled away at our weekly pay. We were charged fifty cents a week for the power furnished our machines. At first we were tolerant of the charge and called it "our machine rent." But after a time that check-off of fifty cents from our weekly pay made us indignant.

We were obliged, besides, to buy our own needles. If you broke one, you were charged for a new one to replace it. We had, also, to buy our own machine oil. It was expensive; and to make matters worse, we had to go to certain out-of-the-way places to obtain it.

But this was not all. Every time a new foreman came in, he demonstrated his authority by inaugurating a new set of petty rules which seemed designed merely to irritate us. One such rule was that no girl must leave her own sewing room at noon to eat lunch with a girl in another room. My sister Mary had now come into the factory, and we were in the habit of grouping at lunch time with friends from other departments. But even two sisters from different departments were not permitted to eat lunch together. Mary was in a different department at the time, and this regulation seemed too ridiculous to be borne. Consequently, whenever the foreman had left the room at noon, we went where we pleased to eat our lunch. Sometimes he spied on us and ordered us "Back where you belong!"

In the face of all this, any new method which the company sought to put into effect and disturb our work routine seemed to inflame the deep indignation already burning inside us. Thus, when a procedure was suggested for subdividing our work, so that each operator would do a smaller part of each glove, and thus perhaps increase the overall production-but also increase the monotony of the work, and perhaps also decrease our rate of pay-we began to think of fighting back.

The management evidently heard the rumblings of a threatened revolt. Our department was the "glove-closers." A representative of the company sent for a group from another department, the "banders," asking them to give this new method of subdividing the work a trial and promising an adjustment if the workers' earnings were found to be reduced. The group agreed to try out the new method; but when they got back to their department and told the banders about it, the banders revolted, refused to work the new way on trial, and walked out.

We of our department felt that we should be loyal to the girls who had walked out, and we told the foreman that if the company tried to put new girls in the places of the banders, we would walk out, too!

We had taken a bold step. Almost with spontaneity we had acted in support of one another. Now we all felt tremulous, vulnerable, exposed. With no regular organization, without even a qualified spokesman, how long would such unified action last? If anyone ever needed the protection of a firm organization, I for one, at that moment felt keenly that we certainly did.

The glove-cutters, all men, had a union which had existed for about a year. The girl who sat next to me told me about it. She had a boy friend in this union, but she was always careful not to let anyone hear her talk about it because in those days unions were taboo. She said that the cutters-all men-had talked of trying to get the girls to join the union and had wanted to approach our plant to suggest it, but that some of the members had said, "You'll never get those girls to join a union. They'll stand for anything up there!"

The banders had been smart. They had walked out on Saturday. One of their number decided to get publicity about their grievances and she gave the newspapers the full story about their strike.

The Chicago Federation of Labor was having a meeting that day, and the glove-cutters from our shop had special delegates there. A labor reporter went to these delegates asking for details about the walkout of the banders. It was the first the delegates had heard of the matter. But, learning that the banders of their own factory had struck, they decided to try to get all the girls to join the union.

On Monday the president of the union tried to arrange a meeting with our group. But it was too late. During the week end, the boss had decided to abandon the new system. Workers had been sent word to come back and everything would be all right, that they could work as before. We felt that now we had a certain power and were delighted over what seemed to us a moral victory. Monday morning found us back at work.

All was not settled, however. On Monday the glove-cutters' union rented a hall within a block of the factory. As we came out from work that afternoon, members of the glove-cutters' union met us telling us to go to a union meeting at this hall.

Israel Solon was one of these men. Sometimes, if a girl hesitated about going to the hall, he would urge: "Don't be afraid of the boss; protect yourself! Go to the union meeting!"

I was only too anxious to go and did not care who saw me. It seemed legitimate to protect one's self from unjust rules. I went without hesitation.

The meeting was a great success; workers packed the hall, and many non-members signed for membership. The work of organizing continued for three evenings, until most of the shop had been persuaded to join.

Toward the end of the week, there was a disturbance in the cutting department. It leaked through to us that a cutter had been discharged and that the cutters were organizing a protest strike. We were young and inexperienced in union procedure; and, as I look back now. I see that because of that lack of experience, and because we were newly organized and therefore anxious to use our new organization, we did a rash thing. We started a strike movement in protest at the discharge of the cutter and also for the redress of our own grievances. We even celebrated the event with a birthday party for one of our girls and had a feast with lemon cream pie at lunch time. During the feast we formulated our plan. We decided it would be cowardly to walk out at noon. We would wait until the whistle blew for us to resume work, and then, as the power started up on the machines, we would begin our exodus.

Somehow the foreman got wind of our plan. We were forming a line when reinforcements from the foremen's division scattered around the room ordering us to go back to our places. We began to chant: "We are not going to pay rent for our machines!" We repeated it over and over, for that was our chief grievance. . . .

We walked out. We did not use the near-by stairs but walked through the next room in order that the girls there might see us leaving. The girls there were busily at work quite unconscious of our strike movement. I knew that our cause was lost unless we got those girls to join us. When we got out to the street, I told my companions that all was lost unless we could get those others to walk out too. We lined up across the street shouting "Come on out!" and calling out the names of some of the girls. We kept this up until a few did obey us. Gradually others followed until the shop was almost emptied. Then we paraded to the hall on Leavitt Street for the meeting with the union leaders.

At the meeting we were called upon to state our demands. We gave them: no more machine rent; no paying for needles; free machine oil; union shop ; raises for the cutters who were paid the lowest wages. . . .

Evidently the union officers thought I was a ringleader, for when the committee was appointed to represent our group, my name was called. When Mary heard it, she said: "Why did they put Agnes on? She can't talk!"

This seems amusing to me now; also to certain of my friends who were present at that meeting, for they assure me that I have been talking ever since. . . .

We joined the picket line again and held meetings every day and evening in the hall the cutters had rented. How important we felt! Speakers sent to our evening meetings were furnished by the Chicago Federation of Labor Organization Committee headed by John Fitzpatrick. One evening they sent Sophie Becker of the Boot and Shoe Workers Union, the only woman on the organization committee. I am afraid that I was a great hero-worshipper in those days! I was so thrilled with her speech that as she left the hall I leaned over just to touch her. Then I leaned back satisfied because I had got that close to her.

All this was happening at the same time that streetcar conductors were being discharged because it became known that they were forming a union. Some of the conductors, as they passed our picket line, would throw us handsful of buttons which read:

ORGANIZE. I'M WITH YOU!

We wore those buttons on our coats, and when we boarded the cars we would watch the expression on each conductor's face to find out whether or not he had joined the union. . . .

The second week of our strike began. About the middle of the week, we girls on the picket line each received a letter from the company urging us to come back to work and promising that if we reported upon receipt of the letter our old places would be restored to us, that there would be no more machine rent or "power charge," as they called it, that needles would be furnished at cost, that machine oil would be furnished free, and that the cutters would receive a dollar a week raise. But no mention was made of our demand for a union shop.

We talked it all over with misgivings, lest some of the girls be misled by these promises. Without a company recognition of our union, we might all be lured back to work, the more progressive and outspoken of us discharged one by one, and all the old practices put back in force, perhaps even more tightly than ever. Such things had happened before. Our safety and our future, we knew, lay in our union. We decided not to return to work just yet. Meanwhile we doubled our picket line, determined that none of our group should falter.

We had hoped to get all the girls in the factory into our union, but we had had trouble with the girls of the kid glove department. Only a few of these "aristocrats" had ventured to walk out with us. The rest had remained aloof. Like the gloves they made, the kid glove makers felt that they were superior to the rest of us and used to refer haughtily to the rest of us as the "horsehide girls."

During one of the last days of our strike, one of these kid glove girls passed along our picket line on her way to work. We told her that she wasn't going in; we formed a circle around her and took her to the streetcar a block away and waited to see that she went home. We stood waiting for the car beside a long water trough where teamsters watered their horses. One girl who was holding tightly to the kid glove maker threatened, "Before I let go of you, I will duck you in that water trough." It was only an idle threat; of course she did not intend doing it.

Newspapermen were on hand trying to get stories about the strike. Luke Grant, a veteran labor reporter, was watching as we put the girl on the streetcar.

Next morning a front-page story appeared headlined, "STRIKERS DUCK GIRL IN WATER TROUGH." Other newspapers carried the same fiction and played it up for several days, some even with cartoons of the fictitious event. . . .

Perhaps because of this newspaper publicity-and Luke Grant always insisted that his story won the day for us-or perhaps because it looked as though we girls would refuse forever to return to work unless all our demands were met, the management agreed to our union shop and to the redress of our grievances. We went back to work the following Monday with, as we said, "flying colors." Our union shop, we felt, was our most important gain.

Source: Agnes Nestor. "I Became a Striker." Woman's Labor Leader (Rockford, Ill.: Bellevue Books, 1954).

MY MOTHER.

A WIGWAM of weather-stained canvas stood at the base of some irregularly ascending hills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping land till it reached the broad river bottom; creeping through the long swamp grasses that bent over it on either side, it came out on the edge of the Missouri. Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the muddy stream for our household use. Always, when my mother started for the river, I stopped my play to run along with her. She was only of medium height. Often she was sad and silent, at which times her full arched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and shadows fell under her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know what made the tears fall. "Hush; my little daughter must never talk about my tears;" and smiling through them, she patted my head and said, "Now let me see how fast you can run to-day." Whereupon I tore away at my highest possible speed, with my long black hair blowing in the breeze. I was a wild little girl of seven. Loosely clad in a slip of brown buckskin, and light-footed with a pair of soft moccasins on my feet, I was as free as the wind that blew my hair, and no less spirited than a bounding deer. These were my mother's pride, -- my wild freedom and overflowing spirits. She taught me no fear save that of intruding myself upon others. Having gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughing with glee as my mother watched my every movement. I was not wholly conscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to the fire within. It was as if I were the activity, and my hands and feet were only experiments for my spirit to work upon. Returning from the river, I tugged beside my mother, with my hand upon the bucket I believed I was carrying. One time, on such a return, I remember a bit of conversation we had. My grown-up cousin, Warca-Ziwin (Sunflower), who was then seventeen, always went to the river alone for water for her mother. Their wigwam was not far from ours; and I saw her daily going to and from the river. I admired my cousin greatly. So I said: "Mother, when I am tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you shall not have to come for water. I will do it for you." With a strange tremor in her voice which I could not understand, she answered, "If the paleface does not take away from us the river we drink." "Mother, who is this bad paleface?" I asked. "My little daughter, he is a sham, -- a sickly sham! The bronzed Dakota is the only real man." I looked up into my mother's face while she spoke; and seeing her bite her lips, I knew she was unhappy. This aroused revenge in my small soul. Stamping my foot on the earth, I cried aloud, "I hate the paleface that makes my mother cry!" Setting the pail of water on the ground, my mother stooped, and stretching her left hand out on the level with my eyes, she placed her other arm about me; she pointed to the hill where my uncle and my only sister lay buried. "There is what the paleface has done! Since then your father too has been buried in a hill nearer the rising sun. We were once very happy. But the paleface has stolen our lands and driven us hither. Having defrauded us of our land, the paleface forced us away. "Well, it happened on the day we moved camp that your sister and uncle were both very sick. Many others were ailing, but there seemed to be no help. We traveled many days and nights; not in the grand happy way that we moved camp when I was a little girl, but we were driven, my child, driven like a herd of buffalo. With every step, your sister, who was not as large as you are now, shrieked with the painful jar until she was hoarse with crying. She grew more and more feverish. Her little hands and cheeks were burning hot. Her little lips were parched and dry, but she would not drink the water I gave her. Then I discovered that her throat was swollen and red. My poor child, how I cried with her because the Great Spirit had forgotten us! "At last, when we reached this western country, on the first weary night your sister died. And soon your uncle died also, leaving a widow and an orphan daughter, your cousin Warca-Ziwin. Both your sister and uncle might have been happy with us to-day, had it not been for the heartless paleface." My mother was silent the rest of the way to our wigwam. Though I saw no tears in her eyes, I knew that was because I was with her. She seldom wept before me.

THE LEGENDS.

During the summer days, my mother built her fire in the shadow of our wigwam. In the early morning our simple breakfast was spread upon the grass west of our tepee. At the farthest point of the shade my mother sat beside her fire, toasting a savory piece of dried meat. Near her, I sat upon my feet, eating my dried meat with unleavened bread, and drinking strong black coffee. The morning meal was our quiet hour, when we two were entirely alone. At noon, several who chanced to be passing by stopped to rest, and to share our luncheon with us, for they were sure of our hospitality. My uncle, whose death my mother ever lamented, was one of our nation's bravest warriors. His name was on the lips of old men when talking of the proud feats of valor; and it was mentioned by younger men, too, in connection with deeds of gallantry. Old women praised him for his kindness toward them; young women held him up as an ideal to their sweethearts. Every one loved him, and my mother worshiped his memory. Thus it happened that even strangers were sure of welcome in our lodge, if they but asked a favor in my uncle's name. Though I heard many strange experiences related by these wayfarers, I loved best the evening meal, for that was the time old legends were told. I was always glad when the sun hung low in the west, for then my mother sent me to invite the neighboring old men and women to eat supper with us. Running all the way to the wigwams, I halted shyly at the entrances. Sometimes I stood long moments without saying a word. It was not any fear that made me so dumb when out upon such a happy errand; nor was it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for it was all I could do to observe this very proper silence. But it was a sensing of the atmosphere, to assure myself that I should not hinder other plans. My mother used to say to me, as I was almost bounding away for the old people: "Wait a moment before you invite any one. If other plans are being discussed, do not interfere, but go elsewhere." The old folks knew the meaning of my pauses; and often they coaxed my confidence by asking, "What do you seek, little granddaughter?" "My mother says you are to come to our tepee this evening," I instantly exploded, and breathed the freer afterwards. "Yes, yes, gladly, gladly I shall come!" each replied. Rising at once and carrying their blankets across one shoulder, they flocked leisurely from their various wigwams toward our dwelling. My mission done, I ran back, skipping and jumping with delight. All out of breath, I told my mother almost the exact words of the answers to my invitation. Frequently she asked, "What were they doing when you entered their tepee?" This taught me to remember all I saw at a single glance. Often I told my mother my impressions without being questioned. While in the neighboring wigwams sometimes an old Indian woman asked me, "What is your mother doing?" Unless my mother had cautioned me not to tell, I generally answered her questions without reserve. At the arrival of our guests I sat close to my mother, and did not leave her side without first asking her consent. I ate my supper in quiet, listening patiently to the talk of the old people, wishing all the time that they would begin the stories I loved best. At last, when I could not wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear, "Ask them to tell an Iktomi story, mother." Soothing my impatience, my mother said aloud, "My little daughter is anxious to hear your legends." By this time all were through eating, and the evening was fast deepening into twilight. As each in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my head in my mother's lap; and lying flat upon my back, I watched the stars as they peeped down upon me, one by one. The increasing interest of the tale aroused me, and I sat up eagerly listening for every word. The old women made funny remarks, and laughed so heartily that I could not help joining them. The distant howling of a pack of wolves or the hooting of an owl in the river bottom frightened me, and I nestled into my mother's lap. She added some dry sticks to the open fire, and the bright flames leaped up into the faces of the old folks as they sat around in a great circle. On such an evening, I remember the glare of the fire shone on a tattooed star upon the brow of the old warrior who was telling a story. I watched him curiously as he made his unconscious gestures. The blue star upon his bronzed forehead was a puzzle to me. Looking about, I saw two parallel lines on the chin of one of the old women. The rest had none. I examined my mother's face, but found no sign there. After the warrior's story was finished, I asked the old woman the meaning of the blue lines on her chin, looking all the while out of the corners of my eyes at the warrior with the star on his forehead. I was a little afraid that he would rebuke me for my boldness. Here the old woman began: "Why, my grandchild, they are signs, -- secret signs I dare not tell you. I shall, however, tell you a wonderful story about a woman who had a cross tattooed upon each of her cheeks." It was a long story of a woman whose magic power lay hidden behind the marks upon her face. I fell asleep before the story was completed. Ever after that night I felt suspicious of tattooed people. Whenever I saw one I glanced furtively at the mark and round about it, wondering what terrible magic power was covered there. It was rarely that such a fearful story as this one was told by the camp fire. Its impression was so acute that the picture still remains vividly clear and pronounced.

THE BEADWORK.

Soon after breakfast, mother sometimes began her beadwork. On a bright clear day, she pulled out the wooden pegs that pinned the skirt of our wigwam to the ground, and rolled the canvas part way up on its frame of slender poles. Then the cool morning breezes swept freely through our dwelling, now and then wafting the perfume of sweet grasses from newly burnt prairie. Untying the long tasseled strings that bound a small brown buckskin bag, my mother spread upon a mat beside her bunches of colored beads, just as an artist arranges the paints upon his palette. On a lapboard she smoothed out a double sheet of soft white buckskin; and drawing from a beaded case that hung on the left of her wide belt a long, narrow blade, she trimmed the buckskin into shape. Often she worked upon small moccasins for her small daughter. Then I became intensely interested in her designing. With a proud, beaming face, I watched her work. In imagination, I saw myself walking in a new pair of snugly fitting moccasins. I felt the envious eyes of my playmates upon the pretty red beads decorating my feet. Close beside my mother I sat on a rug, with a scrap of buckskin in one hand and an awl in the other. This was the beginning of my practical observation lessons in the art of beadwork. From a skein of finely twisted threads of silvery sinews my mother pulled out a single one. With an awl she pierced the buckskin, and skillfully threaded it with the white sinew. Picking up the tiny beads one by one, she strung them with the point of her thread, always twisting it carefully after every stitch. It took many trials before I learned how to knot my sinew thread on the point of my finger, as I saw her do. Then the next difficulty was in keeping my thread stiffly twisted, so that I could easily string my beads upon it. My mother required of me original designs for my lessons in beading. At first I frequently ensnared many a sunny hour into working a long design. Soon I learned from self-inflicted punishment to refrain from drawing complex patterns, for I had to finish whatever I began. After some experience I usually drew easy and simple crosses and squares. These were some of the set forms. My original designs were not always symmetrical nor sufficiently characteristic, two faults with which my mother had little patience. The quietness of her oversight made me feel strongly responsible and dependent upon my own judgment. She treated me as a dignified little individual as long as I was on my good behavior; and how humiliated I was when some boldness of mine drew forth a rebuke from her! In the choice of colors she left me to my own taste. I was pleased with an outline of yellow upon a background of dark blue, or a combination of red and myrtle-green. There was another of red with a bluish gray that was more conventionally used. When I became a little familiar with designing and the various pleasing combinations of color, a harder lesson was given me. It was the sewing on, instead of beads, some tinted porcupine quills, moistened and flattened between the nails of the thumb and forefinger. My mother cut off the prickly ends and burned them at once in the centre fire. These sharp points were poisonous, and worked into the flesh wherever they lodged. For this reason, my mother said, I should not do much alone in quills until I was as tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin. Always after these confining lessons I was wild with surplus spirits, and found joyous relief in running loose in the open again. Many a summer afternoon, a party of four or five of my playmates roamed over the hills with me. We each carried a light sharpened rod about four feet long, with which we pried up certain sweet roots. When we had eaten all the choice roots we chanced upon, we shouldered our rods and strayed off into patches of a stalky plant under whose yellow blossoms we found little crystal drops of gum. Drop by drop we gathered this nature's rock-candy, until each of us could boast of a lump the size of a small bird's egg. Soon satiated with its woody flavor, we tossed away our gum, to return again to the sweet roots. I remember well how we used to exchange our necklaces, beaded belts, and sometimes even our moccasins. We pretended to offer them as gifts to one another. We delighted in impersonating our own mothers. We talked of things we had heard them say in their conversations. We imitated their various manners, even to the inflection of their voices. In the lap of the prairie we seated ourselves upon our feet; and leaning our painted cheeks in the palms of our hands, we rested our elbows on our knees, and bent forward as old women were most accustomed to do. While one was telling of some heroic deed recently done by a near relative, the rest of us listened attentively, and exclaimed in undertones, "Han! han!" (yes! yes!) whenever the speaker paused for breath, or sometimes for our sympathy. As the discourse became more thrilling, according to our ideas, we raised our voices in these interjections. In these impersonations our parents were led to say only those things that were in common favor. No matter how exciting a tale we might be rehearsing, the mere shifting of a cloud shadow in the landscape near by was sufficient to change our impulses; and soon we were all chasing the great shadows that played among the hills. We shouted and whooped in the chase; laughing and calling to one another, we were like little sportive nymphs on that Dakota sea of rolling green. On one occasion, I forgot the cloud shadow in a strange notion to catch up with my own shadow. Standing straight and still, I began to glide after it, putting out one foot cautiously. When, with the greatest care, I set my foot in advance of myself, my shadow crept onward too. Then again I tried it; this time with the other foot. Still again my shadow escaped me. I began to run; and away flew my shadow, always just a step beyond me. Faster and faster I ran, setting my teeth and clenching my fists, determined to overtake my own fleet shadow. But ever swifter it glided before me, while I was growing breathless and hot. Slackening my speed, I was greatly vexed that my shadow should check its pace also. Daring it to the utmost, as I thought, I sat down upon a rock imbedded in the hillside. So! my shadow had the impudence to sit down beside me! Now my comrades caught up with me, and began to ask why I was running away so fast. "Oh, I was chasing my shadow! Didn't you ever do that?" I inquired, surprised that they should not understand. They planted their moccasined feet firmly upon my shadow to stay it, and I arose. Again my shadow slipped away, and moved as often as I did. Then we gave up trying to catch my shadow. Before this peculiar experience I have no distinct memory of having recognized any vital bond between myself and my own shadow. I never gave it an afterthought. Returning our borrowed belts and trinkets, we rambled homeward. That evening, as on other evenings, I went to sleep over my legends.

THE COFFEE-MAKING.

One summer afternoon, my mother left me alone in our wigwam, while she went across the way to my aunt's dwelling. I did not much like to stay alone in our tepee, for I feared a tall, broad-shouldered crazy man, some forty years old, who walked loose among the hills. Wiyaka-Napbina (Wearer of a Feather Necklace) was harmless, and whenever he came into a wigwam he was driven there by extreme hunger. He went nude except for the half of a red blanket he girdled around his waist. In one tawny arm he used to carry a heavy bunch of wild sunflowers that he gathered in his aimless ramblings. His black hair was matted by the winds, and scorched into a dry red by the constant summer sun. As he took great strides, placing one brown bare foot directly in front of the other, he swung his long lean arm to and fro. Frequently he paused in his walk and gazed far backward, shading his eyes with his hand. He was under the belief that an evil spirit was haunting his steps. This was what my mother told me once, when I sneered at such a silly big man. I was brave when my mother was near by, and Wiyaka-Napbina walking farther and farther away. "Pity the man, my child. I knew him when he was a brave and handsome youth. He was overtaken by a malicious spirit among the hills, one day, when he went hither and thither after his ponies. Since then he cannot stay away from the hills," she said. I felt so sorry for the man in his misfortune that I prayed to the Great Spirit to restore him. But though I pitied him at a distance, I was still afraid of him when he appeared near our wigwam. Thus, when my mother left me by myself that afternoon, I sat in a fearful mood within our tepee. I recalled all I had ever heard about Wiyaka-Napbina; and I tried to assure myself that though he might pass near by, he would not come to our wigwam because there was no little girl around our grounds. Just then, from without a hand lifted the canvas covering of the entrance; the shadow of a man fell within the wigwam, and a large roughly moccasined foot was planted inside. For a moment I did not dare to breathe or stir, for I thought that could be no other than Wiyaka-Napbina. The next instant I sighed aloud in relief. It was an old grandfather who had often told me Iktomi legends. "Where is your mother, my little grandchild?" were his first words. "My mother is soon coming back from my aunt's tepee," I replied. "Then I shall wait awhile for her return," he said, crossing his feet and seating himself upon a mat. At once I began to play the part of a generous hostess. I turned to my mother's coffeepot. Lifting the lid, I found nothing but coffee grounds in the bottom. I set the pot on a heap of cold ashes in the centre, and filled it half full of warm Missouri River water. During this performance I felt conscious of being watched. Then breaking off a small piece of our unleavened bread, I placed it in a bowl. Turning soon to the coffeepot, which would never have boiled on a dead fire had I waited forever, I poured out a cup of worse than muddy warm water. Carrying the bowl in one hand and cup in the other, I handed the light luncheon to the old warrior. I offered them to him with the air of bestowing generous hospitality. "How! how!" he said, and placed the dishes on the ground in front of his crossed feet. He nibbled at the bread and sipped from the cup. I sat back against a pole watching him. I was proud to have succeeded so well in serving refreshments to a guest all by myself. Before the old warrior had finished eating, my mother entered. Immediately she wondered where I had found coffee, for she knew I had never made any, and that she had left the coffeepot empty. Answering the question in my mother's eyes, the warrior remarked, "My granddaughter made coffee on a heap of dead ashes, and served me the moment I came." They both laughed, and mother said, "Wait a little longer, and I shall build a fire." She meant to make some real coffee. But neither she nor the warrior, whom the law of our custom had compelled to partake of my insipid hospitality, said anything to embarrass me. They treated my best judgment, poor as it was, with the utmost respect. It was not till long years afterward that I learned how ridiculous a thing I had done.

THE DEAD MAN'S PLUM BUSH. One autumn afternoon, many people came streaming toward the dwelling of our near neighbor. With painted faces, and wearing broad white bosoms of elk's teeth, they hurried down the narrow footpath to Haraka Wambdi's wigwam. Young mothers had their children by the hand, and half pulled them along in their haste. They overtook and passed by the bent old grandmothers who were trudging along with crooked canes toward the centre of excitement. Most of the young braves galloped hither on their ponies. Toothless warriors, like the old women, came more slowly, though mounted on lively ponies. They sat proudly erect on their horses. They wore their eagle plumes, and waved their various trophies of former wars. In front of the wigwam a great fire was built, and several large black kettles of venison were suspended over it. The crowd were seated about it on the grass in a great circle. Behind them some of the braves stood leaning against the necks of their ponies, their tall figures draped in loose robes which were well drawn over their eyes. Young girls, with their faces glowing like bright red autumn leaves, their glossy braids falling over each ear, sat coquettishly beside their chaperons. It was a custom for young Indian women to invite some older relative to escort them to the public feasts. Though it was not an iron law, it was generally observed. Haraka Wambdi was a strong young brave, who had just returned from his first battle, a warrior. His near relatives, to celebrate his new rank, were spreading a feast to which the whole of the Indian village was invited. Holding my pretty striped blanket in readiness to throw over my shoulders, I grew more and more restless as I watched the gay throng assembling. My mother was busily broiling a wild duck that my aunt had that morning brought over. "Mother, mother, why do you stop to cook a small meal when we are invited to a feast?" I asked, with a snarl in my voice. "My child, learn to wait. On our way to the celebration we are going to stop at Chanyu's wigwam. His aged mother-in-law is lying very ill, and I think she would like a taste of this small game." Having once seen the suffering on the thin, pinched features of this dying woman, I felt a momentary shame that I had not remembered her before. On our way, I ran ahead of my mother, and was reaching out my hand to pick some purple plums that grew on a small bush, when I was checked by a low "Sh!" from my mother. "Why, mother, I want to taste the plums!" I exclaimed, as I dropped my hand to my side in disappointment. "Never pluck a single plum from this bush, my child, for its roots are wrapped around an Indian's skeleton. A brave is buried here. While he lived, he was so fond of playing the game of striped plum seeds that, at his death, his set of plum seeds were buried in his hands. From them sprang up this little bush." Eyeing the forbidden fruit, I trod lightly on the sacred ground, and dared to speak only in whispers, until we had gone many paces from it. After that time, I halted in my ramblings whenever I came in sight of the plum bush. I grew sober with awe, and was alert to hear a long-drawn-out whistle rise from the roots of it. Though I had never heard with my own ears this strange whistle of departed spirits, yet I had listened so frequently to hear the old folks describe it that I knew I should recognize it at once. The lasting impression of that day, as I recall it now, is what my mother told me about the dead man's plum bush.

THE GROUND SQUIRREL.

In the busy autumn days, my cousin Warca-Ziwin's mother came to our wigwam to help my mother preserve foods for our winter use. I was very fond of my aunt, because she was not so quiet as my mother. Though she was older, she was more jovial and less reserved. She was slender and remarkably erect. While my mother's hair was heavy and black, my aunt had unusually thin locks. Ever since I knew her, she wore a string of large blue beads around her neck, -- beads that were precious because my uncle had given them to her when she was a younger woman. She had a peculiar swing in her gait, caused by a long stride rarely natural to so slight a figure. It was during my aunt's visit with us that my mother forgot her accustomed quietness, often laughing heartily at some of my aunt's witty remarks. I loved my aunt threefold: for her hearty laughter, for the cheerfulness she caused my mother, and most of all for the times she dried my tears and held me in her lap, when my mother had reproved me. Early in the cool mornings, just as the yellow rim of the sun rose above the hills, we were up and eating our breakfast. We awoke so early that we saw the sacred hour when a misty smoke hung over a pit surrounded by an impassable sinking mire. This strange smoke appeared every morning, both winter and summer; but most visibly in midwinter it rose immediately above the marshy spot. By the time the full face of the sun appeared above the eastern horizon, the smoke vanished. Even very old men, who had known this country the longest, said that the smoke from this pit had never failed a single day to rise heavenward. As I frolicked about our dwelling, I used to stop suddenly, and with a fearful awe watch the smoking of the unknown fires. While the vapor was visible, I was afraid to go very far from our wigwam unless I went with my mother. From a field in the fertile river bottom my mother and aunt gathered an abundant supply of corn. Near our tepee, they spread a large canvas upon the grass, and dried their sweet corn in it. I was left to watch the corn, that nothing should disturb it. I played around it with dolls made of ears of corn. I braided their soft fine silk for hair, and gave them blankets as various as the scraps I found in my mother's workbag. There was a little stranger with a black-and-yellow-striped coat that used to come to the drying corn. It was a little ground squirrel, who was so fearless of me that he came to one corner of the canvas and carried away as much of the sweet corn as he could hold. I wanted very much to catch him, and rub his pretty fur back, but my mother said he would be so frightened if I caught him that he would bite my fingers. So I was as content as he to keep the corn between us. Every morning he came for more corn. Some evenings I have seen him creeping about our grounds; and when I gave a sudden whoop of recognition, he ran quickly out of sight. When mother had dried all the corn she wished, then she sliced great pumpkins into thin rings; and these she doubled and linked together into long chains. She hung them on a pole that stretched between two forked posts. The wind and sun soon thoroughly dried the chains of pumpkin. Then she packed them away in a case of thick and stiff buckskin. In the sun and wind she also dried many wild fruits, -- cherries, berries, and plums. But chiefest among my early recollections of autumn is that one of the corn drying and the ground squirrel. I have few memories of winter days, at this period of my life, though many of the summer. There is one only which I can recall. Some missionaries gave me a little bag of marbles. They were all sizes and colors. Among them were some of colored glass. Walking with my mother to the river, on a late winter day, we found great chunks of ice piled all along the bank. The ice on the river was floating in huge pieces. As I stood beside one large block, I noticed for the first time the colors of the rainbow in the crystal ice. Immediately I thought of my glass marbles at home. With my bare fingers I tried to pick out some of the colors, for they seemed so near the surface. But my fingers began to sting with the intense cold, and I had to bite them hard to keep from crying. From that day on, for many a moon, I believed that glass marbles had river ice inside of them.

THE BIG RED APPLES.

The first turning away from the easy, natural flow of my life occurred in an early spring. It was my eighth year; in the month of March, I afterward learned. At this age I knew but one language, and that was my mother's native tongue. From some of my playmates I heard that two paleface missionaries were in our village. They were from that class of white men who wore big hats and carried large hearts, they said. Running direct to my mother, I began to question her why these two strangers were among us. She told me, after I had teased much, that they had come to take away Indian boys and girls to the East. My mother did not seem to want me to talk about them. But in a day or two, I gleaned many wonderful stories from my playfellows concerning the strangers. "Mother, my friend Judewin is going home with the missionaries. She is going to a more beautiful country than ours; the palefaces told her so!" I said wistfully, wishing in my heart that I too might go. Mother sat in a chair, and I was hanging on her knee. Within the last two seasons my big brother Dawee had returned from a three years' education in the East, and his coming back influenced my mother to take a farther step from her native way of living. First it was a change from the buffalo skin to the white man's canvas that covered our wigwam. Now she had given up her wigwam of slender poles, to live, a foreigner, in a home of clumsy logs. "Yes, my child, several others besides Judewin are going away with the palefaces. Your brother said the missionaries had inquired about his little sister," she said, watching my face very closely. My heart thumped so hard against my breast, I wondered if she could hear it. "Did he tell them to take me, mother?" I asked, fearing lest Dawee had forbidden the palefaces to see me, and that my hope of going to the Wonderland would be entirely blighted. With a sad, slow smile, she answered: "There! I knew you were wishing to go, because Judewin has filled your ears with the white men's lies. Don't believe a word they say! Their words are sweet, but, my child, their deeds are bitter. You will cry for me, but they will not even soothe you. Stay with me, my little one! Your brother Dawee says that going East, away from your mother, is too hard an experience for his baby sister." Thus my mother discouraged my curiosity about the lands beyond our eastern horizon; for it was not yet an ambition for Letters that was stirring me. But on the following day the missionaries did come to our very house. I spied them coming up the footpath leading to our cottage. A third man was with them, but he was not my brother Dawee. It was another, a young interpreter, a paleface who had a smattering of the Indian language. I was ready to run out to meet them, but I did not dare to displease my mother. With great glee, I jumped up and down on our ground floor. I begged my mother to open the door, that they would be sure to come to us. Alas! They came, they saw, and they conquered! Judewin had told me of the great tree where grew red, red apples; and how we could reach out our hands and pick all the red apples we could eat. I had never seen apple trees. I had never tasted more than a dozen red apples in my life; and when I heard of the orchards of the East, I was eager to roam among them. The missionaries smiled into my eyes, and patted my head. I wondered how mother could say such hard words against them. "Mother, ask them if little girls may have all the red apples they want, when they go East," I whispered aloud, in my excitement. The interpreter heard me, and answered: "Yes, little girl, the nice red apples are for those who pick them; and you will have a ride on the iron horse if you go with these good people." I had never seen a train, and he knew it. "Mother, I'm going East! I like big red apples, and I want to ride on the iron horse! Mother, say yes!" I pleaded. My mother said nothing. The missionaries waited in silence; and my eyes began to blur with tears, though I struggled to choke them back. The corners of my mouth twitched, and my mother saw me. "I am not ready to give you any word," she said to them. "To-morrow I shall send you my answer by my son." With this they left us. Alone with my mother, I yielded to my tears, and cried aloud, shaking my head so as not to hear what she was saying to me. This was the first time I had ever been so unwilling to give up my own desire that I refused to hearken to my mother's voice. There was a solemn silence in our home that night. Before I went to bed I begged the Great Spirit to make my mother willing I should go with the missionaries. The next morning came, and my mother called me to her side. "My daughter, do you still persist in wishing to leave your mother?" she asked. "Oh, mother, it is not that I wish to leave you, but I want to see the wonderful Eastern land," I answered. My dear old aunt came to our house that morning, and I heard her say, "Let her try it." I hoped that, as usual, my aunt was pleading on my side. My brother Dawee came for mother's decision. I dropped my play, and crept close to my aunt. "Yes, Dawee, my daughter, though she does not understand what it all means, is anxious to go. She will need an education when she is grown, for then there will be fewer real Dakotas, and many more palefaces. This tearing her away, so young, from her mother is necessary, if I would have her an educated woman. The palefaces, who owe us a large debt for stolen lands, have begun to pay a tardy justice in offering some education to our children. But I know my daughter must suffer keenly in this experiment. For her sake, I dread to tell you my reply to the missionaries. Go, tell them that they may take my little daughter, and that the Great Spirit shall not fail to reward them according to their hearts." Wrapped in my heavy blanket, I walked with my mother to the carriage that was soon to take us to the iron horse. I was happy. I met my playmates, who were also wearing their best thick blankets. We showed one another our new beaded moccasins, and the width of the belts that girdled our new dresses. Soon we were being drawn rapidly away by the white man's horses. When I saw the lonely figure of my mother vanish in the distance, a sense of regret settled heavily upon me. I felt suddenly weak, as if I might fall limp to the ground. I was in the hands of strangers whom my mother did not fully trust. I no longer felt free to be myself, or to voice my own feelings. The tears trickled down my cheeks, and I buried my face in the folds of my blanket. Now the first step, parting me from my mother, was taken, and all my belated tears availed nothing. Having driven thirty miles to the ferryboat, we crossed the Missouri in the evening. Then riding again a few miles eastward, we stopped before a massive brick building. I looked at it in amazement and with a vague misgiving, for in our village I had never seen so large a house. Trembling with fear and distrust of the palefaces, my teeth chattering from the chilly ride, I crept noiselessly in my soft moccasins along the narrow hall, keeping very close to the bare wall. I was as frightened and bewildered as the captured young of a wild creature.

Source: Zitkala-Sa. "Impressions of an Indian Childhood." Atlantic Monthly 85 (1900): 37-47.

Work in the coal breakers is exceedingly hard and dangerous. Crouched over the chutes, the boys sit hour after hour, picking out the pieces of slate and other refuse from the coal as it rushes past to the washers. From the cramped position they have to assume, most of them become more or less deformed and bent-backed like old men. When a boy has been working for some time and begins to get round-shouldered, his fellows say that "He's got his boy to carry round wherever he goes."

The coal is hard, and accidents to the hands, such as cut, broken, or crushed fingers, are common among the boys. Sometimes there is a worse accident: a terrified shriek is heard, and a boy is mangled and torn in the machinery, or disappears in the chute to be picked out later smothered and dead. Clouds of dust fill the breakers and are inhaled by the boys, laying the foundations for asthma and miners' consumption.

I once stood in a breaker for half an hour and tried to do the work a twelve-year-old boy was doing day after day, for ten hours at a stretch, for sixty cents a day. The gloom of the breaker appalled me. Outside the sun shone brightly, the air was pellucid [clear], and the birds sang in chorus with the trees and the rivers. Within the breaker there was blackness, clouds of deadly dust enfolded everything, the harsh, grinding roar of the machinery and the ceaseless rushing of coal through the chutes filled the ears. I tried to pick out the pieces of slate from the hurrying stream of coal, often missing them; my hands were bruised and cut in a few minutes; I was covered from head to foot with coal dust, and for many hours afterwards I was expectorating some of the small particles of anthracite I had swallowed.

I could not do that work and live, but there were boys of ten and twelve years of age doing it for fifty and sixty cents a day. Some of them had never been inside of a school; few of them could read a child's primer. True, some of them attended the night schools, but after working ten hours in the breaker the educational results from attending school were practically nil. "We goes fer a good time, an' we keeps de guys wot's dere hoppin' all de time," said little Owen Jones, whose work I had been trying to do. . . .

As I stood in that breaker I thought of the reply of the small boy to Robert Owen. Visiting an English coal mine one day, Owen asked a twelve-year-old lad if he knew God. The boy stared vacantly at his questioner: "God?" he said, "God? No, I don't. He must work in some other mine." It was hard to realize amid the danger and din and blackness of that Pennsylvania breaker that such a thing as belief in a great All-good God existed.

From the breakers the boys graduate to the mine depths, where they become door tenders, switch boys, or mule drivers. Here, far below the surface, work is still more dangerous. At fourteen or fifteen the boys assume the same risks as the men, and are surrounded by the same perils. Nor is it in Pennsylvania only that these conditions exist. In the bituminous mines of West Virginia, boys of nine or ten are frequently employed. I met one little fellow ten years old in Mt. Carbon, W. Va., last year, who was employed as a "trap boy." Think of what it means to be a trap boy at ten years of age. It means tosit alone in a dark mine passage hour after hour, with no human soul near; to see no living creature except the mules as they pass with their loads, or a rat or two seeking to share one's meal; to stand in water or mud that covers the ankles, chilled to the marrow by the cold draughts that rush in when you open the trap door for the mules to pass through; to work for fourteen hours-waiting-opening and shutting a door-then waiting again for sixty cents; to reach the surface when all is wrapped in the mantle of night, and to fall to the earth exhausted and have to be carried away to the nearest "shack" to be revived before it is possible to walk to the farther shack called "home."

Boys twelve years of age may be legally employed in the mines of West Virginia, by day or by night, and for as many hours as the employers care to make them toil or their bodies will stand the strain. Where the disregard of child life is such that this may be done openly and with legal sanction, it is easy to believe what miners have again and again told me-that there are hundreds of little boys of nine and ten years of age employed in the coal mines of this state.

Source: John Spargo, The Bitter Cry of Children (New York: Macmillan, 1906), 163-165.

About the same time that the bitter cold came father told me one night that he had found work for me in a shop where he knew the presser. I lay awake long that night. I was eager to begin life on my own responsibility but was also afraid. We arose earlier than usual that morning for father had to take me to the shop and not be over late for his own work. I wrapped my thimble and scissors, with a piece of bread for breakfast, in a bit of newspaper, carefully stuck two needles into the lapel of my coat and we started.

The shop was on Pelem Street, a shop district one block long and just wide enough for two ordinary sized wagons to pass each other. We stopped at a door where I noticed at once a brown shining porcelain knob and a half rubbed off number seven. Father looked at his watch and at me.

"Don't look so frightened," he said. "You need not go in until seven. Perhaps if you start in at this hour he will think you have been in the habit of beginning at seven and will not expect you to come in earlier. Remember, be independent. At seven o'clock rise and go home no matter whether the others go or stay."

He began to tell me something else but broke off suddenly, said "good-bye" over his shoulder and went away quickly. I watched him until he turned into Monroe Street.

Now only I felt frightened, and waiting made me nervous, so I tried the knob. The door yielded heavily and closed slowly. I was half way up when it closed entirely, leaving me in darkness. I groped my way to the top of the stairs and hearing a clattering noise of machines, I felt about, found a door, and pushed it open and went in. A tall, beardless man stood folding coats at a table. I went over and asked him for the name (I don't remember what it was.) "Yes," he said crossly. "What do you want?"

I said, "I am the new feller hand." He looked at me from head to foot. My face felt so burning hot that I could scarcely see.

"It is more likely," he said, "that you can pull bastings than fell sleeve lining." Then turning from me he shouted over the noise of the machine: "Presser, is this the girl?" The presser put down the iron and looked at me. "I suppose so," he said, "I only know the father."

The cross man looked at me again and said, "Let's see what you can do." He kicked a chair, from which the back had been broken off, to the finisher's table, threw a coat upon it and said, raising the corner of his mouth: "Make room for the new feller hand."

One girl tittered, two men glanced at me over their shoulders and pushed their chairs apart a little. By this time I scarcely knew what I was about. I laid my coat down somewhere and pushed my bread into the sleeve. Then I stumbled into the bit of space made for me at the table, drew in the chair and sat down. The men were so close to me at each side I felt the heat of their bodies and could not prevent myself from shrinking away. The men noticed and probably felt hurt. One made a joke, the other laughed and the girls bent their heads low over their work. All at once the thought came: "If I don't do this coat quickly and well he will send me away at once." I picked up the coat, threaded my needle, and began hastily, repeating the lesson father impressed upon me. "Be careful not to twist the sleeve lining, take small false stitches."

My hands trembled so that I could not hold the needle properly. It took me a long while to do the coat. But at last it was done. I took it over to the boss and stood at the table waiting while he was examining it. He took long, trying every stitch with his needle. Finally he put it down and without looking at me gave me two other coats. I felt very happy! When I sat down at the table I drew my knees close together and stitched as quickly as I could.

When the pedlar (sic) came into the shop everybody bought rolls. I felt hungry but I was ashamed and would not eat the plain, heavy rye bread while the others ate rolls.

All day I took my finished work and laid it on the boss's table. He would glance at the clock and give me other work. Before the day was over I knew that this was a "piece work shop," that there were four machines and sixteen people were working. I also knew that I had done almost as much work as "the grown-up girls" and that they did not like me. I heard Betsy, the head feller hand, talking about "a snip of a girl coming and taking the very bread out of your mouth." The only one who could have been my friend was the presser who knew my father. But him I did not like. The worst I knew about him just now was that he was a soldier because the men called him so. But a soldier, I had learned, was capable of anything. And so, noticing that he looked at me often, I studiously kept my eyes from his corner of the room.

Seven o'clock came and everyone worked on. I wanted to rise as father had told me to do and go home. But I had not the courage to stand up alone. I kept putting off going from minute to minute. My neck felt stiff and my back ached. I wished there were a back to my chair so that I could rest against it a little. When the people began to go home it seemed to me that it had been night a long time.

The next morning when I came into the shop at seven o'clock, I saw at once that all the people were there and working steadily as if they had been at work a long while. I had just time to put away my coat and go over to the table, when the boss shouted gruffly, "Look here, girl, if you want to work here you better come in early. No office hours in my shop." It seemed very still in the room, even the machines stopped. And his voice sounded dreadfully distinct. I hastened into the bit of space between the two men and sat down. He brought me two coats and snapped, "Hurry with these!"

From this hour a hard life began for me. He refused to employ me except by the week. He paid me three dollars and for this he hurried me from early until late. He gave me only two coats at a time to do. When I took them over and as he handed me the new work he would say quickly and sharply, "Hurry!" And when he did not say it in words he looked at me and I seemed to hear even more plainly, "Hurry!" I hurried but he was never satisfied. By looks and manner he made me feel that I was not doing enough Late at night when the people would standup and begin to fold their work away and I too would rise, feeling stiff in every limb and thinking with dread of our cold empty little room and the uncooked rice, he would come over with still another coat.

"I need it the first thing in the morning," he would give as an excuse. I understood that he was taking advantage of me because I was a child. And now that it was dark in the shop except for the low single gas jet over my table and the one over his at the other end of the room, and there was no one to see, more tears fell on the sleeve lining as I bent over it than there were stitches in it.

I did not soon complain to father. I had given him an idea of the people and the work during the first days. But when I had been in the shop a few weeks I told him, "The boss is hurrying the life out of me." I know now that if I had put it less strongly he would have paid more attention to it. Father hated to hear things put strongly. Besides he himself worked very hard. He never came home before eleven and he left at five in the morning.

He said to me now, "Work a little longer until you have more experience; then you can be independent."

"But if I did piece work, father, I would not have to hurry so. And I could go home earlier when the other people go."

Father explained further, "It pays him better to employ you by the week. Don't you see if you did piece work he would have to pay you as much as he pays a woman piece worker? But this way he gets almost as much work out of you for half the amount a woman is paid."

I myself did not want to leave the shop for fear of losing a day or even more perhaps in finding other work. To lose half a dollar meant that it would take so much longer before mother and the children would come. And now I wanted them more than ever before. I longed for my mother and a home where it would be light and warm and she would be waiting when we came from work.

When I was a very small boy I lived in Italy in a large house with many other small boys, who were all dressed alike and were taken care of by some nuns. It was a good place, situated on the side of the mountain, where grapes were growing and melons and oranges and plums.

They taught us our letters and how to pray and say the catechism, and we worked in the fields during the middle of the day. We always had enough to eat and good beds to sleep in at night, and sometimes there were feast days, when we marched about wearing flowers.

Those were good times and they lasted till I was nearly eight years of age. Then an old man came and said he was my grandfather. He showed some papers and cried over me and said that the money had come at last and now he could take me to his beautiful home. He seemed very glad to see me and after they looked at his papers he took me away and we went to the big city--Naples. He kept talking about his beautiful house, but when we got there it was a dark cellar that he lived in and I did not like it at all. Very rich people were on the first floor. They had carriages and servants and music and plenty of good things to eat, but we were down below in the cellar and had nothing. There were four other boys in the cellar and the old man said they were all my brothers. All were larger than I and they beat me at first till one day Francisco said that they should not beat me any more, and then Paulo, who was the largest of all, fought him till Francisco drew a knife and gave him a cut. Then Paulo, too, got a knife and said that he would kill Francisco, but the old man knocked them both down with a stick and took their knives away and gave them beatings.

Each morning we boys all went out to beg and we begged all day near the churches and altar the theatres, running to the carriages and opening the doors and then getting in the way of the people so that they had to give us money or walk over us. The old man often watched us and at night he took all the money, except when we could hide something.

We played tricks on the people, for when we saw some coming that we thought were rich I began to cry and covered my face and stood on one foot, and the others gathered around me and said:

"Don't cry! Don't cry!"

Then the ladies would stop and ask: "What is he crying about? What is the matter, little boy?

"Francisco or Paulo would answer: "He is very sad because his mother is dead and they have laid her in the grave.

"Then the ladies would give me money and the others would take most of it from me.

The old man told us to follow the Americans and the English people, as they were all rich, and if we annoyed them enough they would give us plenty of money. He taught us that if a young man was walking with a young woman he would always give us silver because he would be ashamed to let the young woman see him give us less. There was also a great church where sick people were cured by the saints, and when they came out they were so glad that they gave us money.

Begging was not bad in the summer time because we went all over the streets and there was plenty to see, and if we got much money we could spend some buying things to eat. The old man knew we did that. He used to feel us and smell us to see if we had eaten anything, and he often beat us for eating when we had not eaten.

Early in the morning we had breakfast of black bread rubbed over with garlic or with a herring to give it a flavor. The old man would eat the garlic or the herring himself, but he would rub our bread with it, which he said was as good. He told us that boys should not be greedy and that it was good to fast and that it was good to fast and that all saints all had fasted. He had a figure of a saint in one corner of the cellar and prayed night and morning that the saint would help him to get money. He made us pray, too, for he said that it was good luck to be religious.

We used to sleep on the floor, but often we could not sleep much because men came in very late at night and played cards with the old man. He sold them wine from a barrel that stood on one end of the table that was there, and if they drank much he won their money. One night he won so much that he was glad and promised the saint some candles for his altar in the church. But that was to get more money. Two nights after that the same men who had lost the money came back and said that they wanted to play again. They were very friendly and laughing, but they won all the money and the old man said they were cheating. So they beat him and went away. When he got up again he took a stick and knocked down the saint's figure and said that he would give no more candles.

I was with the old man for three years. I don't believe that he was my grandfather, tho he must have known something about me because he had those papers.

It was very hard in the winter time for we had no shoes and we shivered a great deal. The old man said that we were no good, that we were ruining him, that we did not bring in enough money. He told me that I was fat and that people would not give money to fat beggars. He beat me, too, because I didn't like to steal, as I had heard that it was wrong.

"Ah!" said he, "that is what they taught you at that place, is it? To disobey your grandfather that fought with Garibaldi! That is a fine religion!"

The others all stole as well as begged, but I didn't like it and Francisco didn't like it either.

Then the old man said to me: "If you don't want to be a thief you can be a cripple. That is an easy life and they make a great deal of money.

"I was frightened then, and that night I heard him talking to one of the men that came to see him. He asked how much he would charge to make me a good cripple like those that crawl about the church. They had a dispute, but at last they agreed and the man said that I should be made so that people would shudder and give me plenty of money.

I was much frightened, but I did not make a sound and in the morning I went out to beg with Francisco. I said to him: "I am going to run away. I don't believe 'Tony is my grandfather. I don't believe that he fought for Garibaldi, and I don't want to be a cripple, no matter how much money the people may give." "Where will you go?" Francisco asked me. "I don't know," said I; "somewhere." He thought awhile and then he said: "I will go, too." So we ran away out of the city and begged from the country people as we went along. We came to a village down by the sea and a long way from Naples and there we found some fishermen and they took us aboard their boat. We were with them five years, and tho it was a very hard life we liked it well because there was always plenty to eat. Fish do not keep long and those that we did not sell we ate.

The chief fisherman, whose name was Ciguciano, had a daughter, Teresa, who was very beautiful, and tho she was two years younger than I, she could cook and keep house quite well. She was a kind, good girl and he was a good man. When we told him about our grandfather, the fisherman said he was an old rascal who should be in prison for life. Teresa cried much when she heard that he was going to make me a cripple. Ciguciano said that all the old man had taught us was wrong--that it was bad to beg, to steal and to tell lies. He called in the priest and the priest said the same thing and was very angry at the old man in Naples, and he taught us to read and[end p. 2864] write in the evenings. He also taught us our duties to the church and said that the saints were good and would only help men to do good things, and that it was a wonder that lightning from heaven had not struck the old man dead when he knocked down the saint's figure.

We grew large and strong with the fisherman and he told us that we were getting too big for him, that he could not afford to pay us the money that we were worth. He was a fine, honest man-one in a thousand.

Now and then I had heard things about America--that it was a far off country where everybody was rich and that Italians went there and made plenty of money, so that they could return to Italy and live in pleasure ever after. One day I met a young man who pulled out a handful of gold and told me he had made that in America in a few days.

I said I should like to go there, and he told me that if I went he would take care of me and see that I was safe. I told Francisco and he wanted to go, too. So we said good-by to our good friends. Teresa cried and kissed us both and the priest came and shook our hands and told us to be good men, and that no matter where we went God and his saints were always near us and that if we lived well we should all meet again in heaven. We cried, too, for it was our home, that place. Ciguciano gave us money and slapped us on the back and said that we should be great. But he felt bad, too, at seeing us go away after all that time.

The young man took us to a big ship and got us work away down where the fires are. We had to carry coal to the place where it could be thrown on the fires. Francisco and I were very sick from the great heat at first and lay on the coal for a long time, but they threw water on us and made us get up. We could not stand on our feet well, for everything was going around and we had no strength. We said that we wished we had stayed in Italy no matter how much gold there was in America. We could not eat for three days and could not do much work. Then we got better and sometimes we went up above and looked about. There was no land anywhere and we were much surprised. How could the people tell where to go when there was no land to steer by?

We were so long on the water that we began to think we should never get to America or that, perhaps, there was not any such place, but at last we saw land and came up to New York.

We were glad to get over without giving money, but I have heard since that we should have been paid for our work among the coal and that the young man who had sent us got money for it. We were all landed on an island and the bosses there said that Francisco and I must go back because we had not enough money, but a man named Bartolo came up and told them that we were brothers and he was our uncle and would take care of us. He brought two other men who swore that they knew us in Italy and that Bartolo was our uncle. I had never seen any of them before, but even then Bartolo might be my uncle, so I did not say anything. The bosses of the island let us go out with Bartolo after he had made the oath.

We came to Brooklyn to a wooden house in Adams Street that was full of Italians from Naples. Bartolo had a room on the third floor and there were fifteen men in the room, all boarding with Bartolo. He did the cooking on a stove in the middle of the room and there were beds all around the sides, one bed above another. It was very hot in the room, but we were soon asleep, for we were very tired.

The next morning, early, Bartolo told us to go out and pick rags and get bottles. He gave us bags and hooks and showed us the ash barrels. On the streets where the fine houses are the people are very careless and put out good things, like mattresses and umbrellas, clothes, hats and boots. We brought all these to Bartolo and he made them new again and sold them on the sidewalk; but mostly wrought rags and bones. The rags we had to wash in the back yard and then we hung them to dry on lines under the ceiling in our room. The bones we kept under the beds till Bartolo could find a man to buy them.

Most of the men in our room worked at digging the sewer. Bartolo got them the work and they paid him about one quarter of their wages. Then he charged them for board and he bought the clothes for them, too. So they got little money after all. Bartolo was always saying that the rent of the room was so high that he could not make anything, but he was really making plenty. He was what they call a padrone and is now a very rich man. The men that were living with him had just come to the country and could not speak English. They had all been sent by the young man we met in Italy. Barton told us all that we must work for him and that if we did not the police would come and put us in prison.

He gave us very little money, and our clothes were some of those that were found on the street. Still we had enough to eat and we had meat quite often, which we never had in Italy. Bartolo got it from the butcher--the meat that he could not sell to the other people--but it was quite good meat. Bartolo cooked it in the pan while we all sat on our beds in the evening. Then he cut it into small bits and passed the pan around, saying:

"See what I do for you and yet you are not glad. I am too kind a man, that is why I am so poor."

We were with Bartolo nearly a year, but some of our countrymen who had been in the place along time said that Bartolo had no right to us and we could get work for a dollar and a half a day, which, when you make it lire (reckoned in the Italian currency) is very much. So we went away one day to Newark and got work on the street. Bartolo came after us and made a great noise, but the boss said that if he did not go away soon the police would have him. Then he went, saying that there was no justice in this country.

We paid a man five dollars each for netting us the work and we were with that boss for six months. He was Irish, but a good man and he gave us our money every Saturday night. We lived much better than with Bartolo, and when the work was done we each had nearly $200 saved. Plenty of the men spoke English and they taught us, and we taught them to read and write. That was at night, for we had a lamp in our room, and there were only five other men who lived in that room with us.

We got up at half-past five o'clock every morning and made coffee on the stove and had a breakfast of bread and cheese, onions, garlic and red herrings. We went to work at seven o'clock and in the middle of the day we had soup and bread in a place where we got it for two cents a plate. In the evenings we had a good dinner with meat of some kind and potatoes. We got from the butcher the meat that other people would not buy because they said it was old, but they don't know what is good. We paid four or five cents a pound for it and it was the best, tho I have heard of people paying sixteen cents a pound.

When the Newark boss told us that there was no more work Francisco and I talked about what we would do and we went back to Brooklyn to a saloon near Hamilton Ferry, where we got a job cleaning it out and slept in a little room upstairs. There was a bootblack named Michael on the corner and when I had time I helped him and learned the business. Francisco cooked the lunch in the saloon and he, too, worked for the bootblack and we were soon able to make the best polish.

Then we thought we would go into business and we got a basement on Hamilton avenue, near the Ferry, and put four chairs in it. We paid $75 for the chairs and all the other things. We had tables and looking glasses there and curtains. We took the papers that have the pictures in and made the place high toned. Outside we had a big sign that said:

THE BEST SHINE FOR TEN CENTS.

Men that did not want to pay ten cents could get a good shine for five cents, but it was not an oil shine. We had two boys helping us and paid each of them fifty cents a day. The rent of the place was $20 a month, so the expenses were very great, but we made money from the beginning. We slept in the basement, but got our meals in the saloon till we could put a stove in our place, and then Francisco cooked for us all. That would not do, tho, because some of our customers said that they did not like to smell garlic and onions and red herrings. I thought that was strange, but we had to do what the customers said. So we got the woman who lived upstairs to give us our meals and paid her $1.50 a week each. She gave the boys soup in the middle of the day-five cents for two plates.

We remembered the priest, the friend of Ciguciano, and what he had said to us about religion, and as soon as we came to the country we began to go to the Italian church. The priest we found here was a good man, but he asked the people for money for the church. The Italians did not like to give because they said it looked like buying religion. The priest says it is different here from Italy because all the churches there are what they call endowed, while here all they have is what the people give. Of course I and Francisco understand that, but the Italians who cannot read and write shake their hands and say that it is wrong for a priest to want money.

We had said that when we saved $1,000 each we would go back to Italy and buy a farm, but now that the time is coming we are so busy and making so much money that we think we will stay. We have opened another parlor near South Ferry, in New York. We have to pay $30 a month rent, but the business is very good. The boys in this place charge sixty cents a day because there is so much work.

At first we did not know much of this country, but by and by we learned. There are here plenty of Protestants who are heretics, but they have a religion, too. Many of the finest churches are Protestant, but they have no saints and no altars, which seems strange.

These people are without a king such as ours in Italy. It is what they call a Republic, as Garibaldi wanted, and every year in the fall the people vote. They wanted us to vote last fall, but we did not. A man came and said that he would get us made Americans for fifty cents and then we could get two dollars for our votes. I talked to some of our people and they told me that we should have to put a paper I a box telling who we wanted to govern us. I went with five men to the court and when they asked me how long I had been in the country I told them two years. Afterward my countrymen said I was a fool and would never learn politics." You should have said you were five years here and then we would swear to it," was what they told me.

There are two kinds of people that vote here, Republicans and Democrats. I went to a Republican meeting and the man said that the Republicans want a Republic and Democrats are against it. He said that Democrats are for a king whose name is Bryan and who is an Irishman. There are some good Irishmen, but many of them insult Italians. They call us Dagoes. So I will be a Republican.

I like this country now and I don't see why we should have a king. Garibaldi didn't want a king and he was the greatest man that ever lived.

I and Francisco are to be Americans in three years. The court gave us papers and said we must wait and we must be able to read some things and tell who the ruler of the country is.

There are plenty of rich Italians here, men who a few years ago had nothing and now have so much money that they could not count all their dollars in a week. The richest ones go away from the other Italians and live with the Americans.

We have joined a club and have much pleasure in the evenings. The club has rooms down in Sackett Street and we meet many people and are learning new things all the time. We were very ignorant when we came here, but now we have learned much.

On Sundays we get a horse and carriage from the grocer and go down to Coney Island. We go to the theatres often and other evenings we go to the houses of our friends and play cards.

I am nineteen years of age now and have $700 saved. Francisco is twenty-one and has about $900. We shall open some more parlors soon. I know an Italian who was a bootblack ten years ago and now bosses bootblacks all over the city, who as so much money that if it was turned into gold it would weigh more than himself.

Francisco and I have a room to ourselves now and some people call us "swells." Ciguciano said that we should be great men. Francisco bought a gold watch with a gold chain as thick as this thumb. He is a very handsome fellow and I think he likes a young lady that he met at a picnic out at Ridgewood.

I often think of Ciguciano and Teresa. He is a good man, one in a thousand, and she was very beautiful. May be I shall write to them about coming to this country.

Brooklyn, New York

Source: Rocco Corresca, "The Biography of a Bootblack," The Independentv. LIV, no. 2818 (Thursday, December 4, 1902); 2863-2867.

I first became interested in the movies when I had started to kindergarten. I had gone to the theater before but I had not paid much attention to them while sitting on my mother's lap or down in what seemed to me a very low seat. In school I heard the other children talking about cowboys and detectives and policemen that they had seen on the screen. When I again went I saw an exciting serial and William S. Hart which made me clamor to come back on the same day weekly. I kept up with that serial and several others when that one had ended. I did not lose interest in these pictures until a few years ago when I took to a higher type and more refined picture. I learned through education to distinguish between a good picture educationally and a bad or poor picture. This led me to those dramas mostly, although I occasionally go to see a serial or a Western story.

The earliest movie stars that I can remember were Wm. S. Hart and Tom Mix who played entirely in Western stories. I liked to see them shoot the villain and save the girl and "live happily ever after." It caused me to shout as loudly, or louder, than the rest. Following them came Douglas Fairbanks, who seemed so carefree and light that he won nearly everyone with his personality. He would jump, use a lasso, thrust a sword, and fight in a way to satisfy any child's desire for action. Now I have no special star but I think Emil Jannings is a great actor because he seems to put his heart and soul into his work.

As a boy, I went with nearly every one to the theater; my mother, father, sister or brother, relatives, and friends. Usually I went in the afternoon or evening, anywhere from one to five times a week. Now I still go with my relatives occasionally but mostly with friends or alone.

I cannot recall anything that I have done that I had seen in the movies except try to make love. It happened that when I was small there were no boys in my neighborhood and I had to go several blocks before I could play with some my size or age. But there were a few girls in my neighborhood my size. Seeing Douglas Fairbanks woo his maiden I decided to try some of "Doug's stuff" on one of the girl friends. I know I was awkward and it proved more or less a flop.

Several times on seeing big, beautiful cars which looked to be bubbling over with power and speed, I dreamed of having a car more powerful and speedier than all the rest. I saw this car driven by myself up to the girl friend's door and taking her for a ride. (I was then eight years old and in my dreams I was no older.) Then too, I saw Adolphe Menjou, the best dressed man in the world, try in various ways to kill me because I had won his title. Perhaps the picture that left the most depressing picture on my mind was one in which a murdered man was thrown over a high cliff from a mountain top. I could see that dead body falling, falling to the rocky depths far below and squash into almost nothing. Some nights I dreamed of falling and other nights I had nightmares from dreaming of the same thing, awoke in a cold sweat, and was not able to go to sleep again till dawn. Whenever I saw anyone looking down from some rather high place or some workman in the precarious position, I had a sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach and averted my eyes.

The most heartbreaking picture that I ever saw and which caused me to shed uncontrollable tears was "Over the Hill," starring Mary Carr. She was ill treated by all her children except one and had to go to the poorhouse and scrub daily. This picture caused me to see my mother in a new light and make a vow that I would always protect and provide for her as long as I or she lives. This mood lasted until the comedy, when I soon forgot it, but I have always kept my vow.

I have not adopted any mannerisms from the movies but I have tried to act like the actors of a picture for a short time after seeing the picture. Such actions were trying to act like a screen drunkard, a hero cowboy who shot and killed the villain and rode triumphantly away with the fair one. I used to go to "wild western" pictures and observe the Indians grab their hearts, or put their hands over their hearts, turn all away around and fall dead after they had been shot while resisting the unlawful Americans. When my chums played cowboy or cops and robbers, I tried to imitate these Indians in falling. Of course, many besides myself, I suppose, have tried to imitate Charles Chaplin or Douglas Fairbanks but I became so proficient in imitating Charles Chaplin that I became to be known as Charles in the neighborhood in which I formerly lived which made me dream of the time when I, Charles Chaplin, would be the star of the silver screen. Douglas Fairbanks gave me an inspiration to jump, fight, use long whips, ride, use rapiers and to be as happy and as full of life as he seemed to be.

While imitating these stars I became interested in love pictures and went to see them as often as I could. This liking developed after seeing such stars as Wallace Reid, Norma Talmadge, Rudolph Valentino, Mary Pickford, and Pola Negri. These actors stirred within me a desire to do an ardent love scene with a girl. The first girl that I tried this on said that I was crazy. The second girl wasn't interested. But the third girl actually thought that I really meant what I was saying about her eyes and lips and she permitted me to try out everything that I had planned and this occasion proved successful in more ways than one.

Occasionally I used to think constantly of such actors as Wallace Reid, Rudolph Valentino, or Pola Negri; especially the latter whose bewitching eyes instilled within me many ungodly thoughts that never were voiced.

I cannot say that I received any temptations from the movies but I did get one real ambition. That being, to fly and be an aviator. This desire originated from such pictures as "Wings," "The Flying Fleet," and "Lilac Time," all of which featured airplanes. Now I visit all the aviation exhibits and "talks" possible. The most interesting show I have yet seen is the one that was at the Chicago Coliseum. I visit the municipal airport often and just the sound of an airplane's motor is enough to start one thinking of that time when I am going to have a powerful plane of my own and see all the world by means of it.

Another ambition that I had was to be a "Jackie Coogan" at the age of eight. I thought I would be more of a star than Jackie himself. I dreamed of the time when I would be a great star and have a great deal of money because of it. Then I could buy a tiny automobile, just my size, that would run as fast as any big car. I would also have some ponies, a beautiful home for my mother and myself and be a veritable"lady's man." (All this time I was eight years old.)

Sometimes from seeing such pictures as "The Birth of a Nation" I would not but feel the injustice done the Negro race by other races. Most of the bad traits of unintelligent Negroes are used in many pictures and a lovable or educated character is rarely pictured.

At other times, "West Point," a picture of college life and a military training school, stirs within me a desire to go to college or some military or naval school away from home and serve my country as best I can.

In crime pictures, as in real life, the criminal not only becomes the hero on the screen but outside the theater as well. At other times the criminal's life is such that the audience simply abhors being such a character. If there were more of the latter type of picture I am of the opinion that there would be far less crime.

Source: From: Herbert Blumer, Movies and Conduct (New York: Arno Press and the New York Times, 1970): 255-257.

I am a girl-American born and of Scotch descent. My grandparents came to America from Glasgow, Scotland, and grandfather became a minister (Presbyterian). Mother was the youngest of nine children and was born in New York. Dad came from New York also; his parents were of Scotch and English stock. I was born in Detroit, July 1, 1913. I have one brother. Stating us in order of birth, we are: Mary, 16, and Edward, 12.

My religious denominations have been varied. Mom put me in the cradle-roll of a Congregational Church, but I have been a member of the Lutheran, Presbyterian, Christian Science, and Methodist Episcopal churches. All of which indicates that either I'm very broad-minded religiously or unable to make up my mind. The latter is more plausible. Was a member of a Camp Fire Girls group for several years and was greatly interested in its activities. I reached the second rank in the organization.

My mother has no occupation. One calls her a housewife, I guess, but she isn't home enough for that. She travels in the winter and fall. Dad is a Lawyer. My real father is dead. He died when I was very young. His work was in the appraisal business. My clearest picture of him is playing his violin. He played beautifully. Mother plays the piano and when she accompanied him I used to listen for hours. I love music. . . .

I have tried to remember the first time that I went to a movie. It must have been when I was very young because I cannot recall the event. My real interest in motion pictures showed itself when I was in about fourth grade at grammar school. There was a theater on the route by which I went home from school and as the picture changed every other day I used to spend the majority of my time there. A gang of us little tots went regularly.

One day I went to see Viola Dana in "The Five Dollar Baby." The scenes which showed her as a baby fascinated me so that I stayed to see it over four times. I forgot home, dinner, and everything. About eight o'clock mother came after me-frantically searching the theater.

Next to pictures about children, I loved serials and pie-throwing comedies, not to say cowboy 'n' Indian stories. These kind I liked until I was twelve or thirteen; then I lost interest in that type, and the spectacular, beautifully decorated scenes took my eye. Stories of dancers and stage life I loved. Next, mystery plays thrilled me and one never slipped by me. At fifteen I liked stories of modern youth; the gorgeous clothes and settings fascinated me.

My first favorite was Norma Talmadge. I liked her because I saw her in a picture where she wore ruffly hoop-skirts which greatly attracted me. My favorites have always been among the women; the only men stars I've ever been interested in are Tom Mix, Doug Fairbanks and Thomas Meighan, also Doug McLean and Bill Haines. Colleen Moore I liked for a while, but now her haircut annoys me. My present favorites are rather numerous: Joan Crawford, Billie Dove, Sue Carol, Louise Brooks, and Norma Shearer. I nearly forgot about Barbara LaMar. I really worshiped her. I can remember how I diligently tried to draw every gown she wore on the screen and how broken-hearted I was when she died. You would have thought my best friend had passed away.

Why I like my favorites? I like Joan Crawford because she is so modern, so young, and so vivacious! Billie Dove is so beautifully beautiful that she just gets under your skin. She is the most beautiful woman on the screen! Sue Carol is cute 'n' peppy. Louise Brooks has her assets, those being legs 'n' a clever hair-cut. Norma Shearer wears the kind of clothes I like and is a clever actress.

I nearly always have gone and yet go to the theater with someone. I hate to go alone as it is more enjoyable to have someone to discuss the picture with. Now I go with a bunch of girls or on a date with girls and boys or with one fellow.

The day-dreams instigated by the movies consist of clothes, ideas on furnishings, and manners. I don't day-dream much. I am more concerned with materialistic things and realisms. Nevertheless it is hard for any girl not to imagine herself cuddled up in some voluptuous ermine wrap, etc.

The influence of movies on my play as a child-all that I remember is that we immediately enacted the parts interesting us most. And for weeks I would attempt to do what that character would have done until we saw another movie and some other hero or heroine won us over.

I'm always at the mercy of the actor at a movie. I feel nearly every emotion he portrays and forget that anything else is on earth. I was so horrified during "The Phantom of the Opera" when Lon Chaney removed his mask, revealing that hideous face, that until my last day I shall never forget it.

I am deeply impressed, however, by pathos and pitifulness, if you understand. I remember one time seeing a movie about an awful fire. I was terrified by the reality of it and for several nights I was afraid to go to sleep for fear of a fire and even placed my hat and coat near by in case it was necessary to make a hasty exit. Pictures of robbery and floods have affected my behavior the same way. Have I ever cried at pictures? Cried! I've practically dissolved myself many a time. How people can witness a heart-rending picture and not weep buckets of tears is more than I can understand. "The Singing Fool," "The Iron Mask," "Seventh Heaven," "Our Dancing Daughters," and other pictures I saw when very young which centered about the death of someone's baby and showed how the big sister insisted on her jazz 'n' whoopee regardless of the baby or not - these nearly killed me. Something like that, anyway; and I hated that girl so I wanted to walk up to the screen and tear her up! As for liking to cry-why, I never thought of that. It isn't a matter of liking or not. Sometimes it just can't be helped. Movies do change my moods, but they never last long. I'm off on something else before I know it. If I see a dull or morose show, it sort of deadens me and the vim and vigor dies out 'til the movie is forgotten. For example, Mary Pickford's movie-"Sparrows"-gave me the blues for a week or so, as did li'l Sonny Boy in "The Singing Fool." The poor kid's a joke now.

This modern knee-jiggling, hand-clapping effect used for accompanying popular music has been imitated from the movies, I think. But unless I've unconsciously picked up little mannerisms, I can think of no one that I've tried to imitate.

Goodness knows, you learn plenty about love from the movies. That's their long run; you learn more from actual experience, though! You do see how the gold-digger systematically gets the poor fish in tow. You see how the sleek-haired, long-earringed, languid-eyed siren lands the men. You meet the flapper, the good girl, 'n' all the feminine types and their little tricks of the trade. We pick up their snappy comebacks which are most handy when dispensing with an unwanted suitor, a too ardent one, too backward one, etc. And believe me, they observe and remember, too.

I can remember when we all nudged one another and giggled at the last close-up in a movie. I recall when during the same sort of close-up when the boy friend squeezes your arm and looks soulfully at you. Oh, it's lotsa fun! No, I never fell in love with my movie idol. When I don't know a person really, when I know I'll never have a chance with 'em, I don't bother pining away over them and writing them idiotic letters as some girls I've known do. I have imagined playing with a movie hero many times though that is while I'm watching the picture. I forget about it when I'm outside the theater. Buddy Rogers and Rudy Valentino have kissed me oodles of times, but they don't know it. God bless 'em!

Source: Herbert Blumer, Movies and Conduct (New York: Arno Press and the New York Times, 1970), 217-218, 220-223.

I. My Family and My Surroundings.

Up to ten years of age I was the only child of poor, young, literate (i.e., they could read, write, and speak Russian, Hebrew, and Yiddish), Russian immigrants. When I was only fifteen months old, the small family moved from the Halsted Street Ghetto district where I was born to the northwest part of the city at L- and D- Streets. Here my father bought a small two-story building in which he used the first floor as a retail store and the second as the living quarters of the family. It was in this neighborhood and even in this same building that I stayed up to my graduation from high school when sixteen years old. This period of my life which I spent on L- Street and which immediately preceded my university days is the period I shall discuss in its relation to the motion pictures. . . .

With high-school days a new world opened up before me and my mind was turned in an entirely different direction. After classes were over in high school I could not go immediately to my yard and start playing my old games, for now I had home work to attend to. Besides this, there were many activities in school to which I belonged-societies, clubs, athletics, and orchestra-all of which absorbed my attention and energies. After attending various meetings I would not get home until five or five-thirty o'clock, and then after dinner I had my homework to do; and after this I had to practice my flute. Consequently, I was compelled to give up my backyard playing. One would think that this sacrifice of a daily habit would have hurt me keenly, but this was not so. I had such a good time in school with my meetings and athletics, and I was so busy when home with my home-work, flute, and an occasional movie, that I didn't even think of the matter. However, I would still indulge in my old pastime on an isolated Saturday or Sunday afternoon, but these moments grew rarer and rarer as I grew older.

In the meantime, there was a corresponding change in my taste for movies. It must be remembered that I had had little, practically no, social contact with either boys or girls. Now, with so many student activities, I was necessarily thrown into their company and I learned many things from them which were entirely new to me. The boys spoke of sexual matters, and the girls spoke of love. I began to appreciate pretty girls and to be a critical admirer of their figures. An entirely new class of movies began to appeal to me. I turned away from the childish cowboy movies ("only kids go to see those," I was told) and began to see Clara Bow, John Gilbert, Rudolph Valentino, etc. I was in an adolescent stage.

I was in a position now where I had plenty of time to think and to dream about various matters, but I had no time to put these thoughts and dreams into dramatic action. My reveries consisted in thinking of all sorts of situations in which this or that pretty girl that I knew was the heroine while I was the hero who saved her from the villains. Strangely enough, I never thought of these situations in relation to a movie heroine but always in relation to a girl of my acquaintance. I tried to conduct my first love affair on a romantic, movie-like basis. I thought of witty, gallant things to say. I conceived of my girl in all kinds of terrible positions, about to be tortured or deprived of her virginity (it is impossible to believe or conceive the many, many situations I concocted with regard to her virginity), or some such thing, and I, the hero, would always be on time to save her. Such were the subjects of almost all of my reveries during my high-school career. There seems to be a certain sameness to them now, but as I look back, I see that my mind, aided by plots and stories from movies I had recently seen, was continually busy with various compromising situations in which I hoped to find my girl placed while I was conveniently at hand.

Source: From: Herbert Blumer, Movies and Conduct (New York: Arno Press and the New York Times, 1970): 223-224, 230-231.

The sample of 458 high-school autobiographies was gone over to ascertain the number of writers who wrote of having become dissatisfied with their home at some time or other as a result of what was witnessed in motion pictures. It was found that 22 per cent of the writers spoke of such experiences. . . . It is interesting to observe in the case of those who spoke of having become dissatisfied as a result of witnessing motion pictures that the percentage of girls was twice as great as the percentage of boys. Some indication of the way in which motion pictures develop dissatisfaction in the case of high-school boys and girls is given in the following accounts:

Male, 18, Negro, high-school senior. Often I get ideas of how much freedom I should have from the way in which fellows and girls are given privileges in the movies, because they can wear the best of clothes, make plenty of money, go nearly any place they I choose, become well known throughout the country and enjoy all the luxuries of life.

Male, 20, white, college sophomore. I have compared the life shown in society pictures to the life around me and have found it very misleading. It furnishes one with the wrong ideas of luxuries and tends to make one discontented with his surroundings. In this way the movies depicting social life at first disturbed me. I wasn't satisfied with my environment; I expect too much from my parents in the way of comfort and leisure.

Female, 16, white, high-school junior. The movies have always made me dissatisfied with my neighborhood, but not with my life. I have always wanted to live in a beautiful bungalow like those you see in the movies.

Female, 16, Negro, high-school freshman. Since I have gotten old enough to realize what good times really are I am dissatisfied with my clothes and my home. I see the girls in the movies going out in cars to roadhouses and to balls, cabarets, and many other things that put me in the habit of wanting to go too. Sometimes I feel like stopping school and going to work for myself so I can go any place I want, do anything and get anything. I think the young girls of today should be given privileges to go and have a good time, not all of the time, but very often so they can enjoy themselves as everybody else.

In the light of these accounts it is fitting to observe that motion pictures often present the extremes as if they were the norm. Further, it is an attractive norm. For many young movie-goers no discrimination is possible-the intriguing appeal of the picture, the seemingly natural sanction which it carries, and the simple vividness of its display combine to impress its content as proper and unquestionable. . . .

Female, 15, Negro, high-school freshman. The movies have often made me dissatisfied with my neighborhood, because when I see a movie, the beautiful castle, palace, stone and beautiful house, I wish my home was something like this. . . .

Female, 17, white, high-school senior. After seeing a wonderful picture full of thrills and beautiful scenes, my own home life would seem dull and drab. . .

Female, 17, white, high-school senior. Fashionable pictures made me long for fine clothes. I could not see why my parents were not able to buy me all the clothes that I wanted.

Source: Herbert Blumer. Movies and Conduct (New York: Arno Press and the New York Times, 1970): 156-160.

I. Fusa Tsumagari to Miss Breed, August 3, 1942. Fusa described the growing concern and panic as the Nikkei speculated where they would be sent after leaving the Santa Anita Assembly Center.

S.A.A.C. Dist 5 F-27-5 Arcadia, Calif. August 3, 1942

Dear Miss Breed,

On Friday morning I certainly received a surprise package! It was more of a surprise because no letter came until Saturday. Really, you should not have gone to all that trouble. It was very nice of you to get two such lovely dresses plus a nice picture and powder puffs. It was also very thoughtful of Miss McNary to send me the candy. You shouldn't go to all that trouble and expense for me. Thank you very much.

As I have told you before, rumors fly thick and fast. Most of us are expecting to be relocated soon. We've heard that we will be moved to Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, and Arkansas. I think we will move to either Wyoming or Arkansas. I guess we'll have to wait and see how far from right I am. Gee, wherever we go, we all realize that it will be "rough going" because other people have refused to live there before us. We also know that the weather will be nothing like the beautiful California weather. It will probably be very hot or extremely cold. According to rumors the San Diego people will be among the first to be re-evacuated. Officials will not confirm anything because they do not know anything so the obvious result is rumors. Rumors lead to panic--which is really a shame.

You know, I've often wondered what some of the other people write to you. Do they write as corny letters as I? Gee, I hope not!

Yesterday we had an airplane show. I helped as one of the recorders again. It was fun, but terribly hot out there. The winners of the last meet really had terrible luck. They won some prizes, but not many. This time the prizes were more evenly divided.

One unfortunate incident occurred. The father of one of the contestants fainted from heat exhaustion and also heart failure. He died a few minutes later. None of us knew about it till the meet was over. It was too bad that such a thing had to happen.

I'm sorry that I didn't send Eleanor Tasaki's bubble set to her sooner. I kept forgetting and must have had it almost a month before I sent it.

Do you know on August 8 it will be exactly four months since we came here. The days certainly fly fast, but the months just crawl by! I hope this war will be over before long.

Once again thank you very much for sending me the lovely dresses.

Sincerely, Fusa

Courtesy of the Japanese American National Museum, 93.75.31, gift of Elizabeth Y. Yamada.

II. Louise Ogawa to Miss Breed, April 9-10, 1943. After her first year in the camps Louise expressed the pain and emotion of being forced to leave San Diego.

April 9, 1943 Dear Miss Breed,

Yesterday marks my first year in camp. Time certainly flies! As I sit listening to my history teacher, Miss Warvarovsky, talking about the problems of today, a tidal wave of memories came rushing before my eyes. That feeling of sorrow and the emptiness of my tummy comes back to me every time I think of how I left San Diego. I shall never forget how I spent that night of April 7th sleeping on the train. My sister and I stuck our heads out the window never peeling our eyes off the direction of our home. We filled our eyes with the sight of San Diego to the limit until my pupils gave in and I dozed off.

Today marks my first full day of camp life. Oh, how busy we were--hurrying and scurrying about--making the beds, sweeping the asphalt floor, running back and forth getting scraps of wood. Oh my! What a busy day that was. When I awoke this morning one year ago, I looked up at the ceiling and a funny strange feeling came over me. I knew I was not at home and had a terrible yearning to go home. A little boy next door was crying asking his mother to take him home. That day I felt so lost I was as blue as the deep blue sea. But the sight of a friend certainly cheered me up even though it was just for the moment I saw her. Today that homesickness still is within me but that lost feeling has disappeared. I often wonder how I have changed in thought, actions, knowledge, and facial and physical features during the short memorable one year.

April 10, 1943

This morning was a very disgusting day one year ago. When I saw that the legs of my bed had sunk into the asphalt, I began looking at mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. They were all like that. Then I knew my weight had nothing to do with it. But it was such a disgust.

Yes memories--through experiences and hardship we become wiser.

Now Poston--it may seem strange to you when I say--it is like winter again. I just wrote you and said it was very hot. Well, it was until two days ago. Today the wind is blowing, and it rained yesterday. I guess by now, you believe me when I say Poston weather is unpredictable. For certain it is!!!

April third was the Sr. Prom. The Camp I Orchestra came to play for us. The leader of the band is still a young boy. He plays the trumpet as well as the drums. Back hime, he use to be a pupil of Gene Krupa. (a well-known orchestra leader.) He, I mean the leader of the Camp I band, is very good. The dance was held in 305 mess hall. It was beautifully decorated with orchid and white crepe paper. The reception was grand. But was so hot I felt sorry for the boys (they wore ties).

By the way, are Kleenex frozen on the outside? It is no longer available here. I have always been wondering about laundry soap. Is it frozen too?

After a long letter, I always seem to ask favors. I am such a troublesome correspondant.

I have tried and tried to purchase a radio tube but I seem to have no luck. I wrote to San Diego to the dealer I purchased the radio from, but he joined the army and no longer has his shop. Then I wrote to Sears and Montgomery but they do not carry that kind of tube. So as my last resort I am asking you. You are the most reliable source I have. I have been trying to purchase the tube ever since Dec. of last year. Every once in a while I turn on the radio and then remember one of my tube is dead. Will you purchase the following tube for me. The number is 12SA7 G.T. Also a box of Lux soap. I just can't seem to get along without it. I'd like a few cards of that scarce thing called bobbie pins and shower caps.

I am enclosing $2.00 in money order.

Please pardon me for troubling you so. Please do not rush this.

Most sincerely, Louise Ogawa

Courtesy of the Japanese American National Museum, 93.75.31, gift of Elizabeth Y. Yamada.

III. Louise Ogawa to Miss Breed, August 1942. Even though Louise missed her home in San Diego, she described the trip to Arizona as a new adventure.

Aug. , 1942 Dear Miss Breed,

The time has come again for me to say "good-bye" until I hear from you again at my new home. I intended to write to you sooner thanking you for the mdse. I ordered. I received it with great satisfaction. Thank you ever so much. My friends advised me to delay my letter writing because in a few days the notices to leave will come--and as said, it has come. We, San Diegans, are going to leave Santa Anita for Parker, Arizona on Wednesday or Thursday. (Aug. 26, 27) We are going in two groups - one on Wed. the other on Thursday.

It seems that we are going further and further away from San Diego but I hope to be back soon. I never have gone to Arizona and so I am sure it will be a new adventure to me. We are again leaving by train right after our supper--Wed. The camp is in an up roar just talking about evacuation. Today is my last day at work for I must wash, iron, and pack. It reminds me of the day when I left San Diego.

I hope you will write often. Since I'll be far far away from home I will be more than happy to hear from you.

My friend has made a pair of "geta" which I am sending you. I hope you will enjoy it. The so called shallac (glossiness) is fingernail polish.

I must close now for I want to mail this and the package to you as soon as possible.

Most sincerely, Louise Ogawa

Ps. I shall write the first thing after reaching my destination -- Colorado River Relocation Project- in Arizona.

The best of luck to you always!

Courtesy of the Japanese American National Museum, 93.75.31, gift of Elizabeth Y. Yamada.

IV. Louise Ogawa to Miss Breed, Date not known. Louise described the ceremonies held to send off the men who volunteered to serve in the United States Armed Forces.

Dear Miss Breed,

Thank you most sincerely for sending the things I asked to be purchased as well as the candies, clips, and the cute little shoes. I am always in a pridicament (is that the correct spelling?) when it comes to thanking you. I just can't seem to express my deepest gratitude in words. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Miss Breed, I know the remaining money will not go even half way in paying for the candies, clips, etc. but please keep it. Now we are even. You owe me nothing and I owe you nothing. No debts--in money I mean. I certainly owe a debt of gratitude to you that is higher than the highest mountain in the word. I shall never forget it and maybe someday I will be able to repay you.

I gave Florence the little doll and she was overjoyed. Everytime I see her she says--I tried it last night and I could see the doll in the dark" She seems to be so thrilled. I am sure she is cherishing it with her life.

Yes, that nickname "Roastem, Toastem, Postem" certainly is true! I am being roasted and toasted by the ever-shining Poston sun. You may not believe this but in the mornings 6:30 A.M. no one wears a sweater or coat for it is warm.--In the evenings, 9:00 P.M., people are walking about without wraps.

Tuesday, May 11th, the first group of volunteers left for Salt Lake City to be inducted into the U.S. Army. I beg your pardon it was Monday--May 10th.

19 boys from Camp III; 5 boys from Camp II; 12 boys from Camp I.

A procession of trucks with one volunteer on each truck left Poston III and headed for Poston I. Camp II joined in the procession -- making 24 trucks full of people going one after another. It certainly was a sight to see.

In Camp I a talent show was held in honor of the boys. Also at this time administration officials spoke. Then at 8:45 P.M. all the volunteers hopped on the awaiting bus. Leaving a puff of smoke behind them they were off to fight for our country, U.S.A. It was a sad but yet a happy parting. I felt so sorry for the mothers.

Well, graduation is slowly drawing near. We are going to wear cotton, sheer, dresses of pastel colors.

I shall be glad to send you a picture just as soon as it arrives.

Well, that's about all the news for today.

Miss Breed, I certainly wish you would come to Poston but I suggest you come a little later when it is not so hot.

Hope to hear from you again soon and please give my best to Miss McNary.

Most respectfully, Louise Ogawa

Courtesy of the Japanese American National Museum, 93.75.31, gift of Elizabeth Y. Yamada.

V. Tetsuzo Hirasaki to Miss Breed, February 19, 1943. Tetsuzo told Miss Breed that the opportunity to enlist in the Army was the best chance for the Nisei to prove their loyalty to the United States.

322-14-D Poston Arizona February 19, 1943 Dear Miss Breed,

This is prodigal reporting. Things have been popping rather fast lately. A (dust) windstorm, a cold spell, a rainstorm, and good news.

The duststorm came during the third week of January and lasted for three days. It was alomst as bad as the Christmas storm. Following that on the morning of Jan. 20 we had the coldest morning yet when the temp. dropped to 20. That whole day ice was on the ground. It wasn't until the next afternoon before it thawed. Then on the 23rd it began to rain. It poured cloudburst after cloudburst for three days. The dust just turned into the stickiest mud I have ever seen. It was during the same storm that you had that bad blow in San Diego. From the pictures in the clippings it must have been quite a blow.

When the Army came here to Camp III to register the men under selective service and also to take volunteers for the Japanese American Combat Unit, it was the best piece of news we nisei have had in a long time. We nisei were despairing in ever becoming recognized. But now we have the chance to prove our loyalty, because after the evacuation, nisei were classed as aliens inelegible for military service.

I am proud to say that the San Diego group has the most volunteers than any other group in camp. All together in our block we have just about 15 volunteers including yours truly, which makes about the best record yet. We are going around Feb 23 to (according to those "in the know") to Camp Douglas, Utah (near Salt Lake City) for induction that to Camp Shelby Mississippi (this much is official) for training. This is the bunch to be with because we are all volunteers and there won't be those slackers and pro-axis minded as there would be if the men were drafted. Yessirree all of us are itching to go.

I also received news that the men in internment are possibly slated for rehearings according to a friend of mine who visited the Lordsburg New Mexico Internment Camp. just recently. He said he talked to my father and that he was looking fine. Treatment of the interned men is very fine.

I have been writing to a number of people for affidavits as I want my father to be eligible for a rehearing and a possible parole so that he can come to Poston to be with Yaeko. While I'm gone.

So-----if everything goes well I'll be writing to you from an Army Camp instead of a relocation center.

Sincerely yours Ted.

Courtesy of the Japanese American National Museum, 93.75.31, gift of Elizabeth Y. Yamada.

Widespread attention has been drawn to the Los Angeles, California, gangs of zoot-suited, socially maladjusted, "Mexican" youngsters known as "pachucos." Mixed with the intelligent efforts and genuine concern of some public officials and laymen over the disgraceful situation which has been allowed to develop in the Los Angeles area, there is also much sanctimonious "locking of barn doors after the horses have been stolen" sort of expression and action by those whose past lack of interest and whose official negligence bred the juvenile delinquency which now plagues that city's officialdom, hinders the program of the armed forces, and embarrasses the United States before Latin America and the world.

The seed for the pachucos was sown a decade or more ago by unintelligent educational measures, by discriminatory social and economic practices, by provincial smugness and self-assigned "racial" superiority. Today we reap the whirlwind in youth whose greatest crime was to be born into an environment which, through various kinds and degrees of social ostracism and prejudicial economic subjugation, made them a caste apart, fair prey to the cancer of gangsterism. The crimes of these youths should be appropriately punished, yes. But what of the society which is an accessory before and after the fact?

Almost ten years ago, I raised this issue in an article in the Journal of Applied Psychology: "The frequent prostitution of democratic ideals to the cause of expediency, politics, vested interests, ignorance, class and 'race' prejudice, and to indifference and inefficiency is a sad commentary on the intelligence and justice of a society that makes claims to those very progressive democratic ideals. The dual system of education presented in 'Mexican' and 'white' schools, the family system of contract labor, social and economic discrimination, educational negligence on the part of local and state authorities, 'homogeneous grouping' to mask professional inefficiency-all point to the need for greater insight into a problem which is inherent in a 'melting pot' society. The progress of our country is dependent upon the most efficient utilization of the heterogeneous masses which constitute its population-the degree to which the 2,000,000 or more Spanish-speaking people, and their increment, are permitted to develop is the extent to which the nation should expect returns from that section of its public."

When the pachuco "crime wave" broke last year, I communicated with the Office of War Information: "I understand that a grand jury is looking into the 'Mexican' problem in Los Angeles and that there seems to be considerable misunderstanding as to the causes of the gang activities of Mexican youth in that area. I hear also that much ado is being made about 'Aztec forebears,' 'blood lust,' and similar claptrap in interpreting the behavior of these citizens. It would be indeed unfortunate if this grand jury investigation were to go off on a tangent, witchhunting in anthropological antecedents for causes which, in reality, lie right under the noses of the public service agencies in Los Angeles County."

Subsequent developments have borne out the fears implied above. And still, in June of this year, the Los Angeles City Council could think of no better answer to the deep-rooted negligence of public service agencies than to deliberate over an ordinance outlawing zoot suits! The segregatory attitudes and practices, and the vicious economic exploitation directed against the "Mexican" in California in the past-not zoot suits-are responsible for the pachucos of today.

The pseudo-science of the Los Angeles official who is quoted as reporting to the Grand Jury on the Sleepy Lagoon murder case that "Mexican" youths are motivated to crime by certain biological or "racial" characteristics would be laughable if it were not so tragic, so dangerous, and, worse still, so typical of biased attitudes and misguided thinking which are reflected in the practices not only of California communities but also elsewhere in this country.

The genesis of pachuquismo is an open book to those who care to look into the situations facing Spanish-speaking people in many parts of the Southwest. Arizona, Colorado, Texas, and, to a much lesser degree, even New Mexico have conditions analogous to those which have nurtured the California riots. In some communities in each of these states, "Mexican" is a term of opprobrium applied to anyone with a Spanish name-citizen and alien alike, of mestizo blood or of "pure white" Spanish colonial antecedents. In many places these people are denied service in restaurants, barber shops, and stores. Public parks and swimming pools, some of which were built by federal funds, are often closed to them. Some churches, court houses, and public hospitals have been known to segregate them from "whites." Separate, and usually shockingly inferior, segregated "Mexican" schools have been set up for their children. Discriminatory employment practices and wage scales, even in war industries (the President's Executive Order 8802 and his Committee on Fair Employment Practice to the contrary notwithstanding), are still used to "keep the 'Mexican' in his place."

An affidavit from California before me says that when a Spanish-name citizen of this country, in response to a public advertisement by a national railroad company, applied for a job, "he was told by the foreman, 'I have orders from the general foreman not to hire Mexican help.' On inquiry as to why Mexicans were not being employed, this foreman states as follows: that the Mexicans got drunk on the job, did not keep up with their work, caused trouble, and that the shops were open only to white labor; that if Mexicans wanted to work with the company they could work on the section gangs." Apparently drunkenness, laziness, etc. were tolerated on the section gangs!

A Texas friend says that the Mexicans in her town had been ordered out of the parks and that Mexicans were mistreated there. Another report tells of a group of school children of Mexican and Latin American origin who went to a neighboring town "to spend the day and to attend a celebration. They decided to go swimming in a public swimming pool and they were denied entrance thereto because they were of Latin American and Mexican origin, although they permitted two Japanese children . . . to enter said swimming pool." The Chancellor of a Mexican Consulate "was expelled with his wife and children from the-swimming pool in the town of-, Texas; the only reason given for the expulsion was that they were Mexicans." In another town "the teacher took the Latin American school children to a park . . . she was told by the keeper of the park to get out as this park was not for the use of the Mexicans."

In the course of a hike, a Scoutmaster and his troop of Boy Scouts, all in uniform, were ordered out of a public park where they had stopped to rest, because they were "Mexicans." A group of American citizens of Mexican descent, on the verge of joining the Army, "were denied entrance to the swimming pools because they were 'Latin Americans'." Soldiers in the uniform of the United States Army have been refused service in public places because they were "Mexicans," several of them having been ejected when they insisted on buying a cup of coffee, a hamburger, or a bottle of beer.

A newspaper from a West Texas city states: "City Police Chief-today issued a request that all persons except negroes [sic] and Latin Americans stay out of the swimming hole at the-Street crossing on the-(river). 'This portion of the river was fixed by the city especially as a swimming pool for negroes [sic] and Latin Americans. Many other people, not knowing this, are using it also. We'd appreciate their quitting the pool and leaving it to the persons for whom it was planned,' Chief-said."

A pathetic letter from a descendant of the colonial settlers of Texas states: "Do you think there is any hope of getting our problems solved? We wish you would do something to help us. We are being mistreated here every time we turn around. We are not allowed in cafes, movies, restaurants. Even Latin Americans in United States Army uniforms are sometimes told they can't see a show because the Mexican side is full. In the public schools our children are segregated. They are given only half a day's school because of the teacher shortage, while the others have full-time classes. There is no teacher shortage for them. Please tell us if there is anything to do about it. We wrote a letter to the Office of Civilian Defense, Washington, D.C. But we haven't heard from them. We don't know if that is the right place to write to or not."

A Mexican Consul reports that "there were signs posted by the County authorities as follows: 'For Colored and Mexicans,' and in the Church named the-was this sign: 'For Whites' and another 'For Mexicans.' Mexicans are not permitted to attend this church on Sundays." Not only in civic affairs and in Christian worship but even after death, the "Mexican" is segregated. It is reported: "in many cemeteries, whether owned by county authorities, by private individuals or corporations, or by religious organizations . . . the bodies of 'Mexicans' are denied the right to burial. . . ." In those cemeteries where such bodies are received "they are assigned a separate plot of land, far enough from the plot destined for the so-called 'whites' so as to be sure that the bodies of the so-called 'whites' will not be contaminated by the presence of the bodies of the 'Mexicans'."

A traveler on a transcontinental bus stated that "the bus stopped at-(town) so that the passengers could eat at a restaurant known as Hotel-. He observed that everyone else was served except him. When he inquired why he was not waited on, he was advised that Mexicans were not served at said place." Another report points out "that [high school] seniors graduating at-( town ) were segregated at a banquet given them. The tables for the Latin Americans were placed in a separate locality from that reserved for the Anglo Americans."

A newspaper story tells of the building of a new theater in a west Texas city: "Today the cost already had moved past the $40,000 mark and the seating capacity had been raised to 1,100 including 250 on the balcony where the colored and Latin American movie fans will be accommodated." The Mexican colony from the city of-reports that "the toilets in the courthouse bear a sign which reads 'For Whites-Mexicans Keep Out'."

In another town, on the Fourth of July, "several hundred citizens of the United States of Mexican extraction were told over the loud speaker that they should go home because the dance being held in a public square was for white people only. Among the persons ejected were many wearing United States soldier's uniforms." At still another place, again on the Fourth of July, at an American Legion dance, Spanish-name veterans of World War I were asked to leave because the dance was for "whites" only.

The constitution and by-laws of the so-called "White Man's Union" of a certain county in Texas provide that only "white" citizens shall be eligible for membership. These regulations state: "The term White Citizen, as provided herein, shall not include any Mexican, who is not of full Spanish blood. Only persons who are white citizens . . . shall be permitted to vote at any primary or other election held by this association." These regulations are also enforced in the Democratic primaries, the election machinery of the primaries being in the control of this "White Man's Union." Who, indeed, could prove that he is of "full Spanish blood," assuming, for argument's sake, that a mestizo or Indian, otherwise qualified, can be thus disfranchised! It should be noted that the primary election is the election in such overwhelmingly Democratic counties as this.

Many communities provide a separate school for children of Spanish name. These "Mexican schools," are established ostensibly for "pedagogical reasons," thinly veiled excuses which do not conform with either the science of education or the facts in the case. Judging from current practice, these pseudo-pedagogical reasons call for short school terms, ramshackle school buildings, poorly paid and untrained teachers, and all varieties of prejudicial discrimination. The "language handicap" reason, so glibly advanced as the chief pedagogical excuse for the segregation of these school children, is extended to apply to all Spanish-name youngsters regardless of the fact that some of them know more English and more about other school subjects than the children from whom they are segregated. In addition, some of these Spanish-name children know no Spanish whatsoever, coming from homes where only English has been spoken for two generations or more.

The community mores suggested in the above illustrations do not reflect simply the attitudes of untutored masses. Equally glaring, un-American practices are carried on by those of privileged social and economic status. The basic real estate contracts in many subdivisions in several Texas cities provide that "neither they, nor their heirs, executors, administrators, or assigns, shall sell or lease any portion of said property to any person of Negro blood, or Mexicans." Another far too common provision in deeds stipulates that: "No lot or part of lot in said addition at any time may be occupied by or used by any person except those of the Caucasian race. This provision shall be so construed as excluding from occupancy in said subdivision Mexicans, Latin Americans, Negroes, and people of the yellow race." Wealthy, highly educated, prominent Latin Americans, some citizens of the United States and some citizens of prestige of Mexico and of other Latin American countries, have been refused the right to purchase or occupy property in those subdivisions. A Vice Consul of Mexico was requested to move out of a house in a city in Texas, "on the ground that, in that subdivision, properties could not be sold or rented to 'Mexicans'." A letter from a Mexican Consul to the mayor of a large city, referring to another such "incident," states: "It is with much regret that I am constrained to bring to your attention a matter that has caused a great deal of ill will and disappointment to the Mexican colony in-by reason of the fact that one of the most outstanding Mexican families in-was refused the right to acquire a place in which to live at-[ street address] in-[subdivision] within the limits of the city of-, on the sole ground that the purchaser was a Mexican.

"I need not call to your attention the position which Mr.-owner of the-Company holds in this community. I can point out no other person who stands higher in the estimation of both the Mexican and the American people, who is a prominent civic leader and a successful business man. Certainly, a great injustice has been done in thus humiliating him and his family, which is a matter that reflects the attitude of many people residing in several sections of-[the city], where similar obnoxious clauses are included in the deeds."

These acts by otherwise intelligent people cannot be excused simply on the basis that they are motivated by commercial considerations. The same kind of acts are committed by public officials. During the second registration for the Selective Service in a large city in Texas, the officer in charge gave a story to the press in which he announced that arrangements had been made to register Negroes, Latin Americans, and "whites" in separate rooms of the County Courthouse. Fortunately, vigorous protest brought about a satisfactory correction. The Selective Service procedure in certain places has forced American citizens of Spanish name to be classified as "Mexican" in the questionnaire which states: "3. My race is _White; _Negro; _Oriental; _Indian; _Filipino. Other ( Specify ) _." An attorney in a border city writes: "It appears that the persons in charge of filling out the blanks at the reception center are guided only by the sound of the name. If the name is Spanish, then they classify the selectee as 'Mexican'; if it is 'American' then the classification is, of course, 'White.' One of the latest cases is that of a son of-. His name is-[Spanish]; the mother is an Anglo American. He was classified 'Mexican' because of the name-; yet, in the same group, another young boy, with an American or English name was classified 'White' even though he has Mexican and perhaps even Negro blood." (The mother in the latter case is "Mexican" and the father "Anglo.") It is to be noted that, through the intervention of national offices, orders have recently gone out calling for the cessation of such classification.

Applicants for positions listed by the United States Employment Service are frequently told their applications cannot be received because they are "Mexican" and would not be eligible. Insult is added to injury when, after the employers have subjected the "Mexican" to discriminatory wage scales, the other employees bring about their segregation. A report on oil workers points out that two refineries, "notwithstanding the fact that they have Government war contracts, pay from 10 to 13 cents an hour less to the 'Mexican' workers than the salary paid to Anglo-Saxon workers for the same kind of work. They keep separate toilet-rooms, separate drinking water faucets, and separate bathrooms for the 'Mexicans'."

One of my assistants reports the situation in a border community, which "has contributed to the limit in manpower. Many of its young men enlisted in various branches of the service before they were drafted. As a result, Latin American boys from-[town] are at present all over the world. A short time ago, a group of young Latin American girls . . . (all of them having brothers and sweethearts in the service) called Mr.-, manager of the USO, by phone, and asked how they went about becoming USO hostesses." They were told just to come down and register, but when the spokesman said "there was a group of twelve Latin American girls who wished to offer their services, he said 'Oh, wait a minute. In that case you will have to see Father-(priest at-Church) who is organizing a Latin American USO.' The girls didn't like the sound of it, but they contacted the priest who told them he knew nothing about USO activities, and confirmed their belief that a Latin American USO, if established, would only be another form of segregation to which they should not subscribe."

Upon investigating the above matter, we were informed, in effect, that the local USO itself had no jurisdiction in the matter since it was entirely up to the Girls Service Organization as to whom they would admit for membership. My assistant states: "It is understandable that the sisters and sweethearts of these boys should feel not only a keen disappointment but a deep humiliation at what is to them a refusal of the opportunity to do their rightful part, as American citizens, in furthering the war effort to which their loved ones are daily dedicating their lives."

Two years ago six friends wrote me as follows: "The undersigned write you so that, if you find it possible, you will make for us before the appropriate department an energetic protest for the humiliating treatment which we received. It happens that we were named by the Selective Service committee to undergo the examination for soldiers, and an employee of the draft board took us to eat at-Cafe. We were refused service solely because we were of Mexican descent. After that we were taken to Hotel-where we were served in an empty room. . . . As you will see this is not in accord with reason and justice and we fear that this is probably the work of fifth columnists who handicap the efforts of the government."

On July 12, 1941, before the pachuco question had become a matter of general interest, a Spanish American from California summarized the situation this way: "The so-called 'Mexican Problem' is not in fact a Mexican problem. It is a problem foisted by American mercenary interests upon the American people. It is an American problem made in the U.S.A." He was protesting the movement then on foot to permit the indiscriminate and wholesale importation of laborers from Mexico. In response to such protests steps were taken by the governments of the United States and of Mexico to protect both the imported alien and the residents of this area from the evils inherent in such letting down of the bars, evils of which ample evidence was furnished during World War I under similar circumstances. Today, however, the pressure of vested interests is finding loopholes in that enlightened policy and, again, the bars are rapidly being let down.

Si Casady of McAllen, Texas, in an editorial in the Valley Evening Monitor hits the nail on the head when he says: "there is a type of individual who does not understand and appreciate the very real dangers inherent in racial discrimination. This type of individual does not understand that his own right to enjoy life, his own liberty, the very existence of this nation and all the other free nations of the world depend utterly and completely on the fundamental principle that no man, because of race, has any right to put his foot upon the neck of any other man. The racial discrimination problem has been kept daintily out of sight for so long in the (Rio Grande) Valley that it cannot now be solved overnight. Instead of dragging it out into the sunlight where it could be left lying until all the nauseous fumes of hypocrisy and bigotry had dissipated, we have shoved the problem down into the cellar like an idiot child, hoping the neighbors would not notice its existence."

In two illuminating articles, Carey McWilliams . . . has made a brilliant and forceful presentation of the "Mexican problem." Before him, Dr. Paul S. Taylor of the University of California and Dr. H. T. Manuel of the University of Texas had also clearly pointed out the evils inherent in the mistreatment of Spanish-speaking people. This writer and other students of the problem have, over the past twenty years, repeatedly pointed out the dangers and have continuously insisted on adequate remedial measures. Neglect on the part of public service agencies lies at the root of the disturbances which we observe today. Those disturbances, serious as they are, simply presage even worse effects on the future unless adequate remedial measures are undertaken immediately.

What would be the nature of these remedial measures? The malady suggests the cure. Where negative and un-American practices now prevail, undertake positive, equitable, American action. This is not as difficult as it appears at first blush. While unfavorable popular attitudes and community customs are difficult to correct and though there are many elusive factors back of the prejudicial situations I have referred to, the people involved are susceptible to sound guidance and leadership-particularly to that of their duly selected officials and of well-established civic organizations. Furthermore, I am sure that much of the mistreatment of Spanish-speaking people would not take place were it not for the fact that the common people take their cue from the discriminatory acts (of commission or omission) of their public officials.

The establishment of segregated schools for "Mexicans" lays the foundation for most of the prejudice and discrimination. Local and state educational authorities have the power to institute satisfactory remedies. There is no legal requirement in any state calling for the organization of such schools. There are all sorts of legal mandates to the contrary. Forthright action by school authorities could remove these blots on American education in a very brief period of time. As an illustration of how this may be done in Texas, consider this provision adopted by the State Legislature in 1943: "The State Board of Education with the approval of the State Superintendent of Public Instruction shall have the authority to withhold the per capita apportionment to any school district at any time that a discrimination between groups of white scholastics exists."

The exclusion of "Mexicans" from public places, solely on the basis of "race" (legally, they are "white" ), can be stopped through the enforcement of such provisions as that embodied in the legislative Concurrent Resolution adopted in Texas a few months ago: "1. All persons of the Caucasian Race within the jurisdiction of this State are entitled to the full and equal accommodations, advantages, facilities, and privileges of all public places of business or amusement, subject only to the conditions and limitations established by law, and rules and regulations applicable alike to all persons of the Caucasian Race. 2. Whoever denies to any person the full advantages, facilities, and privileges enumerated in the preceding paragraph or who aids or incites such denial or whoever makes any discrimination, distinction, or restriction except for good cause applicable alike to all persons of the Caucasian Race, respecting accommodations, advantages, facilities, and privileges of all public places of business, or whoever aids or incites such discrimination, distinction, or restriction shall be considered as violating the good neighbor policy of our State." Vigorous action by public officials in enforcing this mandate in Texas, and similar legal provisions in other states, would go far in solving this fundamental phase of the whole "Mexican" question.

These illustrations of specific remedial action could be multiplied by reference to legal mandates as to suffrage, jury service, practices in war industries, etc. Public officials-local, state, and federal-have in their hands the power to correct the discriminatory practices which lie at the root of prejudicial attitudes and actions on the part of some sectors of the public. I have the fullest confidence that the great majority of Americans would applaud the enforcement of those legal mandates.

The Spanish-speaking people of the United States need to be incorporated into, and made fully participating members of, the American way of life. The "Mexican" needs education, he needs vocational training and placement in American industry on an American basis, he needs active encouragement to participate in civic affairs and to discharge his civic obligations, and he needs constant protection by public officials from the pitfalls into which his cultural differences may lead him or into which he may be forced by unthinking sectors of the public.

The record, briefly reported here, of oppressive self-righteousness and the "incidents" to which it has led is an appalling one. Even more frightening are the prospects of a future when such cheaply hatched social attitudes and practices come home to roost as the full-fledged and expensive spectres of crime, disease, ignorance, internal discord, and international enmity. One generation's sins of "racial" oppression on the part of a majority sector of the population are indeed visited upon its progeny, many fold. The fruits of "racial" discrimination are boomerangs-seeds which breed, in the majority group, fascism and tolerance of the concentration camp for "inferior races." The vicious practices referred to above do harm to the "Mexican," yes. However, infinitely more harm is done to the group which perpetrates or tolerates the practices. The pachuco is a symbol not of the guilt of an oppressed "Mexican" minority but of a cancerous growth within the majority group which is gnawing at the vitals of democracy and the American way of life. The pachuco and his feminine counterpart, the "cholita," are spawn of a neglectful society-not the products of a humble minority people who are defenceless before their enforced humiliation.

Source: George I. Sanchez, "Pachucos in the Making," Common Ground, Autumn 1943, 13-20.

Clinton, Tennessee

There is an ironic inevitability in the location of Clinton High School. It sits smack at the foot of Foley Hill, Clinton's Negro community. You can't come off the hill to go downtown-to go anyplace-without passing the school.

Most of Clinton's Negro children have been passing it every day of their lives-and then, if they were of high-school age, have traveled 17 more miles to go to their school, a Negro school in Knoxville.

Until last August. Up on Foley Hill on the night of Sunday, August 26th, at 434 Jarnigan Street, a sixteen-year-old boy named Bobby Cain lay sleepless, frightened by the knowledge that the next morning he would have to enter that school at the foot of the hill. He did not want to go down that hill in the morning. Overnight, Clinton High had changed, in Bobby's eyes, from an accustomed landmark to the focus of an agonizing personal dilemma.

He either had to go to Clinton High, down that hill, just two tenths of a mile, or never go to school again.

For, by a quirk of history, the federal court ruling that made it possible for Bobby to go to Clinton High made it impossible for him to go back to Austin High in Knoxville. Anderson County would now no longer pay Bobby's tuition at Austin nor the cost of transporting him to Knoxville.

And it had become plain to Bobby, that Sunday for the first time, that to go to Clinton High might be an act of physical courage. All day long the sensitive intelligence network of mothers and sisters who worked as domestics "downtown"had been bringing home news of trouble. A white man had turned up down there, was calling on people, showing them pictures of a Negro man kissing a white girl. He was stirring people up.

Bobby had never wanted to go to Clinton if there "was going to be a disturbance about it." In the world within a world of Foley Hill, Bobby was known as quiet, serious and "a good boy." Now he was worried by the talk. At 7:00 p.m. he switched on the TV set in the living room of the small concrete-block Cain home to hear the news. The news was that a stranger named John Kasper had come to Clinton to fight integration at Clinton High School, and he threatened to have a protest picket line in front of the school the next morning.

Bobby did not want to go through a picket line. But he did not say so then. Instead, he dressed to go to the Sunday-evening service at Mount Sinai Church with his mother. He is meticulously clean and keeps a looking-glass shine on his shoes. His mother, Mrs. Robert Cain, a stocky, heavy-set woman, had to hurry him. "Bobby, you come on!" he heard her call from the porch.

He went, for it is part of the favorable repute in which Bobby is held that he is a dutiful son.

The service turned out to be a prayer for peace, come morning. "Help us to love our enemies," said the Reverend O. W. Willis, "and send our children down the hill with peace in their hearts." Bobby stood outside, talking with other youngsters, two of whom had already failed to enroll because they were going to "wait and see what happened."

On the way home, along the narrow, curbless dim-lighted lanes of Foley Hill, Bobby finally spoke to Mrs. Cain. "Mama," he said, "I want to get an education, but I don't want to go down there in the morning."

There was no use. When Bobby got home, he went to his room, undressed, and got down on his knees and prayed. He asked "the Lord to watch over me during the day." He had decided to go to Clinton High. But it was a decision that kept him awake that Sunday night.

He was scared.

It is useless to ask a man who has somehow gone beyond what he thought was his limit of courage to tell you where he found his unexpected resource. He very seldom knows. This was exactly Bobby Cain's plight the day I first talked with him, on September 14th, the Friday afternoon that marked the end of his third week in Clinton High.

During those weeks, this quiet adolescent who wanted to avoid any "disturbance" had been the victim of some of the most angry racial vituperation in recent American history. Afraid though he was to go to school because there might be a picket line, he had continued to go after the school was besieged by an uncontrolled mob.

But he had trouble explaining why. It was still too soon, for one thing. As we talked, drops of sweat gathered on his forehead and began to run down his cheek. He pressed his palms together nervously. He reminded me of the men I had interviewed when I served as a Marine combat correspondent in World War II. It is impossible for men who have really "had it" to talk about their experience until their memories have had an interval in which to reject the intolerable.

When I asked him, for example, what names he had been called when he ran the gantlet of segregationists who crowded around the sidewalks of Clinton High, he looked away, and answered in a voice so low I could barely hear him.

And Bobby, like most true combat veterans, knew very little about the shape of the larger events of which he was a part. He remembered that the first day of school had been relatively uneventful (of the more than 800 enrolled students only about 25 had failed to report) and that there wasn't much trouble the second morning, only a few pickets. But by the time school was out, there was a large crowd around the building, muttering ugly things to him as he came out. He did not know that that same day a hearing had been held on charges made earlier against Kasper, the outsider who was leading the opposition to integration, and that Kasper had been freed in the morning, and had announced thereupon that he was not leaving town until the Negroes had withdrawn from school, or until the whole school board resigned. Bobby knew there was to be a meeting "downtown" that night. When he got home, he sat down in the living room, and "just kind of trembled for a little while."

Later, he tried to do homework, but the atmosphere was not exactly serene. That night Foley Hill began to stir in fear. It was a small community, about 200 Negroes in a town of 4,000, with nothing in its history to prepare it for racial violence.

East Tennessee was not Mississippi; indeed, America's first abolitionist newspaper was published in the area, and the region had voted against joining the Confederacy. But if the Negroes could, as one of them said, "go almost anywhere in East Tennessee," it was still a region with another pertinent tradition. Clinton was within an area where it was part of the code to settle disputes without help from the law. The danger, as some of the adults on Foley Hill saw it, was not so much from racial hatred, as that any open argument might be settled with gunfire.

It is hard to say exactly what happened on Foley Hill that night, and on the successive nights until the National Guard arrived in Clinton. A leading Negro newspaper has said that Foley Hill became an arsenal. A rumor was circulated that the men of Foley Hill at one time took up tactical positions, covering the roads that led up to it.

Bobby stayed around the house. Mrs. Cain says that he began to "act different and strange with his brothers and sisters. They got on his nerves, and he asked me to keep them quiet."

When bedtime came, Bobby took two aspirins, prayed, and again lay sleepless for hours.

Things had got so bad at Clinton High by Wednesday morning that "they took us in the side door," Bobby said. A newspaper account says that "a milling mob of approximately 1,000 gathered at the school." An elderly Negro woman was tripped and struck in the face by a white man.

By then, Bobby had begun to think of "inside the school" as his sanctuary. The white students were not unfriendly. "They didn't make any cracks, and one teacher came up to me in the hall that day and apologized," Bobby recalls.

But outside the school, the mutterings were turning into an ugly and menacing rumble. The mob would not leave the school. Some of the angriest were a handful of students; "the same group who were troublemakers inside the school were the troublemakers outside," a teacher observed. The sheriff of Anderson County arrived at school and "temporarily withdrew" the 12 Negro students, Bobby among them. When he got home this time, on Wednesday, Bobby "sat and trembled for a long time." He was preparing himself for another talk with his mother, a serious one.

After supper, there was another of those improvised Foley Hill councils of war, and Bobby attended with his mother. The sheriff turned up. "He told us if we'd only send our children back to Austin High," Mrs. Cain recalls, "he'd drive them down himself every day." His offer was refused. While this handful of parents and children were meeting, Kasper was speaking at the courthouse to "a crowd estimated at from 1,000 to 3,000 cheering and howling persons," according to a report. Photographers and reporters were pushed around. Kasper was delivering an "ultimatum" to officials to "get those Negroes out of Clinton High."

When Bobby and his mother got home, he put it to her, as strongly as a boy like him might dare.

Mrs. Cain "just sat Bobby down in a chair," she recalls. Then she told him: "I had to scuffle to get what little education I got. I'm as worried about that mob as you are. But what about the others in there asleep? Where are your brothers and sisters going to school if you don't stick?" Mr. Cain was there. "I wouldn't be so worried," he told his wife, "if Bobby was a girl. I don't think they'd hurt a girl."

But Mrs. Cain ignored him. "Bobby," she said, "you'll never feel right with yourself if you don't go back."

Bobby took his aspirin, went off to bed, got down on his knees, and "prayed to the Lord to help me get through that line in the morning."

When Bobby Cain went to school on Thursday morning he had with him a little pocketknife of the kind boys often carry. "I wasn't mad," he says. "I could take the names they called me. But I was gonna protect myself."

As Bobby went into school, a woman stepped out of the crowd and whacked him on the shoulder with a stick. "You nigger!" she yelled. Bobby kept walking, head down. "I didn't want to see her face," he says.

The Negro students had not been using the school cafeteria-they were not sure they were supposed to-and as they walked at lunchtime to a drive-in custard spot three blocks away to eat, a crowd followed. Bobby and another boy were pushed off the sidewalk, into the street.

A heckler stepped forward and grabbed at Bobby. Bobby drew his little pocketknife, just as the police arrived. The official police account says that Bobby "tried to defend himself with a knife." He was taken into protective custody, and held at the jail until an older brother could come for him. That was a turning point. Bobby can talk about what happened on Thursday reflectively, as he cannot talk about the earlier events.

After that day, he never again had so much trouble getting to sleep, although Foley Hill was still as tense as ever. At last, on Saturday night, 100 state troopers dramatically arrived in Clinton and restored order. They were followed the next day, Sunday, by the National Guard. Kasper was convicted of contempt and sentenced to a year in jail. He is now out on bond. Bobby did not stop trembling at home until well into the second week, long after the National Guard had taken over. What helped him most was the attitude of the white student body at Clinton High.

They grew more and more friendly. "They'd ask me about my homework, did I have it done, things like that," Bobby recalls with obvious pleasure. One of his teachers observed that the members of Clinton High's football team ("they're the elite at this time of the school year," she said) went out of their way to talk with Bobby.

Although he had been an above-average student at Austin High, he did not settle down to his homework until the third week of school, at the same time that it became possible for him to make the two-tenths-mile trip to Clinton High unescorted.

He scored his first scholastic triumph the day I interviewed him, on Friday, September 14^th. The day before, his history teacher, Mrs. Don Byerly, had asked his class to memorize the Declaration of Independence as the next day's assignment. When it came time to recite, Mrs. Byerly asked Bobby to come to the front of the room.

Source: George McMillan, "The Ordeal of Bobby Cain," Collier's, 23 November 1956, 68-69.

CAROLYN MCKINSTRY

I can remember a lot of things that happened during [the 1960's] which I didn't understand. I knew what happened, but I didn't know why. My earliest remembrance in Birmingham, when I realized the "why", was watching a news telecast on a particular day that was talking about the downtown buses and they actually showed the inside of the bus, with the sign that said "colored" and "white". It was the beginning of some demonstrations. I purposed in my mind that I was going to ride the bus. I had never ridden a bus. The reason I had never ridden a bus was because my mom protected us. I'm one of six children. We rode a special bus to school, but if we went anywhere else, my mom dropped us off. My mom never even told us what the rules were for riding the bus. She didn't want us to know that if you get on this bus, you have to sit in the back. For a long period of time, we didn't think about it. It didn't make any difference as long as you got where you were trying to go. But this caught my attention. This particular day, I wanted to see it. So I told [my mother] that after school, I was going with friends downtown to shop and I would be about an hour later than I normally was. I didn't tell her about the bus. I had in my mind that I was going to sit where I wanted to. I was too young to know that a lot of things could have happened that didn't. We did get on the bus. We had a driver that wasn't warm to press the issue. I did get to see the inside of the bus, for the first time. And I waited for somebody to tell me to move, but nobody did.

I spent a lot of time with my grandparents in the summers. My grandfather was a minister, which made me privy to a lot of the things that black ministers were privy to during that time. Privy to them at a young age. I guess he instilled in me the old folks wisdom. When I visited my grandparents, I was not allowed to leave the yard. I could not even walk across the street by myself. The reason being, there were things that went on during that time. I questioned it so often that one day [my grandfather] just sat me down and talked with me. He tried to tell me that things happened to young black girls that no one else cared about and nobody would be punished for them. I got a lesson. It was not a lesson in hate, but a lesson in "If you're here, then I can protect you. If you're not here, then I don't have any control over what happens to you." My grandfather had raised five girls and had sent all five to college during an era when it was difficult for anyone to go to college. He himself had gone to college in addition to being a minister. I gleaned a lot of what's called the old folk wisdom from him and my grandmother.

I don't have a problem relating to anybody. My grandfather never taught hatred, he was just careful. My mom and dad were the same way. I think they understood that you can't replace a life, but you can be careful. I think that's the posture from where they operated. There were a lot of things that we were just plain protected from, growing up, and we learned a lot about it later. I was very comfortable with who I was. At the time that I was growing up, Dr. A.G. Gaston had sponsored a statewide spelling contest. You initially competed in your school, then in the city, the county and then the state. When I was in seventh grade, I competed in all of those contests, and won first prize in the state. I was not permitted to go to the National Spelling Bee because one of the requirements to go to Nationals was that your local newspaper provide some sort of sponsorship. No black child had ever been sponsored to go to something like that. My mom never told me about the National contest until later. I really thought that I had won as far as I could go. I learned later that there was another level. It wouldn't have served any purpose to tell me. It served a good purpose not to know that the limitations were out there.

I was six when Brown vs. Board came down. I graduated from an all black elementary school and it stayed that way. My aunt was one of the teachers that [the administration] pulled from an all black school to an integrated school. She would talk about it. Everybody was watching everybody. Black teachers had a very difficult time. Both of my parents were teachers. When I talk about the movement, I tell people that teachers probably contributed less than anybody. Black teachers were afraid of losing their jobs. The control was set up at the Board that if it were made known that you were active or participating [in the movement], you could lose your jobs. Teachers could quietly look the other way when the students walked out of class to march, but they couldn't be vocal or visible. My high school, Parker High School, was not integrated either. It was all black when I graduated. My dad was one of the teachers that [was] moved to an all white school when it was integrated. A lot of things happened that my dad wouldn't like. He would get ready to go home in the evening and all the air would be out of his tires. He would be getting ready to give out mid-semester grades and the roll book would be missing. He reached a point one day where he walked away from the school and didn't go back.

When I was in high school, we would have these wonderful rallies and motivational speeches. Our teachers made us think that we could do anything we wanted to do and be anything that we wanted to be. We didn't really become aware of all this other stuff that was going on until the marches came to town and we were invited to march with them. Most of us then in tenth through twelfth grade. It was a wonderful environment. Even though we were asking for integration, I can't say that we would have been better off.

This was about the time that we started hearing things on TV, we started to have people come to town. I've been a member of 16th Street [Baptist] Church since I was two. That was where the meetings started. During the summer of my eighth grade year, I [began] work as a clerk in the church. I got to see a lot of things that children normally wouldn't and that may have been where I encountered those first meetings. I have very vivid memories of Dr. King and Reverend Shuttlesworth giving motivational speeches; memories of us singing songs, a lot of songs that made you feel real good inside. One of the things that I always appreciated was that [the ministers] stood there and told us what this was all about. It's real easy to get emotional and hyped-up when you sing the songs, but most children won't know what the songs are about. They explained it very simply -"We're fighting for our freedom. We feel that we should be able to do these things." So I had a pretty clear picture in my head of why we were marching.

The initial motivation [to march] may have come from those rallies, from the songs. It was just an excitement about the whole thing. We knew what we were trying to accomplish. I think to a great extent, children don't see the long term ramifications of anything we do. We didn't see any long term consequences. For some people there have been none, but for some people there have been some. Just the feeling that it would accomplish something, that things were going to change- we had confidence in [Dr. King]. He said we would make a difference and we believed that it would. He said it in such a way that listening to him as a child, we believed that. It was good to feel a part of things, to feel the excitement of what was going on and that things were going to change. It felt good, it felt right.

I marched two or three times, and it was my third time that I stopped. That was the day they brought out the tanks, the water hoses and the dogs. During those meetings that we had at the church, [the ministers] would always tell you things to watch for. They would say, "Be careful if a policeman comes up to you, and he hits you or if he spits on you." It was non-violence training. One of the things that they had not said anything about, and it may have been because they didn't know, was the water hoses. I was very disturbed, disillusioned and frightened when I was hit by that water hose. The force behind that water hose took my hair out. It just knocks people around like they're little pieces of nothing. It hurts. When the water hose hit me, I was looking for a place to hide. It hurt. It tore my sweater. It almost felt like what the sting of a whip would feel like. You looked for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere, you couldn't really hide. We just stood there and tried to hold on, but the water just pushed you. In addition to looking for cover, a safe place to get away from that pain, I felt humiliated, angry. My clothes were wet, my hair was wet. I hadn't done anything to anybody. We had just marched. In my child's way, I was just trying to understand it all. When I came to the full extent of what was going on, I was just humiliated. I felt like there was no respect for me. We probably were in that position for about fifteen to twenty minutes. I just remember being real solemn about it for several days after. I did not like my hair being taken out. That was the point at which I decided that I still had the same feelings and fervor for the movement, but I would make contributions some other way. I continued to attend the meetings and rallies they had at the church. If you teach hate, it will come to rest in a lot of places that you don't expect. Like my parents, I have made a point of not pushing the ugly side towards my children. It takes a lot of energy out of you to concentrate on hating people and remembering ugly things.

During that time, the house that is directly across the street from where I grew up was bombed. My friends who lived across the street were bringing their white friends home. That's when the problems started. In Birmingham it was noticed if you were black and had white friends or if you were white and had black friends. The blast destroyed the house that we lived in. The bomb just took the whole street with it. I have four brothers who were sleeping in two sets of bunk beds and the ones on the top were just thrown out of their beds and against the wall. All of our windows were broken. It was three o'clock in the morning and the street just lit up and then went black. That was the first bomb.

The second one was at [16th Street Baptist Church]. I was still serving as clerk for the Sunday school. My dad dropped us off at church. My two younger brothers went with me. My sister wouldn't let us comb her hair, so we left her at home. I had no eerie feelings, no premonitions. My pastor had received a bunch of bomb threats, but when nothing happened over a period of weeks, he probably thought nothing was going to happen. I went into the office and gathered the attendance reports to pass out. I had gone downstairs and passed by the bathroom where the girls were. I saw them putting on choir robes and combing their hair. I went up the steps to pass out reports upstairs. When I stepped into the sanctuary, the bomb exploded. The inside steps were completely blown away. I was about three or four seconds off of those steps. When the bomb exploded, the first thing I remember thinking about was rain. I didn't know it was a bomb at first. But then I heard people scream and saw people falling to the floor. That's what I did, I guess, because everybody else was doing it. It seemed like a long time we were on that floor, but it probably wasn't more than a minute. Then there was this mad rush of people trying to get out. Some people were screaming. We all ran out. My first thought when I came down the steps was my brothers. They were five and eight [years old]. I went looking for them and that's how I ended up in that bathroom. I kept telling myself "if they went to the bathroom, they wouldn't be in the girl's bathroom" but then they were little boys and they may have just run anywhere. I kept going back inside the church, looking for them. I didn't find either one of them. One of them was found near the school I attended. He just didn't know what was going on and he ran. The other one, my dad saw him. My dad was on his way to work and he heard the bomb, turned around and came back. My brothers went in [opposite directions]. I remember Carole Robinson's mother came up to me and asked me if I had seen Carole. She said "Maybe since this Carolyn got out, my Carole got out."

I went a little further each time I went [in]. It's one of those things that for a period of time, I just blotted out of my head. I couldn't see my brothers anywhere so I figured they gotta be inside if they weren't outside. I kept thinking of where I didn't look or maybe I didn't look good enough. The rooms are set up so you could look in and see that there's nobody there, but the bathrooms aren't set up that way. In fact, we talk about four girls being killed, but there's a fifth girl that was in that bathroom that nobody ever talks about. She's still living. She was blinded from the glass of the mirror. Sarah was eleven. She doesn't like to talk to people. I know about the bodies and the description of them. There was only one parent that rode to the hospital with her child. She was the only parent that was present. The others were coming. She happened to be there. To this day, she is not right. Her baby's brains were coming out of her head and she held them in, all the way to the hospital. This was Denise's mother. There were two children that when they brought them out, they said were still alive, but I don't know. But she's never been right since then. She just chose to step out of herself and away from reality. She functions, but it's apparent that a lot of things changed when this happened. But that kind of thing is akin to people having to go to Vietnam and get killed and dismembered- it has that kind of effect on you. I really don't know if I consciously suppressed that until later years when people started to ask questions about that. My bad nights are not as bad as they used to be.

It was long time after that that I wasn't good. It's really frightening when you live through that kind of thing. I had decided that I had lived through two, but sooner or later I was not going to make it through one somewhere. I was nervous, withdrawn. Loud noises just did me in. I would wake up at night if I heard a noise. You develop a paranoia. I developed something I can't describe, and it stayed with me. I still have a problem with noises, like a balloon popping, anything that is akin to a bomb going off. What bothers me the most is just talking about it. It can be a painful thing. I didn't realize how much I didn't like talking about it until I had to talk about it so much. For about fifteen or twenty years I just didn't think about it.

I left Birmingham after twelfth grade. I went off to college and I lived away from Birmingham for ten years. I came back, working with a lot of volunteer organizations such as the Civil Rights Institute. I allow people to ask me questions about this time. I talk schools and share with them feelings about present-day race relations. I take a picture with me of the KKK when they marched in 1993. People are always asking me if I think things are different, if things have changed. When they ask me that, that's when I like to get that picture out and say "Well , you tell me. Have things changed?" [The KKK] is one of the reasons my grandfather wouldn't let me out of the house without company.

I don't intend to march anymore. Not that I dislike marching; I think it's more symbolic of what we were trying to do during that era. I just try to find other ways to make my contribution. I remember those marches with sadness and sometimes with anger. I only think about them when a [memorial march] is done.

There were a lot of outstanding contributions that were made by women during that time. It's not just the movement. If you look at things that have happened in history, women were played down. It carried over into the civil rights movement without anybody thinking about it. But in fact, there were some very brave women who were part of the movement. Mountainbrook is Birmingham's [wealthier] area, and there were white women who came and offered their cars, made sandwiches, and shuttled people back and forth. They did this quietly. We had white support, but women tended to be quiet, to keep their contributions quiet. In some cases, their husbands didn't know. White women and blacks worked well together during that period. Women tend to be more focused, more organized. I suspect that there were a lot of cases where the guy was the head of the plan that some woman put together. That's been my experience. Women are competent and capable. One woman smuggled the letter that King wrote out of the Birmingham jail. Women donated money and time. There was a network of black and white women together that went around looking for places their services could be used. I think women have always been there. Throughout history we've always been there. We were definitely part of the movement. There was one lady who served as secretary for the NAACP who had a list of everybody that was arrested and who went to jail. No man had that, but they were in charge of the marches. The men were in charge of raising money for bail, but none of them had that list, for obvious reasons. I think we were very much part of what went on, but we were not visible. I think it was a result of the times. Women were always expected to be low-key. We had a few women that were vocal during that time. Diane Nash and Dorothy Cotton- we had a few like that. Women did a tremendous amount of work. One lady talked about staying up all night making sandwiches, putting gas in cars, driving. Women found clean shirts for the men as they marched and traveled. Women found places where the men could go eat dinner. Whose ever home it was, it was the woman who prepared the meal and set it up and steered them on their way. Women just haven't been portrayed in the movement.

In December 1965, a group of adults and students held a meeting at the Eckhardt home in Des Moines to discuss the publicizing of their objections to the Vietnam War. It was determined at the meeting that they would show their support for a truce by wearing black arm bands during the holiday season. The Tinker and Eckhardt families had participated before in similar activities and decided to again join the protest.

Fifteen-year-olds John F. Tinker and Christopher Eckhardt attended high schools in Des Moines, Iowa. Mary Beth Tinker, John's sister, was a 13-year-old junior high school student. When the principals of their schools became aware of the plan to wear the arm bands, they adopted a policy that any student joining the protest would be asked to remove it. If the student refused, the student would be suspended from school until he or she returned without the arm band. The petitioners were all aware of the policy that the school administration adopted. This policy was deemed necessary in part because a former student had been killed in Vietnam and some of his friends, who were still in school, might be upset by the demonstration. In addition, it was rumored that other students planned to wear arm bands of other colors if the black bands were worn.

On December 16, Mary Beth and Christopher wore two-inch wide black arm bands to their schools. John wore his arm band to school on December 17. There was evidence that the arm bands caused comments, warnings, and poking of fun at the demonstrating students, and a warning by one student that the protestors had better "let him alone." Further evidence showed that one teacher had his lesson "wrecked" because of the demonstration and that the arm bands diverted students' minds from their regular lessons. Testimony for the school indicated that no disturbances or disorders on the school premises occurred and that the demonstrating students merely went to their classes with a band of black cloth, not more than two inches wide, around their upper arm. They caused discussion outside of the classrooms, but no interference with work and no disorder.

Abiding by the policy, the principals sent the three students home from school, telling them they could come back if they would do so without the arm bands. None of the students returned to their respective schools until after New Year's Day, the end of the protest period that had been set at the meeting.

The fathers of the three students filed a complaint with the U.S. District Court, asking for an injunction to restrain the school officials and board of directors from disciplining the petitioners. They also sought nominal damages. The District Court dismissed the complaint in an evidentiary hearing, citing the constitutionality of the school authorities' action on the ground that it was a reasonable response to prevent disturbance of school discipline. The court referred to, but did not follow, the Fifth Circuit's ruling in Burnside v. Byars, which states that wearing of symbols cannot be prohibited unless it "materially and substantially interferes with the requirements of appropriate discipline in the operation of the school."

The petitioners then appealed the case to the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals, which considered the case en banc. This court was equally divided between the parties, which allowed the District Court's decision to stand. The case was then appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court.

STATEMENT OF DR. ELEANOR E. MACCOBY, LECTURER, DEPARTMENT OF SOCIAL RELATIONS, HARVARD UNIVERSITY . . .

Dr. MACCOBY: Well, I have been asked to testify to you gentlemen on a study on television children which we did in Cambridge, Mass., about 4 years ago.

Now, you will recognize, of course, that television has changed a great deal since that time.

There was a virtue of doing it in the winter of 1950-51, however, because at that time there were many families which did not have television, and it was possible for us to compare the activities of children in families which did have television with families which did not have it.

Now, at that time, about two-thirds of the families of the area which we were studying had no television. We worked with families who had children between the ages of 4 and 17, and we drew a sample of families at random from the city of Cambridge.

We talked to about 332 mothers, and these mothers had 622 children. So we asked the mothers to describe to us exactly what each one of their children had been doing on the school day immediately preceding the interview, that is, through the afternoon and into the evening, and also during each hour of the day on the last Sunday before the interview took place.

Now, in the families which did have television we found the children were spending 2 1/2 hours per weekday and 3 1/2 hours per Sunday watching television.

One thing that interested us was the fact that children watched as much as this, regardless of how long they had their sets. Many people had told us that television was sort of a new toy and that the interest in it would wear off after the child had had a chance to see all the kind of things there were and had sort of settled down.

We did not find that to be the case. Even the children who had had their television sets as long as 2 years were still watching the viewing as much as those who had just gotten their sets. We have had results in just this last week which are not fully tabulated yet, but it looks as though the 3-hour average per day still stands up pretty well as the amount of time that the average child does spend watching TV.

Now, we have also found that children of ages 4 and 5 spend as much time watching television as children who are 9, 10, and teen-aged, and we did not investigate how early it starts. We do know that by the age of 4 the TV habit is pretty well established. . . .

Now, we did find that children in homes which have television go to bed later than the nontelevision homes.

The difference there is about a little less than a half hour difference in bedtime, the TV children going to bed on the average a half hour later.

Now, that half hour is kind of a deceptive figure, because some parents guard the bedtime of their children very closely whether they have television or not, so their children go to bed anyway, but other parents allow themselves to be wheedled. What happens is, a child wants to stay up just this once to see a special program, and then it happens again and again and finally gets to be the pattern in the family.

Now, it has been assumed in some quarters that it is safe enough to show programs that might be unsuitable for children so long as they are put on the air after 9 or 10 o'clock.

Now, it is true, of course, that a large proportion of children are in bed by these hours, but many are not, and no matter when a program is on, some children will see it.

This might be important if we remember that TV children who see late programs tend to be the ones for whom home controls are somewhat weak. The parents are not getting them in bed, you see, and therefore they are the ones who would, in any case, be most apt to pick up whatever undesirable material there was on these late programs.

Well, one question that we felt to be important was, What is television taking the place of?

If children are spending 3 hours a day watching television, they must be doing it instead of what they would have been doing in those 3 hours if they didn't have television, and we are interested in this question of substitution of activities. So we compared the children who did have television and were spending their 3 hours a day watching it with the children who didn't yet have it to see just exactly what they might have been doing if they were not watching television.

We found some television time is a direct transfer from radio listening, movie going, comic book reading, and regular book reading. We found, however, that television watching is so much greater in time than the time that used to be spent on those other media that the child's total exposure to mass media is just about doubled when the family gets television. That is, the television takes away a good deal of time from other mass media, but it also takes time from hobbies, from playing outdoors, from helping mother around the house, and all the other kinds of children's activities that would go on. As I say, the total exposure to mass media is just about doubled with the advent of television in the home.

It is interesting, too, to note that TV children who watch television a great deal are the ones who read comic books a great deal. They are not the ones who read books. There is a negative relationship there, and the more a child watches television, the less he is likely to read books.

Some of the television time, incidentally, is taken from sleep time, as I have said, because the bedtimes are later.

All right; now what about the impact of having a television set upon family life?

You are all familiar with the statement that Henry Ford took the American family out of the home and scattered them and that television has brought them back together again. That is true, in a certain sense. We found in our study that the amount of time children spend actually in the physical presence of their parents and their other family members goes up when they get television because the family spends a good deal of time sitting together and watching television.

However, the amount of time a child spends with his family, not counting television time is very drastically reduced. It is about half as great, and what happens then is that the parents and children are sitting together watching something jointly, but they are not talking together nor playing together nor working together. They are only doing that half as much time as they used to before they got television.

Now, the meaning of this was brought home to me in a particular interview that I remember. I was talking to the mother in the dining room of a little apartment because her husband was sitting in the living room watching television, and we did not want to disturb him. So we were sitting there and I was interviewing her about her children's activities and while we were there the little boy came home from school and he went up to the living room and went up to his father and he had brought home a drawing he had made at school. He said, "Look, Daddy; see this drawing?" that he had. His father said, "Sssh." He pushed him away because the father was in a particularly crucial part of the story, so the child sat down and watched the program.

But here was an opportunity for the parent and child to interact, and for the father to say something to his boy about the accomplishment; but here was an opportunity that was missed because of the father's absorption in TV. I assume this is happening at a lot of times.

Particularly interesting, was, of course, the family dinner hour, which has always been a time of the family life when they discussed the doings of the day and the parents have a chance to discuss with children about telling them what was right or wrong about what happened. In the families we studied, one-sixth of the children had their supper in front of the television set every night, and almost half had their supper in front of television 2 or 3 times a week; so that the family dinner hour, in some families at least, has sort of evaporated because of the advent of television.

Please don't misunderstand me. I know there are some families where the family dinner hour is not all sweetness and light and instruction to children, and I imagine that television is better than what one finds in the situation at the dinner table; but there is no doubt that television is cutting into that time of interaction.

Now, one final point about the matter of family influence. When children are watching television with their parents the parents may not be exercising much active influence in the sense of guiding and instructing the children, but at least they know where the children are. The children are not out on the streets unsupervised.

We find that many parents are quite at a loss to know how to control teen-age youngsters and they are thankful when there is something as interesting as television to keep them at home without an argument.

I have a quotation here from one mother who said in an interview:

I think television tends to hold a family together. There are a lot of things to say for TV in that way. I find I don't have to go looking for my daughter at dinnertime and she stays home in the evening. She never goes out evenings now, and TV has safeguarded my daughter.

Now, another mother of a younger child, this boy was about 8 years old and very active and mischievous boy, was very pleased with television because it kept her son out of mischief and she said it is just like putting him to sleep. She can sit him down in front of the television set and he will be absorbed and happy, and will not be in the way. As a matter of fact, that is what we found mother thought best about television; it is a wonderful babysitter before the dinner hour when the children are tired and cranky and it is a great relief for her to send the children up before the television set and let them be quiet. This means she will let them watch anything on television at that hour. She is not there to monitor them because she is elsewhere, and she is simply using television as a sitter.

Now, I would like to turn to a question which is in some ways more interesting and more important than the question of how much time children spend watching TV or under what circumstances they watch.

I would like to discuss the question of the effects on children of the kind of thing that they see on television programs.

Now, I would like to say at the outset that this is a question about which we have very few solid facts. I know this committee has received contradictory evidence from different sources. Some witnesses have felt that the acts of violence that children see on TV and in comic strips simply provide a harmless outlet for the aggressive impulses that all children have anyway.

Others have felt that constantly viewing violent episodes must leave a lasting mark on the child, sometimes even providing the stimulus for outright acts of delinquency.

Now, I am sorry to have to hedge on this point, but I believe there is some truth in both points of view because some kinds of TV content does have lasting effect on some children, under some conditions, but we are just now beginning to find out what some of the conditions are that are important. . . .

Now, the theory goes that when a person is frustrated or angry, if he does something aggressive, this will discharge his anger and he will be more quiet and peaceful afterward. The next step in the theory is that it is possible to discharge one's anger indirectly or vicariously through the activity of somebody else by watching a prize fight, for example, or watching a gun battle on television.

Now, a number of questions come to mind about this point of view: First of all, if it is true that a child can get some discharge of his aggressive feelings by viewing violent activity on television, how long does the relief last?

Presumably, if he reenters a frustrating situation when the TV situation is over, he can be made angry again and will be just as ready for relief aggression as he ever was before.

Another question is this: If a child sits down to watch a television show when he is not angry, but merely sits down out of habit or because he is bored, is there any danger that aggressive feelings will be aroused rather than quieted? . . .

There is not any doubt that children pick up all sorts of content from the programs they watch. Teen-age girls watch the movie stars and the TV stars to see very carefully what is the proper thing to wear to the theater or nightclub or how to act at a wedding or what you are supposed to do when you ride on an airplane, whether you are supposed to tip the stewardess or not, these things these girls have never had in a situation of having to experience, and some time they may, so they want to be ready so they wouldn't be unsophisticated, so they watch closely and store up these little items of information which the television offers them for future reference if the situation ever comes up when they need it.

Now, just at the present time, we are doing a little experiment at Harvard where we are testing children for what they remember out of a movie. What we have done is to compare children who were angry and upset at the time they saw the movie with children who were not, and we have found that when a child sees a movie, this was a Dead End Kids movie, by the way, one with lots of action and violence, when a child sees a movie of that sort while he is upset and angry, he remembers the aggressive content better than if he were not angry when he saw the program. He remembers the quiet, mild material much less well, if he saw the movie while he was angry, which means, then, that what a person sees and remembers out of a television show depends upon the mood he was in at the time that he saw it. . . .

We know, however, that children remember some things and not others out of programs, and we do not know exactly how much they remember the consequences. There is a group at Boston University now who have been doing a study in which they cut up films, Hopalong Cassidy films, and rearranged them so that the film can have a different ending. Sometimes the hero wins and sometimes he loses, and although their research is not completed yet, it looks quiet clear that the effect upon the child and what he remembers is influenced by who wins in the movie, and the person the child admires most is influenced by who wins. So all we can say at this point is outcomes make a great deal of difference. We do not want to take the position that all aggression in movies is bad and something that should be filtered out, but rather it makes a great deal of difference how it is woven into the story. . . .

STATEMENT OF DR. PAUL F. LAZARSFELD, PROFESSOR OF SOCIOLOGY, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, NEW YORK . . .

Mr. BOBO. Dr. Lazarsfeld, we are interested in determining the impact of television upon juvenile delinquency. I wonder, do you have a statement that you would like to make to the committee about what is known about the impact or what knowledge we have of the impact of television?

Dr. LAZARSFELD. Yes; I would like to do that very much. I was only told a few days ago that I would have the privilege to be a witness here, and so I will have to put my written statement in later.

But the reason I was so pleased that you would listen here is that in all the 30 years of work in this field, I have always been very startled by a paradox from what came clearly out of what I read of your old hearings, that in view of this question of the effect of the mass media on young people, everyone says how terribly necessary it would be to have a great deal of knowledge and, at the same time, only very little knowledge is available; and why it is that when everyone comes for data, then no one has any, has worried me a great deal; and I thought I would point out why I think this situation exists and what could be done about it. . . .

Now, as to the history of the situation, why, there is such general demand for knowledge and so little available, I think you have to look at three different factors here: First, we students in the field; you had yesterday a distinguished scholar, Dr. Maccoby from Harvard. There is more very good work done at Rutgers by the Reillys, at Yale by Hofland. But, it is traditional in academic work, a professor picks up a topic; he drops it when he gets bored with it; or he drops it if he is not a good student and as far as the academic goes, that is all right, because a hundred years more or less does not make much difference for us.

Slowly it will accumulate. But if you do not look at it only from the point of view of progress of academic work but as a burning social issue, then I think it is not possible to leave it just to the accidental initiative of scholars. I do not want to make an invidious comparison, but we certainly would not have an atomic bomb today if the development had been merely left to Ph.D. dissertations.

I don't think that we exactly need a Los Alamos Laboratory to study the effects of television, but we need, if it is an urgent social problem, then some central planning and central organization, and some pressure; some priority has to be put on it.

[second point] Now, the question is, why has the foundation work not taken on this continuity and planning which might be necessary in this field? And that has to do with a definite policy foundations have in this matter, and which might be of interest for you to discuss.

The foundations feel two things: One, that they should never give permanent directions to academic work. They spend funds for a few years to stimulate a new field, but they then throw it back to the universities and professors to go on with it or not.

There is definite and probably very reasonable discontinuity in foundation work which makes it difficult to accumulate knowledge.

Unfortunately, the foundation field, as you probably know-there has been considerable discussion whether foundations should do work in controversial fields and the foundation has become more cautious recently, which I, as a professor, consider a very regrettable development. While, when radio came up, the Rockefeller Foundation was still quite willing to finance large-scale study of what radio does to this country, now that television is here, no foundation has dared to do-to invest considerable funds in necessary investigation. . . .

Finally, a third factor in this research picture is the industry itself.

As you probably know, and you know it from your hearings on comics, that television, the television industry, like most communications industry, do spend research money and work with academic groups. I can testify that there is certainly never any influencing of the scholar by the industry, but, again, the industry has to do the kind of research which is close to their immediate operational problems. They can never lay out large-scale plans. The people go from one little study to the next, and while industry has contributed great knowledge to this field, it could not contribute to any continuity and to any systematic work.

So, reviewing the situation over the last 30 years, and I have for a great part of it lived through it, everything has militated against the kind of systematic building and relatively quick building of knowledge which would be necessary in a field of social concern like, let us say, cancer, or, in this case, criminology.

Now, if I now turn briefly to what kind of knowledge do I refer to, then it is quite clear that what is missing from what I just mentioned is not individual fine studies, which we have in large number, and you have heard a good example of it yesterday, but this kind of knowledge, where there is large fund, or continuing work is necessary. Let me give you a few examples.

For instance, we are all concerned with, do the programs we have now have bad effects, and there is great controversy whether the programs are bad or not.

Now, undoubtedly, the much more provocative problem would be to experiment with good programs.

Now, a network, they way the American broadcasting television system is built, cannot experiment very much. I think there is great need for experimentation on a small scale with completely different kinds of programs for young people, and you ought to be aware that this is a difficult matter.

We do not know whether there is any talent; we do not know whether anyone has any ideas what good programs are. I know very little about it. We do not know whether children would listen to what I call good programs and we should study, if they listen, whether it would have a good effect.

But the strange thing is that all the discussion is the programs are bad, and do they have bad effects? Instead of experimenting, what do we really mean by a good program? I don't think anyone really knows. Who is there, anyone around who can write it, and then what would the poor children do if they had to listen to good programs? I think it is not as bad from my experience with my children; they don't resent good stuff as it is said, but experiments have to be made and that is obviously something, which is important.

Let me give you a second example.

All the studies which we can do on small funds in universities are short term. We put kids into a laboratory and do it this way, and do it that way, and then look for the effect.

But probably the real problems are the long-term effects. There have been some ideas on cumulative effect. What do those things do 6 years later, not 6 minutes later? . . .

One third example of needed research which, again, due to the situation described, has been omitted, is very often overlooked. How do those controversial programs get on the air? No one seriously thinks that a president of a network is a malefactor who sits here and thinks how he can corrupt little children.

It comes about, supposing that those programs are bad, by a variety of circumstances. For instance, there is a legend that children like bad programs, so here is one good reason to put them on. But maybe it is not true. We do not know.

Then it is easier to write stupid programs than good programs, and everyone overlooks the tremendous amount of stuff which has to go on television. I mean scores of hours every day. Now, there just are not enough good people in the world to write so many good programs. So you have mediocre people who use stereotypes, and very often they do not know it.

So the question of how do programs get on the air, at what point would it be possible to influence, do you have to influence advertisers, do you have to get a better writer, should you have some special educator who worries at every network? No one really quite knows how programs get on the air, because there are scores of people involved in those decisions, and, again, if that were studied, one can very easily capitalize on the good will which the industry undoubtedly has, to be cooperative. . . .

Now let me, however, before closing, make one fourth point: I do want to warn you that, while it is my duty here to say how little we know, and how urgent it would be to know more about it, and to know what should be done about it, one should not look to research as a kind of a panacea which now will solve all your problems. You should not do it on two points:

First, in this whole matter of the mass media, there are questions of convictions and taste which can never be settled by research.

Your cannot settle by research whether people should read good books rather than bad books, or whether they should listen to good music. You have to have certain convictions on the dignity of men, on the importance of the matters of the mind, and you have to stick to them irrespective of research.

If I see a cruel picture in a comic, or if I hear a stupid television program, and they exist, undoubtedly, then I do not want them and I get away from them irrespective of whether I have research data or not.

Secondly, there is a great danger that research is being used as an alibi. Let us just wait until we have enough research and then we will do something.

Now, that is not what the real role of research is. People have to make decisions; they act. We do some studies; we improve their action; their actions improve our studies because they raise new questions. There is an interaction between the responsible decisions of the policymaker and the research man. While we do not want to be drowned by your decisions, we also do not want to be used as an alibi.

Now, that brings me to the final question: Do I have any reason to think that appearing before this committee will change the situation?

I am very sorry that Senator Kefauver is not here today, because one of the interesting studies we have done was on the effect of the Kefauver hearings on crime several years ago, and one of my colleagues made a study of what effect did the television crime hearings have on the audience. Did they really become aware of the problem of crime? The finding was that it had a very great effect in making them worried, but then there was not anything they could do about it, and therefore their worry was either dissipated or even converted into intention and a desire to get away from the situation. So one of the great dangers is to say something is bad and not to say what concretely can be done about it. . . .

Source: Congress, Senate, Committee of the Judiciary, Juvenile Delinquency (Television Programs), 84th Congress, 1st Session, April 6 and 7, 1955 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1955).