A
734,515
Run, Zebra, Run!
Leon R. Harris


PROPERTY OF
University of
Michiğan
Libraries
1817
ARTES SCIENTIA VERITAS





I


RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!


ABOUT THE TITLE
From a letter of the publisher to Leon R. Harris:
Because there is no accepted definition of the Negro who
passes as white, I suggest you title your book Run, Zebra,
Run! The zebra is black and white. Is he black with white
stripes, or white with black stripes? Put him against a
white background and he is black; put him against a black
background and he is white. When his camouflage fails, he
becomes prey to the beasts of the jungle and his only
escape is to run.
Edward Uhlan, President
Exposition Press Inc.


Run, Zebra, Run!
A STORY OF AMERICAN RACE CONFLICT
Leon R. Harris
EXPOSITION PRESS
NEW YORK


H 31 5 5V la
Exposition Press Inc., 386 Fourth Avenue, New York 16, N.Y.
FIRST EDITION
© 1959 by Leon R. Harris. All rights reserved, including the right of
reproduction in whole or in part in any form, except for brief quota-
tions in critical essays and reviews. Manufactured in the United States
of America.


Soooo!- οι 3
Το
MY MOTHER





Contents
1. IN THE NATIONAL BANK 11
2. IN THE BROWNSTONE MANSION 18
3. IN THE SKY-BLUE BEDROOM 25
4. IN JACK'S ROOMING HOUSE 27
5. IN THE STUDIO OF MUSIC 35
6. IN THE METHODIST HOSPITAL 42
7. IN THE WHITEWASHED CABIN 50
8. IN THE DARKENED ROOM 54
9. IN THE ORPHANS' HOME 57
10. ON CONDOR STREET 65
11. IN THE CELLAR 72
12. IN THE RAILWAY COACH 78
13. IN TUCKERTOWN 87
14. IN THE FARMHOUSE 95
15. IN THE KITCHEN 105
16. IN THE WOODSHED 115
17. IN THE JUNK ROOM 124
18. IN THE SUGAR CAMP 133
19. IN THE CHURCH 142
20. AT THE MILL 155
21. IN THE MILLER'S HOME 162
22. BEHIND THE VEIL 170
23. IN THE CLOVER FIELD 177
24. IN THE SHEEP PASTURE 1 184
25. IN TUSKEGEE 192
26. IN THE LITTLE BUNGALOW 200
27. TRAV'LIN' ON 208
28. CHANGING WINDS 220
29. IN BIRMINGHAM 226
30. BACK TO BRIDGEVILLE 232
31. BEHIND THE MAGNOLIAS 238
32. THROUGH THE SHADOWS 248
33. THE ZEBRA RESTS 254





RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!





12
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"Jist as usual, Mr. Nick, jist as usual. Mebbe fur me—mebbe
fur you. Jist s'pose we see, suh."
The porter pushed through the gate and stood at the end of
the convenient table around which the bank's directors so often
sat and conferred. On the open palm of his right hand reposed
two dice, a red one and a green one. The dice slipped from his
hand to the table.
"Shoot yuh a dime this mawnin', Mr. Nick."
"Shoot!" The little man laid a silver dollar beside the porter's
dime. The porter picked up the dice.
"Mek it fo' Chris'mas," he exclaimed rapidly as he shook the
dice and rolled them across the table.
They "made it," a lucky "natural," on the top of the green
one, four dots; on the top of the red one, three dots. The porter
grinned.
"Shoot th" twenty cents, Mr. Nick."
"Shoot 'em, you lucky devil."
"Hit him fo' Chris'mas!"
Again there came up a "natural," this time eleven. The porter
picked up the dice, tightly squeezed them in his right fist, held
the fist to his lips, kissed it loudly, and remarked, "Shoot th'
fo'ty cents."
"Shoot!"
A pair of fives greeted him.
"Ugh, ugh," he grunted. "Now I'se gotta wo'k fo' you honies.
Don' yuh fool wit' me, dice! Make 'at ten fo' Chris'mas!"
He rolled again. The result was a pair of deuces. Once more,
and up turned a five and a three. The Negro raised his arms in
supplication.
"Bring me ah six an' ah fo', dice. Jist ah little six an' ah fo'.
Heah yo' pappy beg yuh, dice! Come six an' fo'!"
He rolled, but instead of the six and four again the pair of
fives greeted the players. The porter let out a whoop and the
little man turned toward the fire in disgust.
"What the devil did you do last night? Go to church?"
"Yas, suh. You bet. Ah newah misses chu'ch this near Chris'-
mas."


IN THE NATIONAL BANK
13
"Thought so. Well, tell you what I'll do. You're eighty cents
in my dollar. Give me the change." Joe handed the little man
twenty cents. He laid the four nickels on the table and picked up
the dice.
"If I pass, Joe, the boss will win the nomination for Gov-
ernor next year. If I don't pass, you take the twenty cents. I want
to try out my luck."
He rolled the dice to the farthest end of the table.
"You win, Mr. Nick," said Joe. "Won on lucky 'leven. Glad
of it. Ruthah see mah boss Guv'ner than have them fo' nickels
thar. Did he come in las' night?"
"Yes. I met him at the station. He's tired but looking fine.
Said he'd be up early this morning. I'm going to wait for him. He's
an early bird, you know."
Joe looked at the clock. "Ugh, ugh! Hits aftah eight bells.
Lemme git busy an' shine 'em up 'roun' here."
When he grabbed up the dustcloth and returned to his shining
the little man sat down before the fire.
Nicholas Leeder, a lawyer who seldom appeared before a bar
of justice, a businessman who seemed to mix in all the business
carried on in his section of the state, a good orator, a good bass
singer, and a good Presbyterian, was admired by his friends who
spoke of him as the honorable Mr. Leeder, and was soundly hated
by his enemies who called him "Slick Nick." Whether he had
more enemies than friends was hard to discover. His greatest
success had been the making of George Vanalban, president of
Bridgeville's national bank, Congressman of the district. But his
enemies remarked that Vanalban could have been elected as easily
without Nick's assistance as with it; the only credit Nick deserved
was for persuading Vanalban to run for the office.
He was fifty years old but appeared to be under forty. He had
lived a temperate life. For twenty-five years he had been a widower
and a guest of the Midstate Hotel, where he occupied a suite of
three rooms on the second floor. When at home, he drank one
swallow of Scotch in the morning and smoked one long black
cigar in the evening. He never overworked himself or allowed his
friends to overwork him. He was immune to worry and criticism.


14
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Whatever happened just happened to him. But he had a keen,
analytical mind; he could feel the beating of the public's pulse
every day in the year. When, two years before, he had decided
that his lifelong friend should be the district's Congressman, he
worked toward that end with a determination that easily overcame
the little opposition that developed.
Promptly at ten minutes to nine, Joe responded to another
. sharp rap on the front door and admitted the bank's employees.
There were four of them: George Vanalban, Jr., cashier; Frank,
his brother, assistant and teller; Riley, the bookkeeper; and Miss
Mary Nourse, stenographer and clerk. They greeted Leeder and
Joe pleasantly, removed their damp wraps and overshoes, and
each in turn warmed his fingers at the fireplace. At the stroke
of nine the cashier opened the massive safe; sacks of silver and
bundles of bills were placed on the counters within the cage;
merchants and farmers, laborers and housewives entered, and the
day's work began.
Nicholas Leeder never arose from his seat before the fire
until a loud, cheerful "Good morning, everybody!" echoed through
the lobby. A tall and rather portly man was busily shaking hands
with everyone, at the same time inquiring about the health of all
their relations as though he were, himself, related to all, and fam-
ily connections forced his inquiries. The man was Congressman
George Vanalban, home for the holidays, and jolly and friendly
as ever.
He had opened his overcoat and undercoat. A large watch
charm, attached to a heavy gold chain, dangled and shone in
front of him. A diamond pin glistened in his necktie. His long
sideburns seemed to move and shake faster than his head as he
talked and laughed. His demeanor was that of a prosperous and
happy man, at home and among friends—home for rest—not for
business—home to enjoy himself—not to be annoyed by either
the little or the big things of his own or of other people's lives.
Walking behind the railing, he slapped his friend on the
back.
"Wake up, Nick, old man. Let me get a little laugh out of


IN THE NATIONAL BANK 15
you this morning. Heard the latest story, the one about the Irish-
man and the load of coal?"
"No," said Leeder positively. "No! And I don't want to
hear it till you tell me I can make that announcement tonight."
"What announcement? Oh, by holy smokes! I had forgotten
all about it." He opened the door to his private office. "Come on
in, Nick."
It was pleasant inside. The men stood before the radiator.
Leeder took a newspaper from his pocket and tapped gently
thereon. "Well, can I make it, George? It's a sure victory. The
people will fall for you."
"Blast it all, Nick! Why do you want me to be Governor? I
didn't even want to be a Congressman. I want to rest in peace
awhile before I'm dead. Believe I have heart trouble anyhow. I
don't want any more honors. I don't need any more. Besides—
no, you can't make that announcement, for I won't run against
McKnight."
Leeder smiled. He knew Vanalban and expected just such an
argument. He was ready. "You won't have to run against Mc-
Knight. He's moving to higher ground, just as you should do.
He'll run for, and he'll be elected, the next President of the
United States."
"Umph! So that's the program, is it?"
The friends were still standing before the radiator. Outside
the fog and mist had lifted. Leeder glanced through the window.
Far away up the street he saw three girls approaching. They were
walking briskly. One of the girls was wearing a red and blue
Indian scarf. It was thrown over the head, wrapped around the
neck, tied in a loose knot, and the long, free ends of it were sway-
ing in the morning air. Leeder knew the scarf and he knew the
girl.
"You owe it to your friends and to your family, George. I
want to announce your candidacy tonight. Say yes, won't you?"
The Congressman was silent. In a little while, he, too, glanced
through the window. The girls were approaching now, not more
than two blocks away.


16
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"Isn't that Catherine?" Vanalban asked.
"Yes. Don't you know your own daughter?"
Vanalban laughed. "Hope to goodness I'll never get as far-
sighted as you are, Nick. You can even see presidents and gov-
ernors two years away."
When the girls reached the corner, Vanalban tapped on the
windowpane and beckoned for his daughter to come inside. He
met her at his office door and threw his arm affectionately around
her slim shoulders.
"Where to so early, Daughttie?"
There was a smile on her lips and laughter in her eyes. "Go-
ing for my music lesson, Papa, and I can't learn a bit. I love to
listen to the teacher's songs and singing but not to her instruc-
tions. I can't play the simplest things yet without making mistakes.
I can't sing any better than I could when I was ten. Aren't you
and Mama tired wasting money on my voice and fingers?"
"No. Shame on you for even thinking 'I can't.' I'll expect you
to play and sing my favorite song for me for my Christmas present.
Better run along."
He opened his pocketbook and withdrew a shining quarter.
For several years a quarter had been his daily allowance to her,
and now, though she was eighteen and grown up, he was disap-
pointed because she had not begged him for it that morning,
before he left home for the bank. He held it toward her and she
accepted it laughing.
"What you going to spend it for?" he asked.
"Gumdrops," she replied, and slipped through the door like
an elf.
Leeder seized his opportunity. "The daughter of the Gov-
ernor," he exclaimed.
"Yes," said the Congressman, "you may make the announce-
ment tonight."
The little man rushed to his rooms and rapidly wrote copies
of telegrams he would forward at once to the Columbus, Cleve-
land, and Cincinnati papers. But before he left with them, he
entered his bedroom and unlocked a walnut cabinet sitting on the
mantel shelf. From its inner recesses he withdrew a silver jewel-


IN THE NATIONAL BANK
17
box. This he also unlocked. Soon he was holding in his nervous
fingers a small, tintype photograph, a kind which in those far-off
days was made and developed at fairs and circuses. It was the
photograph of a laughing girl; a pretty face beneath a broad-
brimmed hat; a face bordered by wisps of curly, black hair. He
looked at it intently, then pressed it to his lips.
"The daughter of the Governor," he whispered. Then he re-
turned it to its secret place, locked the walnut cabinet, and hurried
out.


IN THE BROWNSTONE MANSION
19
A faint "Yas-um" descended from the upper floor.
"Come on down heah, gal, an' sit th' table. Hurry hup. It's
'bout noontime."
Then, turning to Mrs. Vanalban, she replied, "Bettah ordah
special sack o' yaller meal, ma'am. Dat ole gemman sho' do love
his corn pones. Ah 'members him. Et hup ah gallon ob maple
'lasses in one week, mixin' hit wid his clabber milk. Newah seed
sich kind o' eatin' since Ah war bawn. How long he say he goin'
stay?"
"Just a few days. You know his son, Phil, lives in Cuyler.
"He'll spend most of his visit there. George, Jr., told me yester-
day Phil was pretty hard up. He was in to the bank last week.
They have a new baby which makes six in all—just stairsteps. I
can't understand what that sharp-tongued, lazy wife of his is
thinking about."
"Wal, she may be lazy an' dum', but she got good sense,"
said honest Mary. "Dese yere young narthern wimmins is gittin'
too wise fur dere own good. Dat's why so many ob dem is sleepin'
in de groun'. Bettah livin' fools den dead smarty's, Ah thinks."
"Well, perhaps you're right, Mary. Maybe the good Lord does
still send all the babies. But it seems He's overly generous to poor
people."
The hall clock chimed the noon hour and at the same moment
the whistle of Bridgeville's one big industrial plant—the rollin'
mill—blew a long, coarse blast. Mrs. Vanalban arose from the
chair, and Mary turned again to her oven and pots.
"Git a bucket ob fresh wattah, gal. Yo' knows th' Mistah's
heah tuhday an' he drinks nigh on tuh ah gallon ah meal. Lemme
see how dat table looks."
Mary inspected the dining room and was satisfied. Lucy was
an excellent maid. The cook, who was her grandmother, had
trained her well. The family arrived for dinner one at a time. First
came the Congressman, then Frank, who always rode home with
his elder brother, George, who lived with his family a block dis-
tant, and last the daughter, Catherine.
George Vanalban's home was a little private world, solidly
walled in from the big world without. The sun of Love illumined


20
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
it by day; the moon of Peace bathed it in effulgent rays by night.
The storms of Strife blew over it and the gentle showers of
Friendliness fell upon it. It was a perfect home for such a family—
for an honorable father, a good mother, an obedient son, a loving
daughter, and two faithful, conscientious servants.
They were seated at the table and everyone was happy and
hungry. Vanalban said the grace as though he were thankful in-
deed, and the first words he uttered when the bowed heads were
raised were, "This is home."
"Papa, you don't have time to get homesick, do you?" inquired
Catherine.
"Homesick? Well, I hadn't thought of it like that. But maybe
that is what gets the matter with me some days. Been thinkin' I
just have what the south'ners call 'the blues.' It's mighty hard to
break an old habit, Daughttie, and you know I'd been in the habit
of living with you folks a long time before I went to Congress.
Maybe I was sick for home."
"What's the rumor I hear about you running for Governor,
Father?" asked Frank.
"No longer a rumor, son, it's a fact. I told Nick to make the
announcement. It'll appear in the evening papers."
"Mercy me, Father! Governor! How on earth could I get my-
self together in the Governor's mansion?" Mrs. Vanalban's pre-
dicament in the anticipated situation was terrifying indeed.
Vanalban laughed. "I'm wondering how I can get myself to-
gether in the Governor's chair, Mother. But let's not worry about
that. It's a long time till election, and, too, I'll have a fight for the
nomination. Let's all forget it now and talk about Christmas."
"And the company for Christmas, too," said Mrs. Vanalban.
"Brother Silas and Phil and his family will be here during the
week."
"That means a bigger tree, Mother. Do you know the little
shavers' names and how old they are? Better find out and add all
of them to our list for presents. Make their presents warm clothes
and lots of toys and candies. I was a poor youngster, too, once
upon a time."
"Don't forget to be home by four o'clock, Papa," Catherine


IN THE BROWNSTONE MANSION
21
admonished. "Every child in school knows you're here. They'll
be looking for you."
The family retired to the living room in the front of the
house, all but the mother, who called Mary from the kitchen.
"Mary, didn't you tell me the other day that Sarah washes for
Phil's wife every two weeks?"
"Yassam. She do, Ah bleeves."
"You ask Sarah to give you the names and ages of all of Phil's
children. Also, find out how large they are. We must get them
some Christmas presents."
During the autumn months, four o'clock in the afternoon had
long been the happiest hour of the day at the brownstone mansion.
The Vanalban home place, some two acres in extent, was enclosed
by an iron fence but the gates were never locked. The mansion
fronted on Condor Street, two blocks from the Condor Street
Public School. A half-mile or so away, at the very edge of the town,
stood the rolling mill. On the side streets, in modest cottages,
lived the rolling mill men and their families. The Congressman
was the principal owner of the rolling mill. He also owned a
large farm some miles out, on which was growing the best apple
orchard in central Ohio.
Since the time their own were grade-school pupils, it had been
the custom of the Vanalbans to distribute big yellow, red, and
"rustycoat" apples to all children who passed by the mansion
trudging home from school. They ate the apples and told their
fathers and mothers about them. Little wonder that the generous
donor received nearly all the votes of Bridgeville when he entered
politics.
Of late this pleasant duty had fallen upon Catherine. She knew
.the name of every child. She was extremely anxious that her
father should greet their little friends again and, in his jolly way,
make them realize that he, and his family, were getting a bigger
blessing by giving than they were getting in receiving.
On that misty and cloudy afternoon, Catherine, assisted by
Lucy, had carried three heaping bushels of apples and deposited
them behind the hedge fence beside the open gates. The Con-


22
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
gressman came home in Jackson's cab, "For fear I'd be late," he
told his daughter. At four, when school was dismissed, the shouts
and laughter of the children could be heard as they came running
to receive what, to their hungry little stomachs, was a virtual gift
of the gods.
They received more than the apples. They received the
friendly touch of Vanalban's hands; his cheery smiles and hearty
laughs; the pleasant words he uttered.
"And what's your name?" he would inquire.
"Johnny."
"How many brothers and sisters have you, Johnny?"
Then Johnny would start counting them, and sometimes he
would become confused and would count himself twice. They
would all laugh and the Congressman would say, "Oh, very well,
Johnny. Is little Nettie here your girl?"
Johnny would say, "No, sir," and twist and turn red and finally
would impart the information that Nettie was Willie's girl, which
would cast all the confusion onto Willie.
But right then Nettie would speak up for herself and say she
wasn't anyone's girl but her papa's and mama's, and the Con-
gressman would remark, "That's right, Nettie. You stick to Mama
and Papa always." Then Nettie would smile and munch her apple
and look slyly at the two boys, who had forgotten all about her al-
ready.
They were having a grand time there at the gate—Vanalban
and Catherine and the rosy-cheeked sons and daughters of the
rolling mill men. It was the best time Vanalban had had in
months. He was really living again, living as he desired to live; a
happy hour of soul music and soul beauty. For there is no music
as sweet as the mingled voices of children, and there is no work
of art more beautiful than the smile on the face of a child. .
The last one had departed homeward. As the Congressman
and his daughter turned to enter the gate, the eyes of a stranger
arrested their attention. They were eyes one might be compelled
to remember but would always want to forget. Lusterless eyes,
slightly bloodshot, deeply set, and seemingly guarded by high
cheekbones and extended brows. It appeared, during the moment


IN THE BROWNSTONE MANSION
23
that he advanced toward them and could not help but see their
pleasant countenances, that he would have turned his gaze away
from theirs if he could. But something held it there—something
he could not resist. Perhaps his soul craved the warmth of their
friendship, though his ill-clad and unclean body, if it could, would
have disappeared instantly.
The Congressman, who still held an apple in his hand, smiled.
"Have an apple, stranger," he said nonchalantly, holding it out to
him.
The stranger stopped and bowed—bowed as one bows to a
queen or princess, low and from the waist. When he raised his
head he held out his hand, flat and palm upward, that the apple
might be placed thereon. He did not attempt to grasp it with his
fingers.
"You are exceedingly kind. I am very hungry," he said.
His voice was soft, even musical. Each word seemed to be
perfected in his mouth before it was uttered. Catherine glanced
toward the baskets. "Here are a few more, Papa. He can have
them all."
She gathered the apples from the baskets and handed them
to her father, who, in turn, gave them to the stranger. He filled
the pockets of his coat and walked away holding a half-dozen on
his arm, which was pressed against his body.
"You are very, very kind. I thank you," he repeated again and
again.
The girl grasped her father's arm and they walked slowly
toward the house. That Almighty Power, which keeps the paths of
life whereon we must tread so dark and unknown before us, was
good to them that afternoon. They could not see the time when
they would meet this stranger again—when his rolling, musical
words would fall as red-hot coals from the altar of their familial
love—when he would consume their hearts and cast away the
cores, just as he was then consuming and casting away the cores
of a few of their red, yellow, and rustycoat apples.
Mary—a black "fascinator" tied securely over her ears, a
ponderous brown coat enwrapping her buxom body, red-spotted
mittens on her hands, and a pair of men's overshoes on her feet—


24
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
came wobbling, puffing, and blowing into the rear hall of the
mansion as the Congressman and his daughter entered the front
hall. She had been to visit Sarah. Mrs. Vanalban met her before
she entered the kitchen.
"Did she tell you about Phil's children, Mary?"
"Yassam. An' Ah wants to tell yo' befo' Ah fo'gits it. Dey's
stawrsteps all right. Dere's Amanda, she's nine—an' Phil, he
seben—an' Silas, he six—an' Gawge, he fo'—an' Claude, he two— v
an' de baby, hit been heah 'bout five mon'ts, but they calls huh
Buhnice. Fo' boys and two gals, Misses, an' dey's all lawge fo'
dere ages."


CHAPTER THREE
In the Sky-Blue Bedroom
IN HER SKY-BLUE BEDROOM, Catherine Vanalban conversed with
some very close acquaintances. Some were the young ladies and
gentlemen she had met inside her storybooks. But these seemed
to be very distant and unreal acquaintances, just like some strangers
she had met in her dreams had talked and laughed with a little
while—then had awakened to discover they had not only disap-
peared but had never really existed.
While a little girl and during her early teens, she had been
particularly interested in a friend who stared at her from a pic-
ture entitled "The Harvest,” which hung on the wall. This friend
was a handsome farmer lad, who held in his brawny arms several
bundles of wheat which he was about to toss into a wagon. His
father, on the opposite side of the wagon, was bending over a
shock of the grain. But Catherine knew the son was relieving the
old man of all the heavy work and she liked him because he was
kind and dutiful. Sometimes she would talk to him and tell him
she loved him. She would ask him if he loved her. Then she
would put into his mouth the words, "Yes, Catherine, I love you
dearly," and they would kiss and marry and be happy ever after-
ward.
Sometimes she would rummage through the box where she
kept her keepsakes and converse with this one and that one who
had contributed to her store of mementos. Three pressed four-
leaf clovers, between a blank sheet of paper in an envelope on
which her name was inscribed, reminded her of chubby Reginald
Stone. "Reggie,” she would say, "you are married and your red-
headed wife has the cutest little baby." And she would laugh half
aloud, remembering that Reggie had once told her that the first
boy who gave her three four-leaf clovers at one time would cer-
tainly be her husband.
While her father was away and she had temporarily lost his


26
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
companionship, she had become more interested in the young men
of her set whom she met at socials and house parties. But she
could not think of one she particularly admired, certainly not of
one she might learn to love. The young men, too, if any of them
worshiped her, worshiped her afar. She was very pretty. She was
also sweet and intelligent and womanly—too much so for most
of them. To them she was an "untouchable." She loved life and
activity and fun, but she played in the distance, and mostly by
herself, seeking to draw her companions to her side but not once
venturing to go to them.
In her bedroom tonight, she did not converse with any of these
whom she knew. In fact, she was a little lonely. When she felt
this way, she wanted to go to bed and to sleep, half hoping that
a pleasant, unusual dream would come to her during the dark
hours, and that she might awake with pleasing memories of it. So
she undressed hurriedly, slipped on her nightgown, and for a mo-
ment stood before the oval mirror that hung above the old-fash-
ioned bureau. Her dark-brown hair hung loose to her waist. But,
unheeding her mother's instructions to "plait it up every night,"
she simply tied a blue ribbon around it at the neck, then turned
out the gas lamps and crawled beneath the covers.


CHAPTER FOUR
In Jack's Rooming House
As USUAL, Jack, and Sarah his wife, were having a friendly fuss.
This happened every time Jack's tobacco money ran out and he
was compelled to approach his better and larger "half," and re-
quest a small loan. It may be said that Sarah kept the purse strings
tied in hard knots. She was an industrious and thrifty soul—a
pure, dark-skinned Yankee. She had lived near and worked for
Yankees all her life, and had become thoroughly inoculated with
every germ that makes the Yankee close, saving, thrifty, or stingy
—whichever characteristic one may judge the Yankee possesses.
"Come on, Sarah, gimme a dime. My mouf's waterin' for
some Battle-ax. Lisson, woe-man, whose money you got anyhow?
I gives you my money to save fo' me, not to keep fo' me."
Jack spoke rapidly. It was now the fifth time he had requested
the dime and still Sarah was deaf to his request. But she was not
dumb. She was singing:
My Lawd, what a mornin',
Wen th' stars begin to fall,
and appeared to be more interested in the morning and the falling
stars than in her husband's tobacco supply.
At last she walked out of the kitchen into the middle room
and Jack followed. She looked at him contemptuously. But she
saw his flashing eyes, she realized he was getting "hot undah the
collar," and knew she had hesitated long enough.
"Here's yur dime," she said, bringing it up from apparently
nowhere, "an' remembah, that's yur last one this week. 'Stead of
chawin' terbacker, I bleeves to my soul you eats it. Newah seen
sich a man nohow. Button up 'em pants fur you go out o' here an'
try an' look like a gentleman." Then she happened to remember,
and, lowering her voice, remarked, "Honey, be in by seven-thirty,
please. I wants you to keep th' house, fur I've got to go to church."


28
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Jack and Sarah lived in a nine-room house "under the hill" on
the Cuyler pike. Far and wide, it was known to the travelers and
wanderers of their race as "Jack's Roomin' House." During pros-
perous times, when the rolling mill was running full blast and
work was plentiful, each room was full of roomers and boarders.
Then the landlady and her lord salted down the dollars and dimes,
wore good clothes, gave liberally to the church, and were recog-
nized as the most prosperous "colored family" in Bridgeville. But
the panic of '93 had consumed most of their savings. At this time,
they had only three roomers. Jack eked out his living by doing odd
jobs and Sarah helped by taking in washings and going out to
wash for a few of the white families who could afford to hire
their washing done.
Around eight o'clock that Monday night when Sarah went out
to church, she left her husband sitting by the fire smoking his cob
pipe and reading a week-old paper he had picked up in some base-
ment where he tended the furnace. Slim and Bob, her mill-men
roomers, worn out by twelve hours of heavy work, were snoring
in their beds. As usual, her girl roomer, Molly, was out. She did
not like to keep girl roomers, especially those who seldom worked
and whose parents she did not know, but experience had taught
her that, to a rooming house, a girl roomer might be a wonderful
asset. Too, Molly was a quiet, sensible, and tidy girl. She was
"nice." So, although Sarah and Jack were criticized behind their
backs by their fellow church members, they continued to close
their eyes and ears when, occasionally, Molly brought her com-
pany into their house, and the girl was allowed to live her own
life and go her own way.
It was late when Sarah returned from church. The prayer
meeting had been wonderful, for a new minister had lately arrived
and was getting ready to start a "revival meetin'." The first week
the members must get themselves "right," must confess their sins
and shortcomings, must begin speaking again to those of their
brothers and sisters with whom they had been at outs, and must im-
bibe the spirit that would force them to go out into the slums, the
byways, and the hedges, and seek the poor sinful souls who were
out of the "ark of safety." Sarah had received her blessing. She


IN jack's rooming house
29
had gotten right with Sister Eliza Jones, whom she had accused of
purloining two pies from her basket which were left over from a
club supper. She had prayed, testified, wept, and shook hands with
everybody, and, returning, she entered her humble home hum-
ming a new revival tune, while in her heart was a staunch resolu-
tion to do all within her power to bring to the mourner's bench,
and to the Master, the two poor, lost sinners residing beneath her
own roof, Slim and Molly.
Her husband sat asleep before the fire.
"Jack, Jack! Jack! Wake up an' go to bed," she commanded.
She poked the fire, then stepped into the hall, intending to go
upstairs and see if all were within. But at that moment Molly
entered. The girl held the door ajar and behind her entered a
man. Sarah turned her back in disgust. More than once she had
requested Molly to bring her company early, and get it away at
least before midnight.
But Molly did not ascend the stairs. Instead, she followed
Sarah into the sitting room. Sarah turned. The man stood stiffly
in the doorway. "He wants to rent a room, Aunt Sarah, the cheap-
est one you have."
Sarah looked at him and, saying nothing, stepped and turned
up the light. She was not satisfied. She struck a match and lighted
the other lamp sitting on the mantel shelf. Then she looked at him
again keenly.
"No," she said emphatically. "I can't rent you a room. Lots o'
roomin' places an' hotels in town fo' white people. Bettah go to
one o' 'em."
"I am not a white man," he replied.
"Yere not? Lemme look at yuh ag'in, Mister." She scrutinized
him closely. "Maybe not, but yuh could surely pass."
She reached for his hand and mumbled, "Jist wantta see yo'
fingahnails."
The hand she held was soft; the fingers long; and tufts of
black hair lay on the light skin between the knuckles and the first
joints. The fingernails were pink and unblemished and smoothly
rounded. But the proof of the blood must have been beneath
them, for Sarah was satisfied.


30
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"What's yo' name, Mister?"
"Halldeau."
"Where yuh from?"
"Cleveland."
"What's yo' wo'k?"
"Musician."
"Umph. Poor chance 'roun' here. Ewah do any hawd wo'k—
mill wo'k?"
"No."
"Know anyone 'roun' here?" \
"No."
"When yuh come here?"
"Today."
"Chris'tun?"
The man seemed not to understand. He looked perplexed.
"I mean, evah b'long to a church?"
"Yes, once."
"What chu'ch?"
"Episcopalian."
"Umph! Fust 'piscupalun colored pussun I evah heerd tell of."
Immediately to Sarah came the thought of the coming revival,
and with this thought the fact that no one of her church now in
town was able to play the organ. That very night the new pastor
had discussed with his officers the advisability of employing some
white girl to play for them until the meetin' got started off right.
She motioned toward her own little organ which stood in a corner
of the room.
"Cawn yuh play some chu'ch music on that?"
At sight of the little instrument the stranger suddenly stood
erect. It seemed that his stature increased inches. His eyes opened
wider and a peculiar fire appeared in them. His lips moved, and
something like a half-smile appeared on them. Instantly, his arms
reached out and he moved toward the organ as though he might
have been going to pick up a baby or embrace a wife. The keen-
eyed Sarah halted him. She noticed the dirty trousers and ragged
coat.
"Wait, Mister. Lemme spread a newspapah on th' stool."


IN jack's rooming house 31
He sat down, unshuttered the keys and adjusted the pedals.
"Have you a book and a favorite song?" he inquired.
"Yassuh. Here's th' book. One hundred an' six. 'How Firm Uh
Foundation.'"
The stranger touched the keys. An instant—and from the
throat of that little organ, sitting in the corner of that dimly lighted
room in the barnlike house "under the hill" on Cuyler pike—
rolled forth a melody the like of which the listeners had never
heard. Perfect melody—intoxicating melody—soothing melody—
its sweetness wafted them instantly away from their lowly worlds
into the region of the spirits. Sarah intended to sing her "favorite
song," but she could not sing. The familiar words dried up in her
mouth. Her organ was speaking better words—newer words—
words no hymnologist could write—words no poet could express.
"Well, praise th' good Lord," was all she could say, and she
laughed through her tears.
The musician played on. He turned the pages of the old hymn-
book at random and, no matter what the hymn, its music burst
forth sweeter than it had ever been given to the world before. The
eyes, the ears, the hands of a genius were ordering tones and
melodies to suit his own soul. His soul thirsted. For months it had
been kept away from the fountain from which gushed or rippled
the sweet, harmonious waters of life—the waters of health, peace,
satisfaction, and happiness—all that makes life worth while. The
little organ had become the key to the door of the world in which
he belonged. He had unlocked the door and entered it, content
again to live with his angels of music who had nurtured him so
fondly in times past.
The musician played on. Jack, with mouth wide open, stood
beside him, and watched the deft fingers as they ran over the
keys. Molly sat down in a chair and buried her face in her arms.
The front door opened softly and a neighbor family entered the
hall—a white man, his wife and son, and two grown daughters.
Through the door, slightly left ajar, the music rolled—out of the
yard—out the gate—out onto the pike. A boy, buggy-riding with
his girl, stopped the horse in front of the whitewashed gate and
they sat silent, listening. Others came by and stopped. Soon the


32
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
yard was full of people—mostly young people—young people
who know what real music is—whose hearts have not yet been
hardened by life's discordant dins. Their silence was the most
perfect applause.
Suddenly the musician exclaimed, "I am tired." His hands
dropped from the keys and he arose quickly and went to the fire.
His listeners came toward him but something held them distant.
Not one offered a hand. Few questions were asked, and these were
answered by Molly in her own way. They dispersed. Jack went to
his bed. Sarah went upstairs to prepare her cheapest room. Then
Molly slipped her chair over closer to his and whispered, "Take
this two dollars and a half. She'll want her rent tonight. Ask her
to heat some water for you to take a bath. I want to see you clean.
And listen—don't get up tomorrow till I can get out and find you
some clean clothes."
His reply was the peculiar half-smile and the interrogation,
"Didn't I tell you I could play?"
Sarah asked for her rent money and heated the water. She was
downstairs in her bedroom snoring loudly when Molly tiptoed to
the musician's door. She opened it softly, noticed that he was
nude, and stood outside. He came to the door.
"Here, sleep in this tonight and don't get any dirt on her bed.
She's mighty particular."
Inside his room, he unfolded before the lamp what she had
handed him. It was one of her own pink silk nightgowns.
He played every night that week at the little colored Methodist
church. It was packed to the doors and beyond. Collections were
wonderful. On Friday night they gave him twenty dollars. The
white Methodist preacher, pastor of the largest church in Bridge-
ville, was present that night and invited him to play the offertory
on the pipe organ at his church, at the coming Sunday morning
service.
And, too, that Friday night, he walked uninvited into Molly's
room and handed her the twenty dollars he had just received. She
shooed him away. "Keep it, boy, keep it," she told him. "Can't
you see I like you?"
The following week, which was the week before Christmas,


IN JACK'S ROOMING HOUSE
33
he was invited to play at numerous house parties and at the Busi-
nessmen's Association's luncheon. He was well received, well
liked, and well paid. It was at the latter affair that Vanalban
invited him to entertain his guests at the mansion the night after
Christmas.
The night he entered the Vanalban gate he suddenly remem-
bered he had seen that spot before. But he was not embarrassed.
That was in the past. The past did not worry him. The past had
never worried him. Yesterday was gone. Today, he lived. He en-
tered the mansion as a king might have entered it. A conqueror
he was—for he had conquered even himself. His host and the
guests arose and bowed.
He was happy to find here the finest and the sweetest-toned
grand piano he had discovered in Bridgeville, and he played better
than Bridgeville had ever heard him play. From attic to cellar, the
mansion was filled to overflowing with his music. He played from
memory compositions he thought he had forgotten-hard, intri-
cate, classical compositions of the old masters—waltzes, schot-
tisches, pastorals, love songs. Mary, sitting in the kitchen, shed
tears and wiped her wrinkled cheeks with a flour-sack handker-
chief. Lucy danced with the tray she was carrying, set it down,
threw her arms around her grandmother, and exclaimed, "Gran'.
maw, just think. He's one o' us!"
During a refreshment period, while several of the younger
folk were standing near him, it was Catherine who summoned
courage enough to ask him where he had studied. He didn't tell
them much, but mentioned Paris and Vienna and Berlin and
London, and told them that Coleridge-Taylor, the great Negro
genius and composer of "Hiawatha,” had been a fellow student.
Someone mentioned Athens. His eyes brightened, suddenly he
shook his head, turned and faced the piano and said calmly, "Now
I must sing."
The revelation surprised all of his auditors. Was there no
limit to his genius? They would know. Quiet ensued. A chord
broke on the stillness and died away. Then the melancholy strains
of the "Maid of Athens" poured from his throat. High and low
-low and high-sweeter and sweeter-nearer and nearer—until,


34
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
into the heart of every mother and father, wife and husband,
sweetheart and lover, girl and boy, nestled the three last words of
his song—the sweetest words in any language—"I love you."
His tongue, thus loosened, could not be stilled, and he sang
other songs—carols, hymns, and folksongs. Old man Silas re-
quested "My Old Kentucky Home," and there were tears in the
small keen eyes when he slapped the singer on the back and
thanked him.
Then, while the grandfather's clock in the hall (which, by the
way, was the present Brother Silas had told his niece would talk
to her the rest of her life) was striking the midnight hour, Van-
alban whispered his request into the singer's ear, and, stepping
back, announced, "Friends, my favorite, and it's his last song,
'Home, Sweet Home.'"
He sang it from memory—every verse and word—and his
voice grew husky. Home! Home! Yes, home! Dearer than any
spot on earth. But what did he know of Home?
Vanalban led him into his library and den, handed him his hat
and overcoat, and slipped three one-hundred-dollar bills into his
hand.
"Say," he said, "I own an empty four-room cottage down the
street a ways and I'm ordering a grand piano set in there to-
morrow. Fix it up for your studio. We around here who can afford
to pay the price want you to teach your wonderful music to our
youngsters. No back talk, young fellow. See you in a day or two
Good night."


CHAPTER FIVE
In the Studio of Music
The musician had given his first lesson in his new studio to a
young matron of Swedish extraction, the wife of the manager of
the rolling mill. He dismissed her at the front door, then walked
out on the narrow porch and sat down on the railing. A bright
winter sun was shining. He filled his lungs with the invigorating
air, rubbed his hands together, looked down, up, and across the
street at the cleanly painted homes of his neighbors, and greeted
his surroundings with a smile.
He was feeling better than he had ever felt before. The past
few weeks had greatly changed him. Gone were the hollows in his
cheeks—the dead luster from his eyes—the paleness from his face.
He had taken on weight, the motions of his body were less nervous
and more natural, he seemed to be at ease with himself. As he
smoothed down with his hands his mass of curly black hair, care-
fully parted at the side, he presented a plain picture of a young
man free of worries and care—of a young man satisfied and
content.
Beside the door, surrounded by a frame of polished oak and
painted on black glass were the white letters that told Bridgeville
who he was. He was jaques wilhelm halldau, and this was
his studio OF music. This was enough, aplenty for Bridgeville
to know about him. If any would know more, let them get the
knowledge at their own risk.
Another pupil arrived, a muscular young man who wanted to
learn to play the violin and sing bass. Halldau opened the door
and ushered him inside. If he wanted to learn he would teach him
at least something. To talented or untalented he would give con-
scientious service. He loved to teach, loved to guide the hands, the
eyes, the voices of his pupils. He gave them their money's worth
and more. Music was a part of his very soul, and when he taught
music his soul was free—free in its own sphere—free to associate


36
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
and harmonize with other souls the great goddess drew together.
More pupils came and departed until, in the late afternoon,
the day's work was done. He realized then that he was ravenously
hungry. He walked to the rear of the cottage, to the dining room.
The table was set—two plates—two glasses—two chairs—one at
either end. It was a new dining room, small, dean, and cozy.
Halldau had the white-papered partition installed because, he ex-
plained, "I can't eat right when I can see the kitchen stove and
hear the kettle boiling."
He walked on through the dining room and entered the
kitchen.
"How are the eatings, girlie?" he inquired.
Molly turned and smiled. She was a pretty girl—her chestnut
skin smooth as velvet, her perfect teeth white as ivory, her large
eyes dreamy but awake.
"Go sit down, boy, and wait a minute. Why didn't you tell me
you were ready?"
He obeyed her. She brought in the steaming meal—colored
folks' eatings—turnip greens cooked with hog jowl; sweet pota-
toes; buttermilk; and a brown apple cobbler speckled with nutmeg
and cinnamon.
He filled his glass with the buttermilk, reached for a cake of
the cornbread, broke it, and his hand started toward his mouth.
Molly, sitting opposite, was watching closely. "Huh-huh," she
admonished. "Don't you do it. What have I been telling you
every meal?"
He looked at her shamefacedly—as a boy caught stealing
sugar might look at his mother—then he bowed his head. "Lord,
make us thankful. Amen," he said.
Molly smiled. Her tender eyes worshiped him. "The idea!
You always forgetting!" And she told him again for the nth
time, "No matter how big a devil you are, you ought to be thank-
ful for your eatin's. And you ought to let the Lord know you're
thankful. 'Tain't no disgrace for anybody to pray over a good
meal. We know how we hurts when we're hungry."
Indeed he knew! And, though he would not let on, down
deep in his heart he admired the brave girl for expressing her


IN THE STUDIO OF MUSIC
37
opinion and forcing him to respect her wishes. And more, he
knew that this little prayer before each meal was really all that
was linking him to God, and to the God-spirit in each individual.
Such a weak strand it was—between good and evil, bliss and
torment, life and death! But, as long as it held, he was safe.
The days came and went. They satisfied him as well as he had
ever been satisfied. He had never been fully satisfied and knew he
never would be. He was made not to walk on the earth but to
grasp for the stars. To grasp and not obtain is disappointing. He
was, even now, so soon after he had been pulled out of the dust
and dregs of life, grasping for a star he knew he could not get
and should not even desire. He had no business with it. She was
just a girl—a mere slip of a girl, but . . . And he knew well
what the end would be!
He had told Catherine that Europe had made him a master
of music. Perhaps, had he told her all, she would have shunned
him, would have fled from his presence as though he were a leper,
would have hidden herself securely in the bosom of her family,
and he would never have found her. Just perhaps—but who
knows?
Suppose he had told her that he came from nowhere; that he
was the unclaimed and unknown son of an English father and a
Jamaican mulatto mother? That this unwedded mother—so young
and so beautiful—had died giving birth to his half-sister? That
he had grown halfway to manhood before he had ever owned a
pair of trousers, had ever eaten a meal at a table, had ever slept
in a bed? That a French sea captain and his wife had heard the
sweet music rolling from his throat as he lay on the white sand of
the beach, near the harbor, had taken him home with them, and
their generosity had provided for him? That he had become what
he was then—but, alas! that he had also become what he was when
she first met him—a victim of alcoholism—unable to break the
chains gay Paris had forged and entwined around him?
Suppose he had told her that this was the fifth studio he had
occupied in as many cities—and always some bold or subtle mon-
ster had unleashed his ravenous appetite for liquors, which had
not been satiated until his substance and his body were entirely


38
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
consumed? True, never had the monster appeared in the form of a
comely girl—but it had come and, invariably, had caught him weak
and unprepared. Suppose he had told her all this? Would she have
shunned him? Perhaps—but who knows?
She came to the studio for her lessons twice a week; one day,
early in the morning, the other day, late in the afternoon. He dis-
covered immediately that she had no desire to study music or to be
taught music. Her thoughts were elsewhere. In the very midst of
her lesson she would raise her deep, brown eyes to his, ask an
irrelevant question, and, in a second, all he had told her would be
forgotten. Her fingers would not strike the right keys. He would
grasp her hands, but the moment he touched them she would
struggle to free them, and, when free, would gasp with admiration
and touch with her slender finger the gold signet ring he wore.
He told her it was all he possessed that had belonged to his
mother.
He reprimanded her for her carelessness and laxity, and one
morning told her plainly he was going to dismiss her and so in-
form her father. But the tears welled in her eyes and she begged
so piteously he could not do so. He became angry with himself
when he discovered he was bestowing upon her special favors;
buttoning up her overshoes; picking a speck of lint from her
cloak; or adjusting the scarf around her neck.
Then, one afternoon, she asked him to sing for her. He had
consistently refused to sing in the studio for anyone except Molly.
This was his special favor to her. He owed her this and more. She
was his housekeeper, and—his girl. He could touch her—could
kiss and embrace her. His head could rest on her bosom—his
heart beat against her heart.
In the kitchen, Molly was singing a simple ditty he had taught
her. To him, her voice was barely audible. But to Catherine's
sensitive ears, it had become a raucous din. She knew the song was
one of his songs. She arose from the piano bench.
"Sit down—Mister Jaques," she commanded, "and sing for
me."
He refused. He would not humor her further. As usual, when


IN THE STUDIO OF MUSIC 39
certain of himself, he stepped away and waved her toward the
door.
"Be gone, temptress, nuisance," he said. "It's time little girls
should be with their mothers."
But he realized not his weakness. Boldly, she walked up to
him and threw her arms around him.
"Come sing. Sing for me!" The words escaped from her lips—
harsh whispers, plaintive hisses—like the gasps of some pet animal
wounded unto death. She clung to him with upturned face, her
arms drawing him closer and closer. Mechanically, he drew her to
him. He felt the quiver of every nerve in her supple body.
"Then take it—all—everything," he said, and he pressed his
lips to hers, long and hard.
He was singing his third song when Molly appeared at the
door. "Good night. I'm going home," she said simply.
It was the first night she had left him before the supper hour,
but he knew well why she was going.
"Good night," he replied, as she banged the door.
He turned to Catherine. "Now you go too. Go!" he com-
manded, and, entering his bedroom, threw himself across the bed
and hid his face.
The weeks passed by. Molly, faithful and sad, continued to
perform his household duties and to serve him well. Catherine,
intoxicated by his kisses and embraces, came to him when she
should not have come, and stayed with him until he would be com-
pelled to force her to leave.
It was mid-May. The grass, shrubbery, and trees around the
brownstone mansion were fast becoming green. The pet Vanalban
robins had returned and were devouring bugs and fishworms in
the flower beds Jack had freshly spaded.
Mary, the cook, still dressed like mid-January, to keep from
catching her "death o' col'," was wandering about over the yard
with a tin bucket and a case knife in her hand. She glanced around
as Catherine entered the gate.
The girl wore a sailor hat, from the back of which flowed a
streamer of blue ribbon. Her long, white spring coat, trimmed in


IN THE STUDIO OF MUSIC
41
know, who said solemnly, "William Hall and Elizabeth Vanalban
—I pronounce you man and wife."
And while the old man was speaking these words, William
Hall touched her soft hand, and slipped on her finger the ring
that had been his mother's.
The Congressman's conscience was clear. He was a good
Presbyterian. Beckoning the musician aside, he said to him, "Here
is five hundred dollars. Get your stuff in Bridgeville and clear out
of there in forty-eight hours. And may I never see your face
again."
A few hours later in the railway station, an officious Negro
redcap accosted George Vanalban, Jr., and reached for his grip
to carry it aboard the train. Young Vanalban turned on him with
the fury of a lion.
"Don't you touch it, you black imp, you nigger! Get away from
me!"
The redcap's jaws clicked and he clenched his fists. "Just say
that again, you poor white trash, and I'll mash your nose."
As the musician entered the studio the next morning, he jerked
down the sign from beside the door, carried it within, and threw
it to the floor with all his strength. It shattered into a thousand
pieces. Molly was sitting at the end of his piano in his own rock-
ing chair. He slumped down into her lap. Throwing her arms
about him, she fondled him as she would have fondled a child.
"My boy, my poor boy," she moaned. "What on earth are you
going to do now?"
"Do?" He rose to his feet and laughed. "Do? I'm going away
—who cares where? I'm going to get drunk, beastly drunk, drunk
as the dog I am. And I hope I stay drunk till I land in hell!"
He tossed her Vanalban's five hundred dollars and walked
out.
Catherine had taken it—all—everything he had.


CHAPTER SIX
In the Methodist Hospital
When he arrived at the bank the morning following the secret
Pittsburgh wedding, George Vanalban, Jr.'s first act was to sum-
marily discharge Joe, the industrious and efficient colored porter,
who had served the institution for many years. Then he walked
into his father's private office, locked the desk and the door behind
him as he came out.
The elder Vanalban, aged ten years overnight, departed for
the Michigan lake region. Catherine and her mother left to sojourn
with some distant relatives in central Pennsylvania. Mary, the
cook, and Lucy, the maid, returned to the little whitewashed cabin
far out on the Cuyler pike, and Frank, who was to be married in a
month, went to live at the hotel. The gates to the grounds of the
mansion were closed and locked, the doors locked and barred, and
no one but George Vanalban, Jr., carried keys that would unlock
them.
The weekly Bridgeville Clarion published ample news about
the doings of the town's first family, and no one doubted the
truth of any statements printed. The Vanalbans were good citizens,
good neighbors, good friends. There was genuine sorrow in many
hearts when the announcement was made, that, on account of
failing health, the Congressman was compelled to withdraw from
the race for Governor and would quit politics altogether.
Since Catherine's departure, Nicholas Leeder had been travel-
ing around in circles. From Bridgeville he had gone to the "Lakes"
to spend a week with Vanalban. From thence, he had gone to
Cleveland, then on to Pittsburgh, then to a hilly hamlet in central
Pennsylvania, then to Washington, then down through the Caro-
linas and back to Ohio through Kentucky. Twice, during the
summer and early fall, he had made this circuit and twice he had
seen Catherine.
But the girl did not know he had been anywhere near her. On


IN THE METHODIST HOSPITAL
43
both occasions he had rented a buggy and driven alone in the
evening, down the narrow country lane past the cottage in which
she was domiciled. He had seen her face through the open,
lighted window—had feasted his eyes upon it—had thrown her
kisses through the darkness, and then had left the vicinity and the
state as quickly as he could. Peculiar actions for a middle-aged
man, but love, perhaps, not only covers all sins but also all fool-
ishness.
Leeder was glad when Vanalban sent for him in late October.
His friend wrote: "I need someone, Nick, someone who under-
stands, someone who can help us out of this mess in the right way.
I can't depend on myself or on any of the family, so I have to call
for you. Come at once."
He found the Congressman improved in health but not in
spirits. They drew their chairs together in a corner of the veranda,
which was now glassed in from the biting winds that swept down
from Canada and across the lake.
"It's just about ruined me, Nick. I see, now, how big a fool I
was, now when it's too late. I feel like I'm responsible for every
bit of her trouble and disgrace. I can't even blame the boy. He
was only human. She was a girl and he was a boy, but I certainly
played the devil being a father."
"Ah, come out of it, George. No use crying over spilled milk.
Such things just happen, that's all. They'd happen anyhow, in
spite of all we'd think, say, or do. What we must plan now is the
best way to shield her, the best way to make life worth living
again for her. We've got to take care of her, George, and take
care of her well. And, of course, we've got to protect your family's
good name. But you stop worrying, old boy. Let me take the case.
I'll work it out all right."
"You can have it, Nick. I don't know what to do. I'm afraid of
Junior. He'd kick her out in the streets tomorrow if he could.
Don't spare any expense. I've got to go back to Washington, but
I'll be home Christmas, and I want her there when I return. I
want my home again. This kind of living is hell. See that she's
taken good care of, Nick, and see that she's home Christmas."
The next morning the little man left for Cleveland. A firm be-


44
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
liever in predestination, yet possessing a naive optimism, he had
never been influenced to believe that whatever was predestined
must, of necessity, follow a beaten path to its certain terminus. The
ordained "end," that was sure and real, but the "way to that end,"
well, he believed there was more than one way to the end of
anything. So, as he had freely volunteered to take a leading role
in this drama of life and death about to be staged, he proceeded
to act with caution and deliberation.
Reaching Cleveland, he walked out of the railway station and
hailed a cab. The cabman, bedecked in the full livery of the day—
tall plug hat, thick, dark-blue overcoat, down which extended two
rows of shining, silver buttons, and red-topped patent-leather
boots—opened the door for him and stood at attention awaiting
orders.
"Drive me to all the hospitals in the city," he commanded.
The cabman looked hard at him. Then satisfied that his fare
was neither drunk nor crazy, he mounted the seat, spoke to his
horse, and drove away. In about a quarter of an hour they turned
off the brick-paved street onto a cindered driveway. Leeder spoke
through the tube.
"What's this?"
"City hospital, sir," replied the cabman.
"Drive away from here. It doesn't suit me."
The cabman crawled down from the seat and opened the door.
"I'll have to ask you for fifty cents, sir. That's the fare here."
Leeder produced the half-dollar.
"Now drive me," he said, "to some hospital that isn't public,
Catholic, or Presbyterian. I've changed my mind."
The cabman thought awhile. He looked at Leeder suspiciously.
"Say, Mister," he said, "are you sick?"
"No."
"Well, I know of a house out near where I live that some
Methodists are trying to make a hospital out of. But it hain't much
of a hospital. Want to drive there?"
"Yes, drive there."
After a drive of not less than two miles, the cabman stopped
before a two-story frame house. It sat at the end of an unpaved


IN THE METHODIST HOSPITAL
45
street. Beyond was a large pasture in which some Jersey cows were
grazing. The front yard was large, and a wire fence enclosed it.
Flower beds, filled with the stalks of dead flowers, and two small
pine trees were on either side of the cinder path that led to the
front steps. A long, narrow sign, nailed to the edge of the roof
over the front porch, bore the appellation the john wesley
hospital. No other house was within a block of it.
Leeder spoke to the cabman. "I believe this is the place I'm
looking for. Wait till I return. I'll pay you well for your trouble."
He walked to the door and turned the knob. The door was
locked. Seeing no bell, he rapped with his knuckles.
The door was opened by a ponderous man in shirt sleeves. His
bulk almost completely filled the entrance. His face wore a half-
scowl, and looked unusually large, for he was bald and his high,
naked forehead seemed to be only an extension of the face. He
was unshaven, the sharp, straight, sandy bristles sticking out from
his chin like needles from a cushion. He looked down on Leeder
and spoke.
"I'm Joe Taylor, Mister, an' whut you be a'wantin'?"
The little man looked straight into the giant's eyes. "Well,
my name's Leeder, and I'm looking for the one in charge of this
hospital. If that person is you, I'd like to talk to you a minute."
"Well now, lessee, mebby you mawht talk to me. I'm in chawge
now 'cause there hain't no one here tuh horspitalize. Come on in."
He followed Taylor through a narrow hall into a carpetless
room. A coal fire was burning in the grate, before which were
standing three straight-backed chairs. Both men sat down.
"Now, Brother Leeder, whut may youre bizness be?" Taylor
inquired.
Leeder glanced around the room. The walls were clean and
bright, despite the lack of furniture. The curtains and blinds were
new, and the floor had been scrubbed less than an hour before. It
was still damp. Leeder spoke.
"I'm looking for a hospital that will admit a young lady who'll
be ill shortly. She must have the best of care and I have the money
to pay for the best of care. But the main thing is this: her attend-
ants, those who look out for her, must ask no questions and give


46
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
out no information. She's a married lady and all right, but, for
certain reasons, this must be what you might call 'a secret case.'
You understand, don't you?"
"Yes, Brother Leeder. A baby case an' a secret case. Waal, we
hain't had none like thim yere yit but guess we can manage. Hain't
been nary a burth an' nary a dith in this horspital yit. We're jist
startin' out, kinda new yit. I'll see old Doc tomorrer an' tell 'im
'bout yer an' let yer know. Where yer live?"
"I'm stopping at the Swayne Hotel. I would like to see the
doctor and the nurse who will wait on this young lady tonight.
Can't you have them to call on me?"
"Waal, mebbe so. Make hit eight bells. If he hain't there
then, make hit ten bells tomorrer. I'll try an' look 'im up, an' if
he hain't out on a preachin' trip, or on a doctrin' trip, he'll be
thar."
That night, promptly at eight o'clock, the bellboy informed
Leeder that an old man and a woman were in the lobby desiring to
see him. He requested that they be shown to his room.
Dr. Boone was threescore and ten but as hale, hearty, and
active as a man of fifty. He was the very essence of dignity—a per-
fect picture of the successful city physician of the late nineties—
even to the neatly trimmed gray beard which rested on a level with
the first button of his vest. For forty years he had been a medical
missionary of his church, had labored faithfully in both foreign
and home mission fields, and, still very active at sixty-five, had
raised an awful rumpus when his church retired him. In fact, he
would not be retired. He continued to practice medicine and
preach the gospel, and, ambitious as a youngster, decided to found
a hospital, because, he said, "A hospital has always been my
home anyway, and when I'm through, this one will be a good
place for me to die in."
He heard Leeder's explanations.
"Well, Brother," said the doctor, "I talk plain talk. Mrs.
McKlissick, here, and I will take the case. She shall have the best
care possible to give her. About the confidential part of it, you
need have no fear. We understand such things. Our services will
cost you one hundred fifty dollars per week, payable in advance."


IN THE METHODIST HOSPITAL
47
Leeder counted out the money and took the doctor's receipt.
Catherine's friends were disappointed when she informed
them by letter that her mother was returning to Bridgeville but
that she had decided to prolong her visit. She wrote the letters
at the behest of Nicholas Leeder. Night, silent, kindly night,
which enfolds in her sable robes so many of the sad secrets of
the children of men, well protected the girl when she arrived in
Cleveland, and the good nurse and doctor spared no pains to
make her comfortable.
Leeder visited her every day. At first his visits pained her—
she would have much rather been left alone—but he was so
tactful, so gentle and kind, that soon she began to anticipate his
coming with a degree of satisfaction. It was Joe Taylor, how-
ever, who could make her forget and smile. In spite of his rough
and raw exterior, he was a friendly, though droll individual.
Caretaker, handyman, and whatnot around the premises, she
soon realized that he considered his position to be far more im-
portant than the doctor's.
"Ol' Doc gives you your midicine, Mrs. Hall," he said one
day, "but I gives you your comfort. He gives you your bitters,
but I gives you your sweets. He looks at your tongue but I looks
after th' fire for you. See?"
And if she would nod and smile, he would wink his eye at
her and walk away, repeating, "'At's right—'at's right. You're
a smart 'ittle woman." And his big, bald head would nod in
approbation.
That night, when the only sleep Joe got was cat naps, sitting
downstairs astride a straight chair with his back to the fire—that
night, when the old doctor and the nurse got no sleep at all—a
heavy snow fell throughout, and early the next morning the
caretaker was out with his shovel, clearing a path from the front
gate to the porch. Coming up the white carpeted street was a
cab, and in the cab was Nick Leeder. He paid the cabman at the
gate and hurried into the hall. Joe followed close behind. They
faced each other at the foot of the stairs.
"How is she?" Leeder inquired.
"Fine. Fine boy."


48
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"Have you seen him yet?"
"Who? Ol' Doc?"
"No—the boy—the baby."
"Can't. Asleep. All o' 'em asleep. Sit down till they wakes
up."
Leeder walked into the room and stood by the fire. Slowly
he removed his hat and overcoat. His hands were shaking. Even-
tually he sat down. For an hour—two hours—he sat there, until
he heard noises above. Then he arose and stood by the fire again.
Someone was coming down the stairs, coming briskly. The
door opened. The nurse greeted him with a pleasant, "Good
morning, Mr. Leeder."
The little man was shaking. An expression of agony disfigured
his face. He seemed to be ill—suffering. "Mrs. McKlissick," he
stammered, "how—how—the baby?"
"A fine seven-pounder, Mr. Leeder. A seven-pound boy.
Mother and baby doing fine."
"But I don't mean that. I mean—I mean—how—does it
look?"
The nurse was taken aback. She looked at him sharply, in-
clined for the moment to give a curt reply. Then she noticed
his shaking hands and the agony on his face. She lowered her
voice and her words were cool and collected.
"It looks like all other newborn babies, Mr. Leeder. It's fine-
featured and well developed, and—"
He cut her off. "But isn't there anything different about it—
anything at all?"
She laughed. "No, Mr. Leeder. Wait awhile and I'll see if
you can see it yourself."
She went into the kitchen, procured an article, and hastened
back up the stairs. Catherine was awake. The little mite of hu-
manity was asleep beside her. She had been touching the soft
cheeks and velvet forehead with the tips of her fingers. The nurse
bent low, smiled, and whispered, "Mr. Leeder is downstairs.
He's asking the funniest questions about your baby. Seems to
think it just had to be born blemished in some way."
The nurse looked at the baby again, critically. "It has quite


IN THE METHODIST HOSPITAL
49
an unusual color. And it's hair-gee! It's going to have a fine
head of hair. Wasn't its father a foreigner?"
"Yes," said Catherine.
The nurse resumed her duties, but when she looked into the
face of the girl again she saw a large teardrop roll from the
corner of her eye down the narrow valley between the cheek
and nose. She grabbed a handkerchief. “Now, now," she soothed.
"We mustn't have any of that. You'll be all well in a week or two
and feeling fine. Mustn't cry, little Mother!"
And she wiped the tear away with the handkerchief.


CHAPTER SEVEN
In the Whitewashed Cabin
True to his promise, Nick Leeder brought Catherine home to
her father's house before the Christmas holidays. She returned
with him as Mrs. Nicholas Leeder. Unknown to her or to any
member of her family, he had filed suit for her divorce in a
Pittsburgh court, within less than three months following her
marriage. Thanks to plenty of money and plenty of pull, he was
able to obtain the divorce without publicity. His only stipulation
was that the decree be not issued until a certain date—the day
after Thanksgiving Day. Before this time he knew her child would
be born.
Returning from Pittsburgh on the Sunday following Thanks-
giving, with a copy of the divorce decree in his pocket and his
mind at ease because he believed he had performed his duty
well, he arrived at the John Wesley Hospital and went at once
to Catherine's room. He knew the girl would be unprepared
for his assault. He had resolved to make good use of this ad-
vantage, being firmly convinced that "all's well that ends well"
anyhow, and realizing that the end he had in view had been
causing him nights of restlessness and days of longing for years.
His fervid ardor literally swept her off her feet, and within
a half-hour he had persuaded her to marry him. Then, suddenly
collecting her senses, she asked him about her child. He was
prepared, even for this.
"It's not your child, Catherine," he told her. "It just belongs
to the world. It came here unasked for and unwanted, and the
world will have to look out for it. I've arranged to have it cared
for in a foundling asylum. It may be adopted into a good home."
The girl burst into tears. He sat with his arm around her but
refrained from saying more, and let her weep her very heart away.
The Congressman's homecoming was a happy one. He greeted
Catherine in his usual loving, fatherly manner, and, noticing


IN THE WHITEWASHED CABIN
51
that her elder brother was slighting her, called his son aside and
reprimanded him. Late in the evening, he took advantage of an
opportunity to converse privately with his son-in-law. His first
inquiry was concerning the child. Leeder attempted to explain.
"We can't have it that way, Nick. I don't agree with you.
It's a Vanalban's child. It's got my blood in its veins. No Vanalban
is going to be stuck in an orphanage and thrown on the mercies
of the world. I want that child taken out of there. I'll provide
for it."
"But, George, listen. Its presence here will cause a world of
trouble and annoyance. The family name must be considered—
Catherine's embarrassment—her feelings. It's all been settled be-
tween us and I've forbidden her seeing it again. She has so
promised. Don't let's stir up the mess again. We can't do it."
The Congressman rose to his feet and his eyes flashed. The
indomitable determination of his forebears—of the Dutch who
cleared the rocky hills of Pennsylvania, of the Puritans who con-
quered the bleak wastes of New England—this was revealed so
plainly the little man hung his head.
"I'm civilized, Nick. I'm a Christian and I have a conscience.
I care nothing about your arrangements and Catherine's. If she
doesn't want to see her child again, she needn't look at it. But
I'm going to see it and take care of it. I'm going after it tomorrow
and you needn't worry any. I'll put it where it'll never bother
you."
He walked out of his library, through the hall and kitchen,
into a little bedroom, where Mary, lying on her back fast asleep,
was snoring perfectly. He touched her and she quickly opened
both eyes and threw up her pudgy hands.
"Sh-sh-sh—" he silenced her. "Mary, I'm calling Jackson's
cab. When he comes, you go on home, put on some of your good
duds, and meet me at the depot at midnight. I want you to go to
Cleveland with me and if anybody asks you any questions tell 'em
to scat."
From that time on, the word "scat" became the magic word—
the mighty silencer that relieved Mary and the little family in the
whitewashed cabin of many explanations and much annoyance.


52
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Any reasonable question asked her relative to the baby, Leonard
William Hall, Mary would answer with the utmost civility. But,
should the questioner press her to the wall with a desire for in-
formation she did not want to give, she would remark, "Huh-
huh! I'se gotta say 'Scat' to dat." The "dat" in her reply would be
duly emphasized. Some of her friends, neighbors, and visitors
went so far as to nickname the little one Scat. They would in-
quire, "How's little Scat this morning, Aunt Mary?" or, "Has
Scat started to teethin' yet?" Then, when Mary was alone again,
she would pick up the youngster, bounce him on one of her big
arms, and croon, "Yo' do look like ah leetle Scat! Yo' leetle
rascal, yo'!" And she would kiss him all over the face.
Of course there was plenty of talk among the colored people
about Aunt Mary's "lily-white baby." Little of the talk, however,
was to Mary's face. "White!" she explained more than once.
"Wy, dis chile hain't white. Hain't no mo' white den I is. Whatsa
mattah wid yo' all. Yo' kin look undah its fingahnails an' see
'cullud' all ober it. Don' bleeb, jist look. He one o' Aunt Hagah's
chilluns."
But in a little while the sudden appearance of Leonard Wil-
liam and Aunt Mary's new job as nursemaid became stale news.
At the same time, the daily life in the little whitewashed cabin
grew less hard. Mary missed the "white fo'ks' kitchen," missed it
very much. It had long been her second home. Had it not been
for Uncle Zeke, it would have been her first home. Zeke was her
husband but the white people, the Vanalbans, had been her
providers. She couldn't tell whom she loved the best.
She was well compensated for her care of the child and her
prosperity shone forth brightly. Zeke was wearing the first new
suit he had worn in years. His suits had always been "Second-,
third-, or fourth-handed ones. Both were giving more liberally
to the church. Mary discarded her "everlasting fascinator" and
purchased a new hat, a ridiculous-looking conglomeration of
straw, wool, and hair, which had a white and black striped band
around it, a bluebird, with red wings and a red tail, on the back
of it, and a white and pink ribbon in front of it. On the first
Monday in every month she would waddle up to the bank and


IN THE WHITEWASHED CABIN
53
Vanalban or his son would give her fifty dollars. Leonard William
was taken care of on this money, but much of the money was
also taken care of "on" Mary. In the old sock, or, rather, in the
old triple-stocking—for it required three of them sewed together
—which she wore beneath her garments around her waist, she
had saved much of the money paid to her for the baby's support.
Out of babyhood into little boyhood, Leonard grew like a
weed. Mary knew how to raise children. She had reared a dozen
or more—a few of her own and several others, some related to
her and some "just chillun." Now and then Vanalban visited
her. He really came to see the child. He would tell her, privately,
how pleased he was to see it looking so well and growing so fast.
Sometimes, while sitting at her window or on the little front
porch, she would see Nick Leeder drive by with his wife and baby,
but they would never stop. Leeder would be driving fast and
Mary would not attempt to see whether Catherine glanced to-
ward her whitewashed cabin or not.


CHAPTER EIGHT
In the Darkened Room
Vanalban's family had always called it "Father's room" and
the colored servants called it "Mr. George's room." It was to the
left of the hall as one entered the front door, and this room was
always bright and cheerful, even on gloomy, cloudy days, for
there was only low shrubbery and small trees on that side of the
house. In the early morning the rising sun would peep into this
room first—would hurry and drive away the shadows and chilly
air of the night—and the Vanalban children would run to it
the moment they left their beds, and always find it cozy and
warm.
In the center was a massive oak table over which hung a gas
lamp the shade of which was decorated with flying bluebirds.
The top of the table was rough and scarred. Good Mrs. Vanalban
always tried to keep the top covered with a pretty linen cover.
She said she was ashamed of it. But Vanalban and the children
kept the cover wrinkled and lopsided, kept its corners folded
over, or threw it off altogether. Tired elbows and old books and
the magazines and newspapers could rest and lie so much better
on the rough, naked top than on the slick linen cover.
On one side of the room were three large and tall book-
cases, exactly alike. They were always full of books, and, most
of the time, were running over, so that their doors were hard to
close and to keep closed. The book one wanted was always so hard
to find, the father and children started playing a new game they
called "Find the Book," and they had much fun together.
On the walls were pictures of many kinds—on the floor, one
large, blue-shaded, velvet rug and many smaller ones. There was
a sofa and comfortable chairs—but why tell about this room
now? For the first time in many years the curtains are drawn
and the blinds are down and the square clock on the mantel
shelf is not ticking. The room is darkened and still.


IN THE DARKENED ROOM
55
Yesterday, a beautiful April day, Vanalban, who was stand-
ing here looking out the center window at two robins hopping
about, called his wife and told her, "Honey, I'm going to have
this year what I've wanted a long time. See that spot right there
where that robin is standing? I'm going to have Jack make a
round flower bed there. It will be at least eight feet in diameter.
I'm going to plant in it nothing but asters—asters of as many
colors as I can find. I've always wanted a bed of asters, and
nothing else in it but asters. Of course they'll look scraggy like
a lot of weeds all summer, but in the fall, when the other flowers
are about all gone—say, won't they be fine to look at out this
window?"
The practical Mrs. Vanalban replied, "All right, George, but
remember, asters are hard for us to raise. They take the wilt and
the blight, and every bug and louse in the world seems to like
them. But try them there if you want to."
Vanalban spent a busy morning at the bank, was driven out
to his farm in the afternoon, and ate a hearty, though rather late
supper. After supper he played awhile with little three-year-old
Elwood, Catherine's child, but only a little while, for it was time
for Elwood to be in bed. But Catherine allowed her father to
come upstairs with her and watch her undress her son and baby
daughter. Then, after she had tucked the covers around them,
kissed them good night, and turned the gas down low, she went
with her father into his bedroom and they conversed awhile very
pleasantly. Mrs. Vanalban, who always got ready for bed in a
hurry and went to sleep in a hurry also, called out to them "Good
night" from her bedroom, and they shook their heads at each
other and smiled, for they hadn't even heard her come up the
stairs.
This morning, at getting-up-time, Vanalban was sleeping
peacefully, and tonight—he is sleeping peacefully, downstairs in
the darkened room.
Early the next morning when Lucy came to work, Mary came
with her.
"I'se goin' wid yo', Lucy," she said, "kase Ah wants tuh see


56
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Mester Gawge by muhsef, an' I'se gonna tek Leonard wid me.
Nevvah tho't I'd see dis day, oľ as Ah is. De good Lawd knows
bes', though. He allus knows whut He doin'."
Silently they entered the house and proceeded to the kitchen.
Closing themselves within, they conversed awhile in whispers.
Then, calling the child and sitting him on her knee, Mary said,
"Leonard, Ah's goin' in yander tuh see ah dead man. He's lyin'
all still in ah leetle box-lak dis—see, honey?"
"Yes, ma'am," Leonard replied.
"I'se 'll carry yo', honey, an' yuh mustn't mek ah bit o' noise,
heah me, honey?"
"Yes, ma'am.”
"An' yo'look at 'im, honey. Look at 'im good, an' 'membah
how he looks. Will yuh, honey?"
"Yes, ma'am.”
With the child in her arms, the old Vanalban cook tiptoed
through the hall and entered the darkened room. Stopping at the
rough-topped table, she reached and turned up the gas. The room
was flooded with light. Holding the child in her arms, she looked
down upon the pallid face of a friend. Tears coursed down her
cheeks, and, drawing a long towel from the pocket of her skirt,
she wiped her eyes vigorously. Then she whispered, “See 'im,
honey? Look at 'im good. He war a good man, honey, ah mawghty
good man. He gone now, honey, gone tuh Heaben. He up dere
wid de angels singin' de Lamb's praises. Don'fo'git how he
looks, honey, will yo'?"
"No, ma'am,” the child whispered.
She was standing there weeping, and suddenly another stood
beside her. A white arm encircled Mary's neck, and a little child
was almost smothered between them. Then white hands lifted
the child from Mary's arms, and pink lips were pressed against
its lips, and against its cheeks and forehead. And, a little later,
as Mary carried the child outside, the gas was again turned low
and the room again was darkened.


CHAPTER NINE
In the Orphans' Home
After the death of his father, George Vanalban, Jr., became
the guardian of the family fortune and family name. He was tall,
a six-footer as his father was, inclined to portliness, and wore his
sandy hair, which was curly at the ends, very long. He possessed
a determined, obstinate character—was hard to deal with, his
associates said—and was ever ready to stick his hairy fingers into
anything, tangible or intangible, from which he believed he
could extract a dollar bill.
He had never become reconciled with his sister and vowed
in his heart that he never would. He never visited her unless busi-
ness or family reasons compelled. When their father's estate was
settled and she demanded that every penny of her fortune be
converted into cash or negotiable securities and placed in her own
hands, he was very angry, called her a fool, and told her she had
never been anything but a disgrace to the family. Catherine made
no reply and shed no tears. She, too, was becoming hardened.
When Mary called at the bank on the accustomed date, this
Vanalban scion greeted her with a cool, "Howdy, Mary," and
informed her he was making other arrangements and would see
her in a day or so. That very night someone knocked on her door.
She admitted a man who wore a large official badge on his vest
front. This personage informed her he was a sheriff, and had
come "after the orphan you're taking care of."
"Whar yo' gwine tuh tek him to?" Mary asked.
"To the home up there on the hill."
He stepped over to the lamp and read to Mary a paper she
could not understand, but, instantly realizing that he represented
the law and that argument was useless, she awoke Leonard, gath-
ered up what few belongings of the child's she could find handily,
kissed him good-by, and delivered him to the officer.
"Dis am some ob dat mean, young Gawge's doin's," she mum-


58
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
bled to Zeke. "Wen Ah sees him again, he'll sholy git ah good
piece o' mah min'." Then, grasping the small hand of the half-
asleep child, she said, "Yo' be ah good boy, Leonard, an' min*
ev'erbuddy. Don' fo'git Gran'maw, honey. Good-by."
In after years Leonard could not remember "Gran'maw" as
she looked that night, but he never forgot the trip through the
fields and up the hill to the County Orphans' Home. He remem-
bered that the man lifted him to his shoulder, told him to look
up at the large, full moon, and climbed over a high gate that was
beneath a big tree. When he awoke early the next morning and
opened his large eyes, the room he was in was dimly lighted.
He could not see and began calling, "Gran'maw, Gran'maw,"
then, "Gran'paw, Gran'paw," then, "Lucy!" A woman wearing a
long, white gown, and with brown hair hanging in braids over
her shoulders, bent over him, shook him a little, told him to keep
still, and said she would spank him if she heard him call again.
So he lay there quietly and looked up at the ceiling a very, very
long time.
The County Orphans' Home was a red brick building located
- on the outskirts of Bridgeville. It sat on the brow of a hill over-
looking a large expanse of open country. In the far distance a
railroad ran straight across the horizon, and on clear days one
could see the puffing smoke from the passing locomotives. Nearer
were little farms, green pastures and brown fields, forests of high
and low trees, and, nearer still, the shallow waters of Willow
Creek gently flowed along, on under the covered wooden bridge
and away. At the base of the hill was the winding Cuyler pike, a
white road along the edge of which, here and there, were neat
little cottages, farmhouses and large barns, and two or three
whitewashed cabins, the roofs of which seemed to touch the
ground.
The front of the Home faced Condor Street, which here
abruptly ended, running out into the gate which the Home cows
went through going from the barn to the pasture. On this side
were well-trimmed lawns, pretty flower beds, and a wide, graveled
road. The children's playground was located at the side of the
building between the graveled road and the orchard. All the


IN THE ORPHANS' HOME
59
hillside down to the pike was the orchard—apple, peach, plum,
cherry, and quince trees—and between the rows of trees were
berry bushes and grapevines.
Leonard was nearly four years old when he became one of the
orphans. He was still wearing dresses that hung a little below his
knees and curls which came to his shoulders. He lived in the
nursery with the other very little boys and girls. He was never
lonesome during the day, for there were heaps of toys, and Miss
Roberts was very kind to the children and played games with
them. At mealtimes, she tied little white bibs around their necks
and let them sit at the table until they had eaten all they wanted.
On Sunday mornings she would dress them up in their very best
and take them to Sunday school. Then they would see many other
little children, and the teacher would give them pretty picture
cards and let them hold hands and march around in a circle.
Only one thing Leonard disliked—he was forced to sleep too
much. Every day after dinner, all the children had to lie down
on the floor behind their chairs, and stay there until Miss Roberts
told them they could get up. They could not whisper either, for
if they did Miss Roberts would spank, and Leonard had dis-
covered that Miss Roberts' spanking was much harder than his
grandma's had been. So he had to lie there very still. And then, in
the evening, Miss Roberts would put them to bed while all the
big boys and girls were outside playing and having the grandest
time. How he longed to grow larger, just so he would not have
to sleep so much!
The day he became a "big boy," Miss Roberts took him by
the hand and led him far down the hall into a room where all
the chairs were larger and standing in two long rows on each
side. There was a platform at one end of the room, and on this
platform sat a very large lady. She was patching a pair of pants
and looking very glum and solemn. The top of her dress seemed
to fit very tightly, and her arms were as big and round as Leonard's
grandma's arms. Miss Roberts stopped before her.
"Here's a new boy I'm giving you, Miss Hannan. He's five
years old now."


60
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Miss Hannan stopped her patching and looked at Leonard.
She had keen gray eyes, heavy eyebrows, and two deep wrinkles
above her nose. When she looked downward, the muscles beside
these wrinkles would twitch, and this made her look, to Leonard,
just like his grandma always looked when she had a feeling she
was going to sneeze.
"What is your name, young man?"
"Leonard."
"Leonard, and what else? What is your last name?"
"Leonard Hall."
"Speak plainly so I can hear every word you say. Now answer
me again. What is your full name?"
"Leonard Hall." This time Leonard spoke very distinctly.
Miss Hannan seemed to be well pleased.
"Now, Leonard, go to this side of the room and sit down
in the tenth chair. Count the chairs from the end here, so you
will get into the right one."
Leonard proceeded to count. He could already count to one
hundred, and he knew the alphabet, thanks to Miss Roberts'
instruction. In fact, she had taught him to read simple stories, to
write his name and the names of some of his playmates, and his
precocity had amazed her. The right chair was reached and the
child sat down in it. Miss Hannan looked at Miss Roberts and
nodded approvingly.
"He is smart. All of them are when children. I've had a dozen
or more of them under me and I've not found a dull one yet.
But when they get in their teens they seem to go the other way."
"Probably he'll prove an exception," replied Miss Roberts.
"I only wish I could have him myself till he's grown. I'm going
to keep an eye on him."
"You can have him. Why don't you adopt him?"
Miss Roberts blushed. Miss Hannan, who was jealous of her
associate's popularity around the Home, let the dirty dig soak in.
Then she continued, "You wouldn't have to be afraid of his color.
Come in and see him after I get him trimmed and dressed up.
He'll look like any little white boy."


IN THE ORPHANS' HOME
61
"All right, I will. I'll be back after a while. Good-by, Leon-
ard." She waved a hand as she opened the door. "Come and see
me some time."
Miss Hannan walked over to a corner before a large window
where a tall chair was sitting. "Come here, young man. Crawl
up. I'm going to make a boy out of you."
She proceeded to pin a white cloth tightly and securely around
the child's neck. Then, going to her work basket, she returned
with a comb and a long pair of shears. Her fingers grasped one of
the long, black curls. Its softness and silky texture surprised her,
and for a moment she allowed it to rest in the palm of her hand.
Then, again grasping it tightly, the scissors snipped.
At the same moment, and only a few blocks away, a young
mother was slipping a comb through the golden tresses of a baby
girl sitting on her lap, but Miss Hannan never wondered whether
or not this mother would have liked to have held in her fingers
one of the black curls the sharp scissors were snipping from the
head of the little boy.
When the big boys returned from school at noon they found
the little new boy, bedecked in a blue shirtwaist, onto which was
buttoned his first pair of trousers, sitting in Number Ten chair.
These boys were of all ages and sizes from six to sixteen, and
there were more than thirty of them. They entered their room
quietly, grinned and snickered a little when they noticed Leonard,
and each boy sat down in his accustomed place. This was their
quiet hour—the calm before the storm. Miss Hannan, sitting on
the platform, continued to patch; now and then quickly raising
her head and glancing sharply in the direction from which came
a whisper, a snicker, or grunt.
Within ten minutes all the chairs were occupied. Then Miss
Hannan laid her patching on the table beside her and stood up.
"Children," she said, "the name of the little boy is Leonard
Hall. Stand up and say, 'Good afternoon, Leonard.'"
All the children arose, but some of the larger boys only moved
their lips and grunted. It was apparent they did not approve of
this formality. Then Miss Hannan continued, "Leonard is a


62
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
colored boy, but I shall expect every one of you to treat him right.
The first one who calls him any bad names will be soundly
punished."
When this information was given them, all the boys stared
hard at Leonard. Some mouths flew wide open. Two of the three
larger colored boys only grinned, but the third one, John Dacey,
who sat on the far end of one of the rows and was the largest boy
in the room spoke abruptly. "Ah, who said he was cullud? He
sho' don't look like me."
Miss Hannan struck the palms of her hands together. "You
be quiet, John Dacey. Who asked you for any remarks?"
Then the buxom matron brought forth a bench from beside
the wall behind her. It was about two feet wide and four feet
long. She held it high. She held it high, as though she desired
all the boys to see it plainly, and she set it down slowly. One little
flaxen-haired youngster began to cry softly, then, as Miss Hannan
brought forth from the table drawer a short paddle, the same
youngster began wailing quite audibly.
"Very well, Henry Egstrom," she said. "You may come first."
The flaxen-haired youngster arose and slowly advanced toward
the platform. When within arm's length, Miss Hannan caught
hold of him and pulled him to her.
"You soiled your bed last night, didn't you? Haven't I told
you a hundred times to call me when you want to get up? Why
didn't you do it? Well, perhaps you'll call me the next time. Get
down here."
With her willing assistance, the child lay face downward on
the bench, a spindly leg extended on either side. Placing her left
hand between his shoulders, she applied the paddle vigorously—
a dozen licks or more—and when she turned him loose the young-
ster scrambled off the bench in a hurry, bawling loudly, with
both hands tenderly caressing the two parts of his anatomy upon
which the cruel paddle had descended.
A larger boy came next, none too willingly. This boy con-
fessed he had struck another lad, a "town boy," while coming
from school the afternoon before.
"Why did you strike him?" Miss Hannan asked.


IN THE ORPHANS' HOME
63
The boy whimpered, "He called me names. Said I was a
raggiddy orphin. Said I had to eat 'tatoes and prunes and had to
sleep with possums an' coons."
"You should have come straight home from school, Frank,
and not stopped to fight. Get down here."
Frank received a few licks, but it was plainly noticeable, even
to the children, that the licks were very light ones, and when
Frank got back to his chair he was smiling.
"Now, Louis Henry," said Miss Hannan, "I will attend to
you."
Louis, a handsome lad of fourteen years, arose from his chair
and walked boldly toward the matron, smiling. Without her
assistance in the least, he threw his long body over the bench
in the accustomed fashion, remarking as he did so, loud enough
for all the children to hear, "Hurry up, Miss Hannan. I'm
hungry."
The children laughed.
"Quiet!" the matron commanded.
Then, turning to the lad sprawled over the bench, whose
hands were resting on the floor, and whose impudent face was
turned to hers, she remarked, "You seem to think this is funny.
I'll show you how funny it is before I'm through with you."
Reaching in her work basket, she brought forth a short sling
about the thickness of a clothesline. Dexterously looping it over
one of his wrists, she caught hold of the other one, and in a
moment his arms were securely tied together beneath the bench.
Then, placing her huge self between the culprit and the children,
she unbuttoned his suspenders in the back, let down his trousers
and underwear, and the paddle descended slowly and method-
ically upon the naked flesh. A few strokes—no sound at all—then
a groan—then a long moan—then a scream—and then, all to-
gether, groaning, moaning, wailing, weeping, and pleading. The
lad begged for mercy but no mercy was shown. He was paddled
and paddled well, until he had promised a dozen times he would
not repeat his offense, and when at last she turned him loose, the
smallest boy in the room could have chased him with a feather.
In a moment the dinner bell rang.


64
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"One! Rise." The matron commanded. "Two—turn. Three
—march!" The boys marched single file out the door, up the
hall, into the washroom, where everyone bathed hands and face
and combed and brushed his hair. Then at the sound of another
bell, all entered the dining room and took their places at the
long tables.
Leonard soon learned all the rules of the big boys' room.
First of all, he learned that Miss Hannan's word was law and
must always, always be respected. Although it was a long time
before he felt the sting of the hickory paddle, like the sword of
Damocles it was ever swinging over his head, and, though young
and brave, he was not foolhardy. His nature, his common sense,
and the paddle compelled Miss Hannan to speak of him as a
"bright and obedient little boy."


CHAPTER TEN
On Condor Street
At the beginning of the present century you could see all
Bridgeville on Condor Street. Not the largest stores, the hotel,
or courthouse, for these were on Main Street. Not the churches,
the high school, or the lodge halls, for these were on Stubbins
Avenue. But Condor Street held a monopoly on the real life of
Bridgeville; on most of her joy and sorrow; on most of her
pleasure and pain; on most of her wealth and poverty; on most
of her literacy and ignorance; on most of her love and hate.
Condor Street started on the "hill" and ended in the "bot-
toms." Between the hill and the bottoms lived—and "lived" is
surely the word—those who gave their very souls to Bridgeville
and made the little city what it was. Condor Street started at the
Home, where orphaned children wished for their parents. Condor
Street ended at the hovels, where poverty-sickened parents wished
they had fewer children.
Leonard became well acquainted with Condor Street even
before he was six years old. It happened that when he became a
big boy, and had to live in the big boys' room, he was the only
boy in the room too young to attend school. He had no one to
play with, so Miss Hannan would send him to the girls' room to
play with the three little girls of his own age there. But Leonard
did not like to play with little girls. They would make him nurse
their doll babies, or put on a dress and play a grown-up lady.
And, as Miss Klick, the girls' matron, did not like "dirty little
boys," or clean ones either, for that matter, and never watched
after him, often Leonard would slip into the nursery to visit with
Miss Roberts.
One Friday afternoon, which was Miss Roberts' afternoon
off, she asked Miss Hannan could she take the boy home with
her, and Miss Hannan consented. Her parents lived five blocks
from the Home in a yellow-painted house, which had a porch


66
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
at the side but none in the front, and vines were growing all
around the porch and at the sides of the front windows.
Miss Roberts took him upstairs so her mother could see him.
Mrs. Roberts patted him on the head and asked him was he a
good boy. "So you are a good boy, are you? Well, I always keep
something to give to good little boys. We will see just what we
can find."
She led Leonard downstairs and into the kitchen. Opening
the door of a tall cupboard, she stuck her hand into a shiny black
can and brought forth three cookies. Leonard thought they were
the prettiest and the best cookies he had ever eaten. They had
white frosting on top of them and a little piece of red candy
in their centers. He ate all around the pieces of candy, then ate
the candy, and certainly enjoyed it. Then Mrs. Roberts wiped off
his hands and mouth with a soft blue towel, and, calling her
daughter, said she had to go to the Ladies' Aid, and here was her
little boy and she must give him something to amuse him.
When Miss Roberts came to Leonard she had changed her
dress and fixed her hair up differently and looked so pretty and
sweet he hardly knew her. Her mother told them good-by and
went away. Then Miss Roberts led him into the sitting room,
which was right next to the front room, found him a half-dozen
picture books, and gave him a sack full of spools of all sizes and
colors. He sat there and read the picture books and built houses
and castles and fences with the spools and had the grandest time
he had ever had in his life.
By and by a knock was heard at the door. Miss Roberts came
running into the room where Leonard was, looked in the mirror,
and fluffed her hair around the edges so that she looked prettier
than ever. Then she opened the door and admitted a tall, smooth-
shaven young man whom she called Johnny.
Johnny sat down on one end of the sofa and Miss Roberts sat
on the other end, and they started talking. They did not talk very
loud and sometimes it would be so long before they said anything
at all, Leonard would think they had gone to sleep. Then he
would look up and see Miss Roberts sitting very still on the end
of the sofa, but he couldn't see Johnny at all unless he peeped


ON CONDOR STREET
67
around the side of the door, and he was too polite to do that.
They had been there some time when Miss Roberts excused
herself and left the room. Then Johnny called to him, "Come
here, young fellow, and let me look at you."
Leonard came into his presence carrying a picture book and
a string of spools, and Johnny said, "My, that's a pretty book you
have there. Can you read it?"
He pointed to a picture. "Well, let's see what this is."
"That's Papa Bear," said Leonard. "And here is the little
bear and Mama Bear." And he began to read the simple sentences
beneath the pictures.
"My, you are a smart young fellow," said Johnny. "Who
taught you to read so well?"
"Miss Roberts did, and I just love Miss Roberts. Say, don't
you love Miss Roberts too? I love her."
The young man grinned foolishly and his face turned very
red, and he said to Leonard, "You little rascal."
Right then Miss Roberts returned, bringing a cooky with her,
which Leonard took and went into the other room to eat and
enjoy. She sat down again on the end of the sofa. Leonard was
munching the cooky and didn't hear what the young man said,
but soon he heard Miss Roberts say very slowly, "Well—don't
?>f
} —
Then he heard the young man reply, "Yes," very loud, and
he also heard a commotion on the sofa, and Miss Roberts said,
"Oh, Johnny, dear!" And he looked up and the young man had
Miss Roberts in his arms and was kissing her lips and cheeks and
forehead and mussing up her pretty hair something awful.
They sat there holding each other a long time, and then the
young man got up and went away. When he was gone, Miss
Roberts called Leonard and told him they had to get ready to go
back to the Home.
She was smiling, her eyes were as bright as stars, and when
Leonard looked at her she appeared to be so happy he could not
tell whether she was about to laugh or cry.
Before she went to change her dress she grabbed him up, held
him in her lap, and, looking into his eyes, said, "Leonard, you


68
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
mustn't tell anybody you saw Johnny kiss me. You won't tell,
will you?"
When he promised he wouldn't tell a soul, she squeezed and
kissed him almost as much as she had squeezed and kissed Johnny.
Jackson, the colored cabman, also lived on Condor Street.
He lived in a little flat-looking house that sat in a yard which
was far below the sidewalk. Next door lived Mr. Lickenstreeter,
who worked at the Home; who milked the cows and raised the
garden, and fired the boiler and cleaned the snow from the walks
in the winter time. Every once in a while, Jackson would bring
Mr. Price, the superintendent, or Mrs. Price, out to the Home
in his cab. He drove a big bay horse which never walked but
always trotted, and it was a long time before Leonard knew a
horse could walk at all, for he had never seen Jackson's horse
walk.
One day as Jackson drove up the graveled driveway he saw
Leonard playing in the yard, and he asked Mr. Price to let him
take the boy riding for a while. He sat Leonard on the high
driver's seat beside him, and away they went down the street
to Jackson's home.
When Leonard arrived there, the first thing that greeted him
was Jackson's puppy, and the next was the scent of cabbage. To
him, cabbage seemed to be cooking everywhere, in the yard, all
through the house, even out in the alley behind the house. He
could smell nothing but cabbage. Mrs. Jackson prepared her
husband's dinner and sat Leonard down at the table with them.
She gave him a little saucer full of soup—which she called "pot-
likker," and a piece of white cornbread. When Leonard ate it
and told her it was good, she seemed to be much pleased. But
she wouldn't let him eat any more, saying, "You've been eatin'
white folks' vittles all your days an' I spec' my eatin's mout make
you sick."
All the Jackson children were at school, so, as soon as dinner
was over, and after Bob, the bay horse, had eaten his dinner, the
cabman put him up on the high seat again and they drove around
awhile and then back to the Home. But Leonard never forgot


ON CONDOR STREET
69
Jackson and the trotting horse, and would think about them
every time he smelled cabbage.
Josie always came to the Home on Mondays and did the
laundering. She was a tall, strong woman, very dark, and seemed
to be always happy. She could laugh and sing louder than any-
one Leonard had ever heard, and, all the time she was washing
in the basement, the entire Home would ring with her songs.
Leonard used to slip down the stairs and watch her at a dis-
tance. He could only see her back, and her elbows rising up
and down as she stooped over the tubs, for there was so much
steam her head was always hidden. But when she saw him she
would always grab him and kiss him. He was not fond of Josie's
kisses. Her large mouth seemed to run all over his face, and
when she turned him loose he would take his fist and try to rub
her kisses away. This would cause her much merriment.
But Josie appealed to his stomach by making for him on
the laundry stove the best pudding he had ever tasted. She called
it a "cawnstarch puddin'." It was soft and as yellow as golden
butter. She served it to him in a bowl that had black kittens all
around the edge of it, and she would always tell him to eat it
up quick before the black cats got it.
One Monday night, Josie told him she was coming after him
the next day and take him home with her. He didn't believe it, but
sure enough she came. Miss Hannan dressed him in his Sunday
clothes, told him to be a good boy and mind Josie, and told Josie
she could paddle him if he needed it, but he wouldn't need it
for he was a good boy.
Josie took him by the hand and led him out to the street,
but hardly said a word until they were out of sight of the Home.
Then she said, "Leonard, I'm takin' yuh to see Gran'ma. Yuh
'member Gran'ma, don't yuh?"
He didn't know whether he did or not, right then, but he
looked up at Josie, and her color and hair made him remember
someone who looked like her—someone, he remembered, who
had been mighty good to him once upon a time, so he replied,
"Yes, ma'am."


70
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"She lives with me now," Josie said. "She is my gran'ma too.
She can't walk no more, Leonard—has to roll herse'f aroun' in
a wheel chair. But she jist had to see yuh, for you are still her
little boy."
Down Condor Street, Josie walked on and on. Mrs. Jackson
came outside and talked with them awhile when they reached
her house, and Leonard smelled cabbage again just as he had
smelled it when he was there before. Then they walked on—past
Miss Roberts' house, where the vines were growing by the sides
of the front windows—then on till they came to a large brown-
stone house, sitting far back in the center of a wide yard. Josie
looked toward this house when they reached two big iron gates,
standing half open, and said to him, "That's a mighty sad place
now, Leonard. Mighty sad place. They had a death in there las'
week. Ol ' man an' ol' lady both gone now. Mighty sad place,
Leonard."
They passed by the Condor Street Public School. Some of the
children were outside, for it was recesss time for the smaller
grades, and the little "Home boys" waved at Leonard. Josie told
him he would be going to school there next year and he wished
it was next year right then.
They walked on and on—past a bakery shop, where Josie
purchased some cookies—then on down a hill into the "bottoms"
—then to the far end of the street, where all the houses looked
alike, until they stopped at one of them almost at the street's
end.
"This is my home," said Josie. "Be quiet. We'll slip in on
Gran'ma. Sh-sh-sh!"
They stepped inside. But Grandma was looking for them,
sitting there in her wheel chair right at the door.
"My, my," she said. "Heah is Leonard! Come heah, chile.
My sakes—how you is growed! Kiss Gran'ma, honey." She held
the child to her breast. "So much lak yo' po' mother, chile. Jist
lak huh. I seed huh yistiddy, chile. Yo' po' sorrowin' mother.
Po' leetle thing."
She kissed Leonard again, and he did not know and could
not tell whether that kiss was meant for him or for the mother


ON CONDOR STREET
71
she was speaking of. She was still holding him when Josie re-
turned, now dressed in a long white apron suit, and without her
hat.
"Come here, Leonard," she said. "I wants yuh tuh see the
othah childurn."
Stepping to the rear of the house, she called, "Childurn! You
childurn! You 'Lizbeth! Mar—ee! Johnie—ee! Whar yuh at?"
A faint "Here" was heard in the distance.
"Come here, you childurn—all of you."
In a little while, Leonard was introduced to the ones whose
names he had heard. Then Josie took him inside and undressed
him to the skin. She redressed him in an outfit made up of about
half of the outgrown garments discarded by her family five years
past.
"Now you kin go out an' play with them an' git as dirty as
you will. You kin even eat a little dirt if you wanttah, jist lak
my childurn do sometimes. It'll do you good."
They played and quarreled and made up, and played and
quarreled and made up again, and played all day—just as chil-
dren will do if the old folks won't bother them too much. When
it was time for him to return with Josie to the Home, he was tired.
But that night, when he said his prayers and went to bed, he
was still hearing Mary, his grandma's last words, "Bye-bye,
honey. Th' good Lawd bless yuh, chile. Don' fo'git Gran'ma,
will yuh, honey? Good-by."


CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the Cellar
When Leonard entered the first grade in school it was not
long before the children began to tease him and call him "teacher's
pet." This nickname he resented, but it stuck with him. Miss
Myers, his teacher, seemed always to be setting him on an in-
visible pedestal, and pointing to him as the one pupil who never
made a mistake or did anything wrong. His report cards pre-
sented a line of perfect P's and high 90's—he won most of the
small prizes offered for good work—on Friday afternoons he
would recite the longest speeches, and when all the first-graders
assembled in the music class, which met once a week, his was the
voice that rang out the loudest and never missed a note.
Through the second and third grades as through the first, he
marched a conquering hero. Childhood's misfortunes, such as
measles, mumps, and chicken pox, never held him back. When he
entered the fourth grade, just before his ninth birthday, the
teachers spoke of him behind his back as the "smartest little
boy in school." Miss Hannan, at the home, Mr. Price, the super-
intendent, and Mrs. Price were very proud of him, and were
constantly wishing and hoping he might be adopted into some
good family.
The fact that he might be adopted sometime worried Leonard
not a little. There was something mysterious about that adopting
business; something he could not comprehend. It was like dying—
the adopted ones never returned to tell whether they liked their
adoption or not. And Dr. Dingby, who came from somewhere
and carried the adopted children away with him, was such a
solemn-looking man. He wore long whiskers which were so
thick around his mouth Leonard could never tell whether or
not he ever smiled or laughed. The boy was afraid of solemn-
looking people.
He was also afraid of the world outside of the Home. Most


IN THE CELLAR
75
But she did not do so, not then. Instead, she sat down on
the bottom step and said, "Come here, Leonard."
The boy came to her—close. He was not afraid. She looked
into his eyes, and, removing the checkered cap, ran her slim fingers
through his curly hair. Then, drawing him into her arms, she
kissed him, not once only but many times, and she held him so
close to her breast he could hardly breathe. Just as suddenly she
released him, and the child saw the hot tears coursing down her
cheeks.
"Oh, Leonard," she said, "Please don't tell anyone you saw
Elwood's mother and that she kissed you. You won't tell, will
you, Leonard?"
"No, I won't," the child replied.
"You won't even tell Elwood, will you?"
"No, ma'am."
She handed him an apple and dropped on her knees before
him.
"Kiss me, Leonard, just once." He put his small arms about
her neck and kissed her, then, remembering where he was, bolted
through the door and ran toward the Home as fast as his little
legs could carry him.
Thereafter Leonard visited the cellar often, nearly every
school day, and always he would find Elwood's mother there.
Always she would greet him with a smile and dismiss him with
her caresses. She would watch through the narrow cellar window
as he ran through the yard, through the iron gates, and up the
sidewalk going to the Home. She would watch, and the Past
would spring up before her, and sorrow would drench her eyes
with tears.
She was watching one day just as he reached the iron gates.
A buggy was passing there at the same time, and the tall, bushy-
haired, and portly man inside suddenly stopped his horse and
leaped out—rushed at the child and caught him by the arm. The
man's grip was like a vise, and the child screamed in terror,
dropping the apple he held.
"What are you doing in there?" Anger was in the man's voice
—more than anger, bitter hate. "What are you doing in there?"


76
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
he inquired again. The terrified child could not speak. The man
shook him roughly and hard. The little checkered cap fell off
and large feet trampled it in the dirt.
Elwood's mother had seen more than she could bear. She
rushed through the cellar door, out into the yard, on toward the
man who was shaking the child. Then, as he saw her coming
toward him, he picked up his victim and dashed him to the ground
as though he might have been an unclean animal, saying as he
did so, "If I see you inside those gates again I'll kill you. Get out
to the Home where you belong, you little nigger."
The child picked up his trampled cap and ran, weeping, his
body bruised and his heart broken—and the man crawled back
into his buggy and drove away.
Elwood's mother slowly entered the front door of the brown-
stone mansion and went upstairs into her room. Dry-eyed and
silent, she stood there at the window—seeing nothing. The sun,
now low in the western sky, cast its soft rays upon her, tinting
her hair with gold, but deepening the deathly pallor on her face.
This room had been her father's bedroom. In this room he had
died. She turned her head, and there on the wall was the likeness
of his kindly face. Those eyes were ever gentle when he had
spoken to her. There, too, was the likeness of the face of her
Uncle Silas, hanging there in the massive gilded frame. It was
the face of a man of power—a man who hit hard and took hard
licks in return—the face of a man who had never been known
to admit defeat. He had always been fond of her but had often
told her, "I'd like to grab and shake some life into you, kitten.
But I'm afraid if I did, I'd shake what little bit you have plumb
out of you."
The thought flashed into her mind: "He's good. He'll be
good to my boy. He shall have him."
Sitting down at her desk, she wrote a letter to her uncle,
then, dressing hurriedly, called to her husband to look after the
children, and told him she was going down the street to her
brother Frank's.
She found Frank sprawled on the floor playing with his two-
year-old son. He was of slender build, with hair inclined to ruddi-


IN THE CELLAR
77
ness. Unlike his brother, he was of the easygoing type, and never
was known to do more than a day's work per day. His sister's
unannounced arrival confused him.
"What on earth, Catherine, brings you here right at supper
time?"
"Business, Frank, nothing but hard business. You know it's
not a social call."
"Business. And here I am trying my best to forget business.
I get too much business at the bank all day. Couldn't you put
your business off until tomorrow?"
"No. I want to talk to you now. This is what I want. I want
twenty thousand dollars in cash. I want it for Leonard. I am going
to send him to Uncle Silas."
Frank arose to his feet. It was the first time he had heard her
mention the boy's name. He looked at her, then his eyes fell.
"Do you think you're doing the best thing, Sis? Have you
spoken to George about it?"
"George!" she almost shouted. "What would that brute know
about what is best for anything? No! I'm not going to speak to
him! I don't want to look at him again. You have my money
ready for me when I want it. I'll want it in three weeks."
"Sis, that's a lot of money. It's almost half of what you have."
"What if it's all I have," she interrupted. "Nick has money
and can provide well enough for our children. Leonard is my
child and I'll provide for him. Have the money ready, Frank,
when I call for it."
In a little while she was walking slowly toward her home,
and the next morning she posted the letter she had written to
her Uncle Silas.


CHAPTER TWELVE
In the Railway Coach
Dr. Dingby, the assistant director of State Charities of the state
of Ohio, was a burden-bearer of the first order. How the state
ever got along without him before he was born is an unsolved
mystery. How the state has ever gotten along without him, since
he has passed away, is another unsolved mystery. Had Dingby
not kept himself so well hidden in the background, he would
have been a governor, or perhaps a president. Talk about being
a "servant of the people," Dingby was an abject slave of the
people. And Dingby is now forgotten! Why? Because good
servants are never remembered. But after they are gone— Oh,
how their useful, conscientious, and faithful service is missed!
Dr. Dingby had a little cubbyhole in the attic of his residence
in Columbus which he called his office. Mrs. Dingby, or one of
the girls, cleaned and dusted in there regularly, but only four times
a year. It was the good Dinghy's "thinking palace." For twenty
years, about half of all that was done for the welfare of the
great state of Ohio was initiated and planned right there in that
little cubbyhole. Ten governors had known Dingby personally,
and all of them brought their hardest problems to him for solu-
tion. All had accepted and followed his advice. Yet none of them
had requested him to accept any office save the one he held.
All of Dr. Dinghy's immediate superiors had been better
politicians than humanitarians. The honor of being appointed
director of State Charities was quite a worthy one. It was cer-
tainly a good position for the ambitious politician seeking higher
honors. During his terms of office, the director would become
acquainted with all the leading powers in every county in the
state. He would have an opportunity to address all the important
religious, civic, and welfare meetings. In charity's name, and at
charity's expense, he could ingratiate himself in the hearts of
all charitable citizens, the citizens who controlled the destinies


80
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
When Leonard awoke that night he found himself in Miss
Hannan's room, sitting on her knee, while she was drawing a
stocking onto one of his feet. Mrs. Price, the superintendent's
wife, was stooping over them. He shook his head and rubbed
his half-open eyes with his fists. Mrs. Price bathed his face with
a damp cloth.
"Are you awake, Leonard?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am." The boy glanced around the room. He felt as
though he had only been alseep a little while, and wanted to
stretch out again in his comfortable bed. Then Mrs. Price spoke
again.
"Dr. Dinghy's coming after you, Leonard. He's taking you
far away. You're going to have a new home. You must be a
good boy and remember to say your prayers and read your Bible
every night. If you're good, you'll be happy and grow up to be
a fine man."
Soon he was fully dressed and standing before them. Miss
Hannan grasped his hand.
"Good-by, Leonard. Be a good boy," she said. She had led
him out into the hall.
"Can't I say good-by to Clarence and the boys?" he inquired.
Clarence was his best "Home pal." He thought of Clarence
first, for they had such good times together, talking and playing.
"No, Leonard. It's way in the night. We can't wake the boys
up now. But I'll let you see them."
They entered the boys' bedroom and Miss Hannan turned on
one light. Leonard glanced at the sleeping youngsters and looked
hard at Clarence, his brown face resting on his arm.
"Good-by, Clarence. Good-by, boys," he said simply, and
Miss Hannan turned out the light.
Dr. Dingby and Mr. Price were sitting in the office down-
stairs when Mrs. Price brought him in to them. Dr. Dingby
looked at him and spoke. "A fine-looking boy, Price. A fine-
looking boy. No one would ever think it." Then, turning to
Leonard, he remarked, "Young man, we're going to take a little
train ride pretty soon. Think you will like to ride on the train?"


82
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
him. You won't let anything hurt him. Good-by, Leonard. Here
are some apples and there's a little Bible in the sack too. Read the
card inside your Bible and be a good boy."
She was kissing him again when the tall man grasped her
arm and Dr. Dingby took Leonard by the hand. And as Leonard
was led outside, she was weeping pitifully, and he heard the
tall man exclaim, "Don't be such a fool, Sis."
When he found himself awake again the train was running
fast and Dr. Dingby told him they would soon be in Columbus.
Day was breaking as they reached the city. The morning was
cold—a gray mist hung over the river—and the tall buildings
seemed to be floating along on the mist like ships. Everything
seemed so strange to the boy—the fat policeman at the station,
with the shiny rows of buttons on his overcoat and the funny-
shaped hat—the colored porters with red caps on their heads—
the lighted streetcars filled with men holding long dinner pails.
They entered one of these cars and had to stand up, and some
of the men who knew Dr. Dingby spoke to him, and, though
roughly dressed, talked very pleasantly.
Light was streaming from the front windows of a large house
before which they stopped and, as he unlatched the front gate,
the doctor said, "Here is where we stop and get a good breakfast,
young man."
Mrs. Dingby must have been looking for them, for she met
them at the door and kissed her husband. Then the greeting,
"Good morning, Father," seemed to echo from every corner,
from every room, even from every closet. The large house was
full of young men and women, eight or ten of them. They were
coming from all directions to greet the gray-bearded man they
called "Father." The doctor became happy and jovial—he talked
and laughed—all seemed to want to tell him something at the
same time, and Leonard, standing there unnoticed, looked on in
wide-eyed wonder.
When they were seated at the long table for breakfast, all
bowed their heads and Dr. Dingby prayed. Then they sang two
verses of a hymn and everyone repeated a verse from the Bible.
Leonard repeated his verse when the doctor nodded his head, and


IN THE RAILWAY COACH
83
they all smiled. Then everyone started to eat at once, and, though
it was very early, all seemed to be hungry. The hash, the large
heaping platter of buttered toast, the bacon and eggs, the jellies
and amber syrup, looked very good and tempting. It was a happy
family, and, had Leonard known that every one of these young
men and women who now called the doctor "Father" had, at
some time, been a little orphan boy or girl in some "Home," he
would have feared adoption no more.
In a few hours when Leonard was at the depot again, he was
a much changed little boy. His hair was neatly cut and parted in
the center. He was wearing a brand-new and expensive suit of
clothing, a new, heavy overcoat, new shoes, and a new round fur
cap. His old clothes and other belongings were tied in a neat
bundle which was wrapped in heavy, lavender-colored paper. He
had a new purse in his pocket in which was a dollar bill, one
silver dollar, and some smaller change. Some other money was
sealed in an envelope and placed inside the bundle, and Dr.
Dingby told him he mustn't lose any of his money and mustn't tell
anyone the money was inside the bundle, for if he did someone
might steal it.
Before the train for Cincinnati arrived the doctor put his
arm around the boy's shoulders and said, "Leonard, I want to
ask you an important question. Are your mother and father
living?"
"I don't know," the boy replied.
"Well," continued the doctor, "I am going to tell you about
them now, so you will always remember. Leonard, your mother
and father are dead. Both of them are dead. If anyone ever asks
you this question again, you tell them what I have told you—
that your mother and father are both dead. They are dead,
Leonard. Mothers and fathers who do not look after their children
are dead—always dead. So, if anyone ever asks you about yours,
always say, 'They are both dead.'"
When the train arrived the doctor led the boy inside the
coach, found a seat for him in the center of it, and told him he
was going a long way but not to be afraid. "The conductor will
look after you," he said, "and someone will meet you in Cin-


84
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
cinnati." Then, taking a tag from his pocket, he looped a string
on it through the buttonhole of the new overcoat. The tag read:
"This coat belongs to Leonard Hall, a nine-year-old orphan
colored boy, a ward of the Board of State Charities of the state
of Ohio. He is en route to Mr. Silas T. Harker, Brinkley, Blank
County, Kentucky. Any kindness shown him will be appreciated."
The doctor then bade him good-by.
The train rolled out of the station and out of the city.
Soon they were passing farmhouses and barns and snow-covered
fields. Flocks of white sheep were gathered around hay and
straw stacks, and chickens of all sizes and colors could be seen
clustered around the cribs, where ears of white and yellow corn
were peeping through the narrow slats. The train passed over
high trestles and bridges and Leonard was afraid and held tightly
to the arm of his seat. A lady passed by and smiled at him, then
stopped and read the tag on his overcoat. She seemed surprised
at what she read and called her husband.
"Why, he hasn't a single colored feature!" exclaimed the
husband.
A man sitting in the opposite seat heard them talking. He
rose and also read the tag. "Yes," he remarked, "that's possible
all right. I travel a lot down South and I've seen many of them
you can't tell from pure whites. I had a good friend down in
Virginia who was a doctor, and five years after he married a
Baltimore girl he discovered she had a dose of colored blood in
her. He was southern-born and left her right away."
"Did they have any children?" the lady inquired.
"Yes. They had two—fine-looking little chaps. He was ar-
ranging to provide for them but she skipped out one night with
both of them and he hasn't heard of them since."
"What a pity," said the lady. "What difference would a
little drop of blood make in a case like that? It sounds inhuman
to me."
"Yes, it's rather hard on the children, I guess. Those of us
who are born up this way can't understand their views about this
colored business. Expect if the truth were known, about a third
of the southern whites have colored blood in them anyhow.


IN THE RAILWAY COACH
85
They've been mingling down there nearly three centuries."
Just then another man walked by. He was a little, short, fat,
gray-haired man with a ruddy face. Noticing the tag, he also
read it.
"Oh, a little Sambo, eh?" he remarked. "Step out here in
the aisle, boy, and cut us a step or two." He began to pat time
with his hands, but Leonard, who had no idea what he was talk-
ing about, sat still.
"Can't you dance for us?" the chubby man inquired.
"No, sir," said Leonard. "I can't dance."
"Well, can you sing?"
"Yes, sir."
"Give us a song then."
Christmas was not long past, and the first song that popped
into Leonard's head was one the children at the Home had
learned and sung for Santa Claus. Without any hesitation what-
ever, his strong young voice rang out:
Hear the children laugh and sing;
Santa Claus comes today:
Oh, the presents he will bring;
Santa Claus comes today.
Hear the children laugh and sing;
While the merry echoes ring:
Waiting for the coming, coming King;
Santa Claus comes today.
Above the rumble of the train was heard the soft melody—
music as sweet as the tinkling of chiming bells. Papers were cast
aside and the whole car listened. When he sang the last verse:
Do you know his other name;
Santa Claus comes today:
Call him Love, it's just the same;
Santa Claus comes today.
Everyone in the car clapped their hands and soon a shower of
pennies and nickels descended on the child. He sang two other
songs for them, and then, feeling hungry, took one of the apples


86
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
from the sack and began to eat, and his admirers returned to their
seats.
It was dark when the train reached Cincinnati. The Reverend
Mr. Nogatt met him there. But all he remembered was that Mr.
Nogatt told him to look down and see the lights on the boats as
they were crossing the wide river, and, when they left the street-
car and entered a house, two ladies helped undress him imme-
diately, and he crawled into a soft bed and went to sleep.


88
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
in the waiting room. Young eyes and old eyes, male and female
eyes—eyes of all colors and glints—bore down on the boy like
so many gimlets, seeking to pierce his very soul. The tall and
the short, the mustached, bearded, and clean-shaven, all gathered
around him—a little boy—who happened to be dressed better
than any of their children had ever been dressed, and who was
better looking than any of their children.
All started talking at once. "What's yer name? Where yer
from? Where yer goin'?" Interrogation after interrogation—he
could not begin to answer anyone.
Then, someone saw the tag on his coat. A half-dozen hands
reached for it at once. Some noticed the small writing and drew
back. It would take a good Tuckertown reader to decipher that
scribbling! Well, here he was—Tod Mickle's boy—who had gone
off somewhere to school a term. Young Tod held the tag in his
hand and began to read:
"This coat belongs to Leonard Hall, a nine-year-old orphan
colored—colored—colored!—" Tod stopped reading and looked
in Leonard's face.
"Say, this says he's a nigger!"
"A nigger!" a dozen voices gasped together.
"Say, boy, you hain't a nigger, are you?" asked young Tod.
"No, sir," Leonard informed him.
"But this tag says you're a nigger. It says you're 'colored.'"
"Mebby he don't know he's a nigger," a tall, bearded man
remarked. "Did anybuddy ever call yer a nigger, boy?"
"No, sir," said Leonard.
"Thar's sumpin' gol-darned funny 'bout that then," another
young fellow said.
The reader continued: ". . . ward of the Board of State
Charities of the state of Ohio—"
"Oh, he's from Ohio. Them Yankees thar never told him he
war a nigger, I reckon," said another.
Others commented and finally the reader was able to con-
tinue:
"He is en route to Mr. Silas T. Harker, Brinkley, Blank
County—"


90
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
then quickly ran down to the end of the row of seats, laughing. All
the others joined in the laughter while Jake's head commenced
bobbing up and down, and his sharp, red tongue began twirling
a huge cud of tobacco from one cheek to another.
"Wal, I hain't talkin' 'bout th' winches, fellers. I'm talkin'
'bout th' buck niggers."
This explanation seemed to satisfy all his listeners, so no
one said anything else to embarrass him further.
Just then a shy little man, very pale and wearing a black
suit, stepped inside the door. All eyes were turned toward him
and he bowed. "Good morning, Brethren," was his salutation.
"Howdy, Brother Lasty," several voices echoed.
The little black-garbed man walked to the ticket window and
conversed awhile with the agent. Then, without noticing the
others in the room, he went to Leonard, sat down beside him,
and grasped his hand.
"How are you, little stranger?" he inquired.
The boy smiled, the first smile that had flitted across his face
since he had come to Tuckertown. "I'm all right," he said.
The little man asked his name, how old he was, could he read
and write, and other questions. He read the tag on the coat and
the others watched him closely, but the information it carried
seemed not to affect him in the least.
"You are going to a good home, Leonard," he told him. "I am
the pastor of Brother Harker's church. He is also a preacher.
If you're a good boy you'll be well taken care of. Are you a
Christian?"
"I don't know," Leonard replied.
"Well, do you ever read the Bible or go to Sunday school?"
"Yes, sir. I can read the Bible and repeat almost all the
Psalms by heart. I have a Bible in this sack. Elwood's mother
gave it to me when I left Bridgeville."
"Well, well, that's fine. Let's see your Bible."
Leonard brought the Bible from the sack and handed it to
him. It was a small volume, bound in scarlet morocco. The cor-
ners were worn and some of the leaves were wrinkled. The pastor
opened it and his eyes alighted on a small, square card on which


IN TUCKERTOWN
91
something was written. He noticed the words "Dear Leonard,"
and handed it to the boy.
"Can you read this?"
Leonard took the card and read slowly, "'Dear Leonard:
Please find in your Bible, and read, the twenty-fourth, twenty-
fifth, and twenty-sixth verses of the sixth chapter of Numbers,
and be a good boy.' " It was signed: "Elwood's mother."
"Have you read those verses yet?" Brother Lasty asked him.
"No, sir."
Then the boy opened the Bible, immediately found the verses,
and read aloud: "'The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord
make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the
Lord lift up the light of His countenance upon thee, and give
thee peace.'"
"You read fine, Leonard. You have read a great prayer. Was
Elwood's mother any kin to you?"
"No, sir."
"Was she your Sunday school teacher?"
"No, sir. She's just Elwood's mother. They live in a big
house on Condor Street."
The pastor arose and shook hands with another man who had
just come inside, then the two walked out together, and soon
Leonard was left alone.
He sat there a very long time. The ticket agent left and the
depot was deserted. He was lonesome and hungry and began to
wish he was at the Home again, looking into the friendly faces
of those he knew, and playing with the boys he had learned to
love. Soon tears were trickling down his cheeks and he found
his handkerchief and wiped them away.
By and by the ticket agent returned and another man was with
him. The latter was wearing a heavy pair of leather boots. As he
walked across the room, his heels, as they struck the floor, sounded
like hammers. He had a long, brown mustache, which turned
down straight at each end of his mouth. He was wearing a fur cap
and a heavy, greasy overcoat, which had in front of it a row of
the largest buttons Leonard had ever seen. He was of medium
height and his face was very red.


92
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
The two passed by the boy and said nothing. He watched them
as they entered the ticket office, and for a while there was much
loud talking and laughing and stamping and lumbering there
behind the wall. Then the door opened again and the mustached
individual stamped up to Leonard, abruptly picked up his bundle,
and said, "Come on, boy. You go with me."
Leonard followed him. Outside was a wagon, heavily loaded
with barrels, boxes, long, tightly filled sacks, and large tin cans.
A black and a bay horse were hitched to the wagon. The horses
were standing very still, their heads down low as though they
might have been sleeping. The man climbed into the wagon
with Leonard's bundle under his arm, and was soon perched high
on a spring seat.
"Gimb up, boy," he said.
Leonard struggled up the front wheel, then over the side
boards, and managed to reach the seat as the man pulled the
horses' reins and commanded, "You, Hawk! You, Crow! Git
up thar!"
The horses strained at the load—the wagon creaked—and
soon they were going away from the depot, out a little way on a
dirt road full of rocks, frozen clods, and deep ruts, and onto the
turnpike.
As they moved slowly down the rocky pike Leonard held
tightly to the seat. Up and down and to each side he bounced or
slipped. Sometimes he was thrown over close against the driver,
and the next second he would find himself hanging for dear life
to the end of the seat, expecting every minute to be shaken loose
and to fall to the ground, which seemed to be so far below.
Suddenly, when they had come to a level stretch in the road,
and the wagon was running smoothly, the driver introduced him-
self to Leonard by giving him a sharp punch in the ribs, exclaim-
ing as he did so, "Scrach-ch!" and quickly looking at him out
of the corner of his eye. Leonard hardly knew whether to cry
or laugh. He looked so frightened the driver guffawed.
"Har—har—har! Did I skeer you?"
The boy did not understand the meaning of the word "skeer,"
and made no reply.


IN TUCKERTOWN
93
"Can't yer talk? Cat got yer tongue? What name yer got?
What they call you?"
His voice was keen and rasping. Each word seemed to be fol-
lowed by a short hiss, which sounded as though he was sucking
his breath through his teeth.
"My name's Leonard Hall."
"You kin talk, kin't yer?" said the man, and he punched
Leonard in the ribs with his elbow and "scrach-ch'ed" at him
again.
By this time they had reached the foot of a steep hill. The
driver jumped from the wagon while it was yet moving, carrying
the reins with him. He talked to his team all the way up the hill,
encouraging them to go forward, and every few yards pulled them
sidewise and locked the wheels of the wagon so they could rest.
The hill was steep and long, but at last the summit was reached,
and the driver climbed back to his seat.
Immediately he punched Leonard in the ribs and scrach-
ch'ed at him again. "Ol ' Hawk an' Crow thar is the best team
in Blank County," he said. "Now who says they hain't? Nobody
does. They kin outpull any team that's ever been hitched. Now
who says they cain't?" He spat a long stream of tobacco juice
which went over the front of the wagon and landed on the ground
at the side of Hawk's forefoot. "I got some good team, hain't I,
boy?"
"Yes, sir," Leonard said quickly, although it was the first
time he had ever seen a team pull hard in his life.
They passed several farmhouses of different shapes and sizes.
The barns were all standing close beside the pike, and from the
pike a narrow road led to the double doors or open shed of
every barn. The driver "halloed" cheerfully to everyone he hap-
pened to see, whether the person was without a house or peering
through a window.
By and by they came to a crossroads, where there were three
houses and a long building standing close together. Hawk and
Crow left the road of their own accord, and stopped before the
long building. Soon a man came out and helped the driver un-
load nearly half of the things he had in the wagon. Then they


94
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
pulled away and traveled on, between the rows of rail or stone
fences, mile after mile, until they could see in the distance the
spire of the church and numerous houses which seemed to be
clustered around it. Leonard looked up into the driver's face,
and, as the expression he saw seemed to be a pleasant one, he
meekly inquired, "Is that the town I'm going to live in?"
"No. You hain't goin' to live in no town. That's Brinkley.
Yer goin' to live with Pap. You got to go three miles farther
down th' pike."
When they arrived at Brinkley the wagon was unloaded of
everything but two of the sacks and one leather mail pouch,
which was locked with a round brass padlock. Then they drove
on, and never stopped again till they came to a large, painted
house, standing within a grove of naked-limbed trees. The rear of
the house faced the pike. It stood on a little knoll, and a flat,
rock-wall fence extended for many yards below it. The horses
drew the wagon up close to the wall fence and stopped. The
driver "halloed" loudly. In a moment a little girl came bounding
out of the door and ran swiftly to them.
"Uncle Jute, is this him?" she asked.
"Yep. This is him. Git off, boy. Here's where yer goin'," he
said to Leonard.
By the time Leonard had crawled from the wagon a tall,
lanky, gray-haired woman appeared on the scene.
"Is this the little nigger?" she inquired.
"Yep, that's him, Maw."
Her eyes wandered from the feet of the boy until they reached
his face. "He's purty white fer a nigger, hain't he, Jute?"


CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In the Farmhouse
Colonel Ebenezer Blank, that hardy North Carolina back-
woodsman who led the fifth group of colonists through the moun-
tains of what is now eastern Kentucky, on into the rich bluegrass
regions of central Kentucky, had a wife who ruled him with a rod
of steel just as he ruled the men under him with a rod of iron.
He was a big giant of a man and she was only a wee little woman.
But her tongue was sharper than his sword or hunting knife, and
her tongue he obeyed. When she ordered him to give to her
troublesome nephew—the first Kentucky Harker—"a passel o'
lan' whar thar's a-plenty o' game an' water, so he kin hunt an'
fish the balance o' his days," he promptly looked about him for
this "passel o' lan'." Eventually he chose some several thousand
acres at the extreme edge of the bluegrass region. This area was
nothing at all except good "huntin' an' fishing lan'." It was too
rocky to plow; too hilly to farm; too rough to cultivate. It was
just what this first Kentucky Harker wanted.
Silas Thomas Harker, owner of some of that original "passel
o' lan'," and father of the generation of Harkers who lived in
Blank County during the early years of the present century, was
an only son. His father was killed by the kick of a wild colt he
was breaking, hardly six months after his wedding day. The
bereaved young wife, soon to become a mother, returned to her
New England home. There Silas was born, and there he lived
until, some five years later, his mother married George Vanalban,
a Pennsylvanian of old Dutch stock. His stepfather settled in
Bridgeville and prospered in his day, but when young Silas be-
came a man he returned to Kentucky, married a Kentucky girl,
and took possession of his inheritance.
His wife bore him eight children, then died of a fever, leav-
ing the youngest child a baby in the cradle. Silas soon married
again. His second wife was just a strip of a girl. Her family was


IN THE FARMHOUSE
97
Neither was he ever a successful politician. Once he was elected
judge of the county court and twice he was sent to the State
Legislature. But his name appeared on every ballot cast at a regular
election in his county during forty years. For some office he was a
constant candidate.
At the time of the coming of Leonard, Silas Harker had
passed his eightieth birthday, but was as active as any man of
sixty. Before he received the letter from Catherine he had no
positive knowledge of the child's existence. True, rumors had
been current, but, as all of them had been traced to Phil's wife,
who was noted for her long tongue and long letters—but not to
her husband's people—few of the family believed the rumors.
Least of all did Silas take any stock in them, for he had visited
his half-brother, knew Catherine, and loved her sincerely.
He burned her letter as soon as he read it, went to the barn,
saddled Ben, his favorite riding horse, and rode to the farthest
end of his farm. His mind was made up before he returned. He
would accept the charge. The boy would be reared as any white
Harker. He would receive the advantages his mother desired for
him. When he returned from his ride and entered the rear door
of his home, his wife was sitting in the armless rocking chair,
engaged in her favorite pastime, patching. He told her about the
letter and his decision.
"But hain't he a nigger, Silas?" she asked.
"Well, his father was that music master I told you about.
But what of that? Kitten says you can't tell him from any white
boy. They were married and he came here honest. I want him to
be raised as a white boy."
"Never! Silas, never! If that's the way you think about it, I
hain't goin' to have nothin' to do with him. How could I stan'
havin' him runnin' roun' here with Sybil an' me knowin' all the
time he's a nigger? If you take him an' keep him, you gotta keep
him as a nigger. I won't tell nobuddy he's Catherine's, but I
mean to tell ever'buddy he's a nigger an' I mean to make him
know he's a nigger, too. I jist can't do any diff'rent. It jist hain't
in me."


98
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"Oh, well then. Have it your own way, as usual. Anything to
keep peace. But I'm going to write and tell her to send him down
after Christmas."
The home of the Harkers was a house of parts as well as
rooms. The framework of the "old part" was the three-room log
cabin of that first Kentucky Harker. This part sat close to the
ground. The old logs were hidden from without by weather
boarding and from within by ceiling boards and fancy wallpaper.
But they were still there, and often harbored a stray rat or snake,
and, more than once, even a swarm of bees. Downstairs the three
rooms were now the parlor, library, and a spare bedroom called
"the preacher's room." The two rooms above this "old part"
were bedrooms also, in one of which Jay Harker slept when he
was at home.
The "middle part," built by a Harker of a later generation,
stood higher from the ground, and, downstairs, was the wide hall
which ran throughout the entire house. It was also the sitting
room, dining room, and the bedroom the master and his wife
occupied.
The "new part" had been added by Silas Harker. Below was
the large kitchen and pantry, Sybil's room, and a room next to it
called "Erne's room." Above was a part of the upstairs hall, one
bedroom, and a room in which all manner of old furniture and
bric-a-brac was stored. This was called the "junk room." The
house was so large a stranger might easily become lost in it.
It was Sybil who opened the door and said pleasantly, "Come
on in, Leonard, and get warm."
She was a girl of eleven years and greatly resembled her
mother. Her eyes were large and blue, her hair, which hung in a
long plait to her waist, was the color of ripe straw. Her cheeks
were pink—the kind of dim pink one notices on a full-blown
pink rose blossom when it is fading. Her small mouth seemed
to be constantly puckered until she smiled. Then the smile, and
the way she held her head, produced a coquettish expression that
made her look much older than she was. She was rather tall for
her age, and possessed a natural and charming grace which was


IN THE FARMHOUSE
101
The old lady exploded. "Why, Silas, you know he can't eat
with us. You know he's a nigger!"
The old man spoke bluntly. "He doesn't look like a nigger,
does he? Come here and sit down—here beside me. Get him a
plate and a glass, Sybil. I mean for this boy to be treated right.
He's to eat at this table and sleep in a decent bed. I mean it."
"He's mighty smart, Pap," said Sybil. "He kin read an' write
better'n me, and knows all about hist'ry and geography."
"Good blood, daughter. Good blood," repeated the old man,
and he laughed heartily.
The old lady again took her seat at the end of the table. Then
she threw her long arm across her eyes and burst out weeping.
"Tuh think I'd ever have tuh eat with a nigger," she wailed.
"Tut-tut, Judy. Don't be such a fool."
The old lady rose to her feet.
"I can't eat a bite—nere a bite," she whined and walked out
into the kitchen.
The old man helped Leonard's plate generously. In the
kitchen, the old lady could be heard sniffling, and, when Leonard
shyly looked into Silas Harker's face, he seemed to be able to
detect a smile lurking beneath the long, white beard.
When the meal was finished, Leonard and the old man went
into the sitting room and Sybil proceeded to clear the table. The
old man lit the swinging lamp above the center table and another
one which sat on a table in the corner near the fireplace. On the
center table were three unopened letters and several newspapers,
magazines, and books. The old man sat down in a large rocking
chair and the boy stood by the fire.
"Do you like to read, Leonard?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"That's fine. I like little boys who like to read." He motioned
toward the corner table. "There's your chair and table over there.
That corner belongs to you and Sybil. Now don't get to fighting
over it. Here's a paper."
Leonard sat down in the corner beside the table and began
to read. He found the children's page, and the story thereon


102
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
was interesting. He was so absorbed that, when Sybil entered,
and sat in the window seat on the opposite side of the table, he
did not know she was there. But soon the girl began to read loud
enough to be heard by all in the room and Leonard looked at her.
"How do you say this word, Leonard?" she asked and spelled
out a word.
The boy pronounced the word correctly and the old man
looked up and smiled at him. The old lady was sewing carpet
rags and gave no sign she had heard anything at all.
The children conversed in low tones. Leonard had left his
chair and was sitting beside her in the window seat. The old
lady looked up.
"Sybil, sit in that cheer," she commanded.
"Oh, Maw, we want to look at this together," the girl replied.
The tone of her voice emphasized the bitter protest of her heart.
"You do as I tell yer. It's not nice fer white girls to sit so
close to nigger boys. Git up from thar, I say!"
The old man spoke. "Now, Judy, what harm is there in these
children sitting there together. They're not bothering nobody."
The girl arose and sat in the chair but her little pink lips were
puckered much more than they were before.
The immediate silence that followed was broken by the
tramp of heavy feet on the floor of the back porch. The kitchen
door was opened. Someone entered and began rattling dishes in
the cupboard, and pans and pots in the oven and on the stove.
"That's Jay," Sybil said, looking at Leonard, but her mother
and father said nothing.
Presently a tall man entered the sitting room and sat down
on a straight-backed chair before the fire. He had a long mustache
—black, streaked with white—heavy eyebrows, and a mouth that
puckered a little like Sybil's. His face was very red, and a faint
odor of alcohol permeated the air in the room almost as soon as
he was seated. He was wearing a heavy overcoat, a fur cap, with
flaps hanging loosely over his ears, and large muddy leather boots.
He pulled his chair so close to the fire he was almost sitting in it,
and the mother told Sybil to get some more wood. He sat thus
for a while, then arose, turned around, and sat down again, this


IN THE FARMHOUSE
103
time straddling the chair with his back to the fire. Then, placing
an arm on the chair's back and laying his head on his arm, he
closed his eyes.
Ere long the children were conversing again. Leonard began
drawing articles from his trousers pockets and showing them to
Sybil. First, he brought out two glass marbles and told the girl
all about the game and how proficient he was at playing it. Then
he brought out his knife, and then his new pocketbook. Opening
the purse, the girl saw the paper money—the dollar bill, the
silver dollar, and the smaller change.
"Maw, look! He has a whole lot of money," she said.
"Put it back in yer pocket," the old lady replied sharply.
"Money's made to spen' and save, not to play with."
Jay Harker, the latest arrival, aroused and stretched.
"Go to bed, Jay. Git up an' go to bed. Git on up," the old
lady repeated.
"Ah, dammit, shut up an' lemme alone." The drawling words
fell out—his lips hardly moved at all—his tongue seemed to roll
from one side of his mouth to the other.
The old man threw the paper he was reading on the table
and looked hard at his son. "Jay," he said, "haven't I forbidden
you to use such language in this house? If you're going to talk
like that, you get out of here and stay out. I mean it."
"Ah, shut up," the intoxicated man repeated.
Then Silas Harker brought forth from the shelf beneath the
table the large family Bible. Opening it, he read one of the shorter
Psalms. At the conclusion of his reading, all turned and knelt by
their chairs—even Jay—and the patriarch prayed. He prayed for
the world—for the nation—the state, county, and community.
He prayed for the churches and schools. He prayed for the in-
mates of penitentiaries, jails, and asylums. He prayed for the sick
and afflicted—the needy—and all "distressed in body and mind."
He prayed for his children—those present and those absent. He
prayed for his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren. He
mentioned Jay by name, requesting his God to "make him see
the error of his ways before it is eternally too late." Then he
prayed for the little "stranger within our gates." It was a fervent


104
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
prayer, and, somehow or other, though he knew not why, the
boy who heard it there on his knees felt much better when he
arose.
"Where's he going to sleep at?" the old man asked his wife.
"Up in th' junk room, Pap. I've fixed his bed up thar."
"No, he hain't either. He'll ketch his death o' cold. Put him
in Effie's room."
"But Effie'll be mad as a wet hen if she comes an' finds him
in thar. She'll niver sleep in her bed ag'in after that."
"Then she can sleep in the junk room," said the old man.
And there was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked at Leonard.
"Come here, boy," he said. "I'll show you where you'll sleep."
He led him through the door that opened from the dining
room. The old lady followed them. As she lit the lamp which
was sitting on an old-fashioned maplewood bureau, she ex-
claimed, "Well, I'll have to take all o' Effie's nice quilts off th'
bed. He can't sleep under them. Go and git yer ol' clo'es to put
on tomorrer. I hain't goin' to have yer 'roun' here dressed up all
the time."
Soon Leonard was sound asleep. When he awoke, day was
breaking and the odor of frying ham was in his nostrils. Someone
was calling his name. He jumped out of bed and drew on his old
trousers. Then, remembering his knife, marbles, and his new
purse full of money, he felt for his possessions in the pockets of
the trousers he wore the day before. He found the marbles and
knife but the purse was gone. He called, "Sybil! Sybil!"
Quick steps were heard and the old lady stood in the door-
way.
"You say 'Miss Sybil,' you—you— Say 'Miss Sybil.' Don't
let me ever hear yer say 'Sybil' ag'in. Now what do yer want?"
"I can't find my pocketbook," he replied meekly.
"Well, I told yer las' night money wern't made to play with.
Giss it's plum' gone now. Come on in here an' wash yer face."
While pouring the water into the basin he looked out of the
pantry window and saw Jay Harker mount his horse and ride
slowly away up the turnpike.


CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the Kitchen
Leonard discovered where he was when, the next evening, he
found the maps of Ohio and Kentucky in Sybil's geography book.
He located Bridgeville and Blank County on them, and even little
Brinkley, only three miles away. This discovery prompted him
to call Sybil, and, leaning over the geography book together, they
traced the route he had traveled. A red line on the map repre-
sented the railroad. With the end of a slate pencil, they traced
this line from Bridgeville to Columbus—then on to Cincinnati—
then on to Tuckertown. But there was no red line from Tucker-
town to Brinkley, neither was there a red line in all of Blank
County. The post offices in Blank County were designated by
little black dots. Sybil found Blankton, and told him that was the
county seat where the courthouse and the jail were.
"Pap goes there every court day," she told him. "He has to
leave Sunday afternoon so he'll be there early Monday morning.
And, oh, Leonard, lookee! Here's Pigeon, where Pap held a
'tracted meetin'' last winter—and lookee! here's Pigeon River
runnin' right through Blank County." She placed her pencil on
the crooked, zigzagged black line that was named in the book
Pigeon River.
"I bet our house is right here," she said.
"Our house isn't on a river," Leonard reminded her.
"Well, it's almost on one. Pigeon River is just down below
our sugar camp."
As Leonard had not explored any, he said no more. He was
wondering, too, what a sugar camp was. He would not ask Sybil
to tell him because, being very ignorant of rural terms and things,
and having already been embarrassed several times on account
of his ignorance, he feared the girl's laughter, and the remark
she was sure to make to her mother: "Maw—maw, he don't even
know what a sugar camp is!"


106
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
All day, Leonard had been on exhibition. He had hardly
eaten breakfast before members of the Harker tribe began to
appear, singly and in bunches. The schoolteacher, who was a
grandchild, came first. When Sybil—who was her aunt, though
many years her junior—told her how far Leonard had advanced
in his studies she replied, "That's because they have good schools
in Ohio, Syb, and the white and nigger children all go together.
I had a roommate in the seminary from Ohio. She told me all the
little niggers were smart and sharp as tacks, but they'd get dumb
and couldn't learn nothing when they got older. You'll soon
catch up with him. I'd hate to have to teach any little niggers.
Hope Grandpap don't ask me to give him his lessons."
Leonard had been listening to this conversation, but with
little concern. He was much more interested in the children as
they arrived. Most of them called their teacher Cousin Lillian
although one little boy and girl called her Miss Jones. All carried
round tin buckets containing their lunches. Some larger ones, who
had smaller sisters and brothers, carried in one pail or basket the
lunch for the entire family. The little and big boys were dressed
alike. All wore boots, jeans pants and coats, and shirts or waists
of striped material. The girls wore high-topped shoes, knitted
yarn caps or fascinators on or over their heads, and short or long
shawls. All had mittens of yarn which were either red and white,
red and blue, or blue and black. They all stared at Leonard as
though he might have been a freak, or some gnome, fairy, or
ogre who had jumped right out of their story books.
The last to arrive before school time was a large and very
pretty girl called Pearl.
"Hello, all of you," she said as she breezed into the room.
"Is Syb ready yet?" Then, as the old lady joined them, she sud-
denly exclaimed, "Gran'ma, my calf has a pretty little heifer calf.
It's the prettiest little thing, Gran'ma, you ever laid eyes on. Just
came last night. Pa is givin' it to me and I've named it Pearl, after
me. Stop the first time you go to town an' see it."
"It's a heifer, is it?" The old lady looked at the talkative
granddaughter and smiled. "Giss that'll be yer cow to go house-
keepin' on, Pearl."


IN THE KITCHEN
107
"Oh no, Gran'ma. It'll have to git big an' have a calf and the
calf will have to have a calf 'fore I do any housekeepin'. I'm
goin' off to school next year if Pa's terbaccer does any good. He
told me so t’other day. He's goin' to put out ten acres next year
an' I promised to make a good han' fer him. I want to be a
teacher like Cousin Lillian.”
All during the conversation she had been casting sharp glances
at Leonard. "Gran'ma, why didn't Gran' pap git a sure anuff little
nigger if he had to have one? This un is pure white as we are.
He's lots whiter than Uncle Phil's two oldest childern. I ain't
seen—"
"Say 'I haven't seen,' Pearl,” Cousin Lillian admonished. “I
wish I could stop you children sayin' 'hain't.'”
"Well then,” Pearl continued, "I haven't seen Uncle Phil's
youngest childern yet. Hope they're not as dark as the oldest.”
"They can't be very white, yer know,” said her grandmother.
"Look how dark their mother is. They say she's Irish, but I
dunno. I've heerd o' black Dutch but I never heerd o' black Irish.
I know one thing. She's got an awful long tongue.”
"Yes. Look at them lies she writ down 'bout Cousin Catherine.
Maw told me 'bout them. Cousin Catherine used to send me the
prettiest things when I was little. I always wanted to go an' see
her.”
"Mebbe you kin if that terbaccer turns out well, Pearl. She's
got a growin' fam'ly o’ her own now, an' they say she hain't well
a bit. Poor gal. I hain't never seen her, but yer gran pap says she's
awful pretty an' nice. He allwuz was a plum' fool over her.”
Pearl was still interested in Leonard. “What did Gran' pap
want to git a little nigger fer anyhow, Gran'maw?"
"Wal, we thought a little nigger boy would do more work an'
stay with us longer, I rickin. You see th' last two boys we had
run away 'bout th’ time they got big anuff to be some 'count. I
think this little nigger will 'preciate a good home better."
Leonard's head was in a whirl when the children and their
teacher departed. He wanted to ask a thousand questions but was
afraid to address any of them to the old lady. The old man was
out on the farm. He had not seen him that morning. In a little


110
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
for Leonard was peeping at the face of the grandfather dock and
watching the slow-moving hands. After each prayer, all said
"Amen" together. The old man prayed last—a long prayer full
of feeling—and when the "praying time" was over, Leonard
could think of nothing else in the world left to pray for. That
evening at "praying time," the one prayer was a short one and
no scripture was read at all.
At the breakfast table the next morning, the old man in-
formed them he was going away for three or four days. It seemed
that his decisions to go "scoutin' aroun'," as the old lady called
his numerous trips, were not made suddenly. But their announce-
ments were always made of a sudden. No one knew one day
whether he would be home the next or not. Even when he was
going away to hold a "protracted meeting"—as revivals were
called at that time in his country—often everyone would know
he was to be the revival preacher before his own intimate family
would know it. He always had plenty of irons in the fire. Preacher,
lawyer, politician, stock-buyer, real estate dabbler, farmer, and
whatnot else, his numerous professions, jobs, and enterprises kept
him away from home most of the time. And he was never in a
hurry to return. He dearly loved to visit. Those he visited were
glad to receive him. His reminiscences, tales, anecdotes, jokes,
and words of advice and wisdom would interest old and young
alike. So wherever he went, he was received with open arms.
"Wal, I'll git Cindy an' John to stay nights with us," said
the old lady. "These winter nights is too long fer us to be by
ourselves so much. Seems to me like changin' beds so much this
time o' year would mos' nigh kill yer. I'm sure I couldn't stan'
sich goin's on."
The old man laughed. "How you know, Judy, but what I get
better beds away from home than I do at home?"
"Wal, mebbe you do. You sure like to sleep in them. I know
that."
He called Leonard to go to the barn with him to help hitch
Ben to the buggy. "You're large enough to hitch up a horse and
drive to Blankton by yourself," he told him. "I'm going to have
I


IN THE KITCHEN
111
to make a country boy out of you. Guess we might as well start
now."
When they reached the barn he showed Leonard how to
bridle Ben and also how any horse was hitched to a buggy. After
he had gotten inside, and the bearskin was tucked snugly around
his feet, and the many laprobes and the buffalo robe were drawn up
over his legs, he said to the boy, "Now you be good and mind
Mrs. Harker while I'm gone. Don't be impudent or sass her any.
Read all the books and papers you want to. I'll be back by the
end of the week."
He waved farewell as he clicked to Ben and drove away.
The moment Leonard entered the house again the old lady
met him with the command to "go up an' bring them two sacks o'
rags behin' th' door in th' junk room an' be quick about it. I'm
goin' to give yer somethin' ter do terday to keep yer nose outta
books an' papers. Yer know too much now fer yer own good.
Hurry an' git 'em."
In a few moments he returned with the two large meal sacks
full of rags.
"Now you sit down here an' take these scissors and cut 'em
up, just like this."
She showed him how to take the rags and cut them into long
strips about an inch and a half wide. Later they were to be sewed
together to be dyed and woven into carpets. Under the watchful
eye of Mrs. Harker, he cut rags from early morning until noon,
and after dinner was told to get back to his job. By night his
fingers were blistered and his hands were cramped. Sybil returned
from school jolly and hungry, but he could not talk to her. His
tongue was thick and a lump was in his throat. One of the largest
blisters on his right forefinger had burst. When he stuck it in his
mouth the pain caused him to burst out weeping.
The old lady looked at him. "What are yer snifflin' 'bout?"
she asked him.
"My finger hurts," he replied piteously.
"You stop that racket er somethin' else will be hurtin' yer
worsen yer finger."


112
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
The boy dried his eyes and Sybil came and sat beside him.
"Let me see it, Leonard. Oh, Maw," she said. "He's broke a
blister on his finger and it's all red."
The girl brought a box of salve from the mantel shelf and
anointed the sore.
"Git away from him," the old lady commanded. "You go ter
pityin' him an' he'll never be no 'count. Put them scissors up an'
be sure yer know whar yer puts 'em. Yer'll need 'em termorrer.
An' yer gotta be pearter tomorrer then yer've been terday or yer'll
git a good tannin'. I hain't got no use fer lazy niggers. Hain't got
much use fer no kind. Come in here an' git yer supper."
He sat at the kitchen table that night and the old lady "helped"
his rusty pie pan. She gave him hardly half enough, but he was
afraid to ask for more. Before he finished eating, Cindy and
John arrived. Cindy was the old lady's eldest daughter. Of medium
height and rather stout, her face round and full, she might have
been good looking once upon a time, but now she was ugly. If
an artist could paint the face of that fiend, Disappointment,
the face painted would be a replica of Cindy's. For all her
life she had wanted that which she could not get. When a young
miss, she wanted to be popular. But she was not popular. Then
she wanted a certain young man for a husband. She fooled him
and forced him to marry her, but he divorced her in less than a
year. Then she sought riches. She went to the city and worked as
a milliner, and in ten years saved two thousand dollars. She
invested her money and it grew. Then the panic of '93 came and
she lost every dime. Then she married John, who she thought
would inherit his father's extensive land holdings and fine stock.
But when the old man died, his debts ate up everything he had
possessed. She had wanted children—at least one baby—but now
she was getting old and no baby had come.
Disappointment had made her ugly and mean. Her tongue
was sharp, her mouth was twisted, her graying hair was thin.
She entered the kitchen where Leonard was sitting at the
table.
"So you're the little nigger, are you?" The boy turned his
head and looked at her.


IN THE KITCHEN
113
"Say something. Can't you talk? Don't look at me like that!"
She advanced as though to strike him.
Then she returned to the dining room and Leonard heard her
words. "A little nigger! Umph! Don't see how you ever 'greed to
stand for it, Maw. Pap bringin' that little nigger here for you to
wait on, like as though you hain't got enough to do already.
It's a sin an' shame. Hardly any white child ever paid for its
raisin', and I know no nigger ever will. Why didn't he git one of
the grandchildren to live with him if he had to have a boy? It's
a shame an' a disgrace! I'm goin' to give him a piece of my mind
when I see him. Ever'thing that little nigger in there's gittin'
the grandchildren ought to git, an' Lord knows some of them
need it. Look at Ed's children and Tom's ten. I jist wouldn't stand
for it, if I was you. Let him send him back where he got him
from."
Leonard wished in his heart they would do so. He got down
from the table and slipped through the dining room into the
sitting room. It was dark in there, the fire was low, and he was
glad of it. They would not be able to see his frowning little face
or the tears in his eyes.
Sybil got up and began clearing the table and John came into
the sitting room. He filled his cob pipe and picked up a live coal
with his bare fingers and laid it on top of the tobacco, and
Leonard watched the live coal as it became redder with each in-
halation. He heard the water being poured from the teakettle
into the dishpan and the rattle of dishes. Then he heard them
talking in lower tones.
Suddenly the old lady called, "You come here, Leonard."
When he entered the kitchen the old lady tied an apron
around his neck. It hung to his feet and she drew it up and pinned
it around his waist.
"You'll have to make him a couple 'specially for dishwashin',
Maw," said Cindy. "Make 'em so they'll have holes for his arms."
The old lady dipped her hand into a crock and brought it out
again with some soft lye soap on her fingers. Then she stirred the
water with the soapy fingers until the suds foamed on top of it.
"Come on an' git busy," she commanded.


114
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Leonard walked to the pan. It was sitting on the stove and he
could not reach it.
"Git th' footstool fer him to stan' on, Sybil."
The girl returned with the footstool. Leonard stood upon it
and dipped his hand into the soapy water. He had forgotten the
sore finger. The instant pain almost took his breath.
"Oh, my finger!" he wailed.
Quick as a flash Cindy grabbed both his hands and held them
under the water. It was hot—the pain was intense and he strug-
gled violently.
"You won't wash 'em, will you? You won't—will you?" She
struck him hard on the side of the face with her clenched fist. The
sharp blow knocked him from the stool to the floor. Jerking him
up, she pulled him across her knee and her blows descended upon
his bottom as hard and fast as she could lay them on. The boy
screamed in pain, then grew faint and sick at the stomach and
was soon vomiting on his persecutor and the floor. She flung him
aside in disgust.
The old lady mixed some salt in water and made him drink
it. Sybil flew to the sitting room. Cindy went to the pantry and,
returning with the scrub bucket and some rags, said, "You clean
up that mess. I'll wash 'em tonight, but you've got to wipe 'em.
Mebbe that spankin' '11 do you some good. It's jist what you
needed, you little nigger."
The next day he started washing dishes regularly, and Cath-
erine's child became the boy slave of the Harker womenfolk.


CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In the Woodshed
The front half of the woodshed was built of hewn logs. This
part of it had once been the smokehouse. Looped over the old
rafters were still some sharp, forked sticks upon which many a
juicy smoked ham, jowl, or side of bacon had hung in days gone
by. Inside, the cracks between the logs were boarded over with
thin planks of many widths and lengths. Outside, they were filled
with white "dobbing," a mixture of lime and sand.
The back part of the woodshed was built of inch boards
nailed onto uprights. These uprights were set two feet apart.
Inside, some rough boards were nailed to them a distance of
approximately three feet from the floor. This had been done so
the heavy ricks of wood could not press against the siding and
push it off.
These holes in the woodshed between the siding and the
rough boards became Leonard's trunk, his bank, his pantry, his
library, his archives, his museum—yes, and even his wine cellar.
Here he placed everything he cherished, everything he wished
to hide and protect. In one of the holes, wrapped neatly in a
piece of newspaper, were two handkerchiefs—badly worn but
dearly loved. One was the prize he had won at the Presbyterian
Sunday school in Bridgeville, for memorizing and repeating more
of the Psalms than any scholar in his class. The other had been
given him by Elwood's mother one afternoon in the cellar. She
had dried her tears with that handkerchief that afternoon, and
then had used it to wipe from his hands the dirt from the school-
house yard and the juice from the apple he had just eaten, so he
wouldn't soil the fine dress she was wearing when he sat in her
lap and put his arms around her neck.
In another of the holes he kept what little money he could
call his own. Sometimes it was only a penny, but often it was as
much as a dollar or two. He had learned early to hide his money,.


116
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
for Mr. Jay had a knack of searching his pockets while he was
asleep, and many a time he had missed his money just as he had
missed it and his new pocketbook, too, the first night he slept
under the Harker roof.
When the old man was away and he was forced to eat at the
kitchen table—which was more than half the time—he was certain
to get not enough food to fill his stomach. He got just what the
old lady believed, and said, was enough. If she happened to be
in a bad humor—which she usually was—her "enough" was very
little indeed. But he did most of the kitchen work and had free
access to the cupboard and pantry. Into a hole in the woodshed
went the food he loved best, preserves and honey in jars, sweet-
cakes and gingerbread. And his conscience never accused him of
being a thief.
In his library hole he had preserved an assortment of liter--
ature, the like of which could not have been duplicated in any
other library on the face of the earth. Almanacs and religious
tracts, patent medicine circulars and pieces of hymnbooks, old
Cincinnati Enquirers and Pentecostal Heralds, storybooks and
worn-out books of essays, grammars, and orations, a part of a
huge dictionary, which began at the E's and ended at the Ws,
any piece of paper on which was printed a sentence that inter-
ested him was sure to be deposited in his library and cherished as
the purest gold.
In another hole he kept anything he discovered that was made
of iron or steel. Pieces of old clocks, little cog wheels from corn
cutters and old wheat fans, wires and spikes and bolts and nuts.
He would have big times tinkering with these when left at home
by himself.
His wine cellar was used only once. One day he filled a bottle
with cider and put it away. In a week or two the grapes were ripe
and he gathered a bucketful of them, slipped to the haymow, and
pressed out their juice into another bottle. Then, some time after-
ward, when everyone was gone, he brought forth the two bottles
and sampled their contents. He sampled too much, got dizzy and
sick, and a long, long time afterward—when he was able to walk
straight again—he took the two bottles out to the nearest tobacco


IN THE WOODSHED
117
field and buried them. His wine cellar was empty from that
day on.
Leonard learned many things in that woodshed; many things a
boy should know and also many things a boy should not know.
There were three windows in the little building, one at the back
and one at each side. Through one of the side windows he could
see the nearby open fields and the ten acres of tobacco Pearl's
father was cultivating that year.
It was cutting time, a warm day in early fall, and Pearl and
her father and an older brother and the hired man were working
in the field together. The hired man was young and handsome
Jim Rucker. The Harkers called the Ruckers "poor trash," and
said they were lower down than niggers. Leonard, peering through
the window, saw Pearl's father and brother cutting down the
plants with the long-handled knives. Behind them walked Pearl
and the hired man. They would pick up the fallen plants, slip
them on sticks, and lay several of the filled sticks together in a
pile. Then, after a while, the father brought the team and wagon
to the field, drove from pile to pile, loaded the wagon, and father
and son drove away over the hill to the tobacco barn.
After they were gone the hired man and Pearl kept getting
closer and closer together. Then Leonard saw him grab her and
try to kiss her, and she struck at him playfully. But the next
time he grabbed her, she stood very still and his face was pressed
against hers a long time. Then they sat down on the ground be-
tween the uncut plants and Leonard could not see them.
That winter, after the tobacco was stripped, Pearl's father
hauled it to the Cincinnati market and it sold well. But Pearl
never went away to school. She and Jim Rucker ran away and got
married, and all the Harkers talked very badly about them. But
Jim took her across the "bluegrass" to the edge of the mountains
in eastern Kentucky, rented a little farm, and started raising
tobacco in that community—something that had not been at-
tempted before. He was very successful. In three years he owned
his farm and dressed Pearl and their two babies better than the
Harkers dressed their wives and children, and he was very good
to them. So Pearl's folks began to speak to her and Jim again—


118
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
her father let her have her calf, which was now a cow, and her
brothers even condescended to borrow some money from Jim.
During these years of his childhood and early adolescence,
Leonard lived in three distinct worlds. Grcumstances were con-
stantly forcing him out of the one into the other. He did not
understand why these worlds existed but he knew they were real.
He could see their beauty or ugliness; he could feel their joys
and sorrows. Then he did not realize that the time would quickly
and surely come when his tortured and roaming soul would seek
a harbor in the world he loved the best, would seek, but perhaps
would never find it. For circumstances are not shadows. They are
often mountains too steep to climb—they are often deserts too
wide to cross—and sometimes they are pits concealed among
flowers blooming in fertile valleys.
Most of the time he lived in the "nigger boy's" world. Here
he was undernourished, overworked, and persecuted from early
morning until late at night. The center of this world was the
Harker kitchen. The vixen who controlled its destinies had a
headful of religion and a heartful of hell. She was able to pray
to her God and shed tears of penitence one minute and apply
a rod to the naked flesh of a helpless child, and laugh in ghoulish
glee the minute following.
Her married daughters were chips off the old block. Some
of them visited her every day, and usually they brought with
them their babies or young nephews or nieces. Leonard was com-
manded, and expected, to nurse and entertain these young aristo-
crats, all of whom had been taught from tiny babyhood that he
was a nigger boy, and so it was his bounden duty to sacrifice any-
thing he possessed for their comfort and pleasure.
When the old man was home, especially for a week or so, he
was suddenly transported into the "white boy's" world. This was
a world of peace in which he felt very much at home. In this
world he could live with the great characters he met in the story
and history books he read. In this world he was not tormented
or called names. The work was pleasant work. With the old man
looking on, he would plow the small garden and roasting ear
patch, help cut and shock the acre of fancy seed wheat, salt the


IN THE WOODSHED
121
an hour, waiting for her call. Mother and son walked to the
porch, and Lee Jackson sat down on the steps. He was a well-
built boy, a year older than Leonard. His tanned face was not
ugly, but his gray eyes were expressionless, and the Harker curl
of the lip seemed to be nearer the end of his mouth than the
center. He sat there for only a moment, then he got up.
"Whut's th' nigger doin', Gran'maw?" he asked.
"Gittin' in his kindlin', I rickin."
The boy darted away.
"Now don't yer go botherin' after 'im, Lee Jackson," Mary
Lou interposed. But the boy was out of sight in an instant.
In a moment a shadow darkened the woodshed, and Leonard
looked up into the sneering face of Lee Jackson. The interruption
was ill-timed. Leonard was hurrying to finish the kindling because
he had a new book called Conquering the Wilderness in his library,
and he wanted to read some of it before being called into the
house to perform the evening chores. Besides, the weather was
warm, and little beads of perspiration were standing on his fore-
head. The very sight of Lee Jackson, fresh and cool from the
swimming hole—where he never got to go except clandestinely—
was enough to irritate him. He knew, too, just about the very
words Lee Jackson would utter. Of all those who insulted him,
and who were near his own age, Lee Jackson was the most hated
because he was simply the most insulting. A frown spread over
Leonard's face. His visitor leered at him and a foolish cackle
escaped his mouth.
"He-ee-ee! Yere workin' hard, hain't ye, nigger?"
Leonard dropped his ax and advanced slowly. Suddenly,
within him, a fountain of hot resentment began to bubble and
boil. Suddenly he began to associate that contemptible appellation
with all the mental and physical anguish he was compelled to
suffer. He saw, entering his own private world, a deadly enemy
and one that must be crushed instantly. He clenched his fists
and looked squarely into Lee Jackson's eyes. "Don't you ever call
me that name again," he said boldly. His voice sounded strange
even to himself. For the first time since coming to Kentucky he
had given a white boy a command.


122
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Lee Jackson never moved. The sneer grew broader and the
grin longer. "Whut air ye but a nigger? Nigger—nigger—
nigger," he taunted.
Leonard raised his arm and his hard fist descended squarely
on Lee Jackson's nose. His victim swayed a moment, then dropped
to the ground letting out of his throat as he fell a sound resem-
bling the bellow of a wounded bull. Leonard saw the crimson
stream, the result of his blow, and the slumbering savage within
him awoke and took full possession. He dropped to his knees,
and both fists descended again and again on the face of the
prostrate Lee Jackson.
Leonard was wild with rage when the mother and grand-
mother pulled him off his victim and almost dragged him into
the house. The old lady started to tear the clothes off his body, at
the same time yelling to her daughter to go out and cut her some
limbs. Soon he was standing before the three of them, stark naked,
realizing he was about to receive the beating of his life.
But it was not to be. The moment he felt the first sharp sting
of the limb, he jumped onto the old lady with the fury of a
wildcat, wrapped his supple legs around her body, and sank his
teeth into her arm. She screamed and fainted. Mary Lou grabbed
for him, but he knocked her down, then bolted out of the door
and ran as fast as he could until he reached the river. Jumping in,
he swam to a little island a few yards from the bank and sat
down there among the willows.
It was after dark when the old man came home and called
him. He answered the call, and together they walked up the rocky
lane through the sugar camp to the house. He told his story and
Silas Harker was very angry. When they reached the house, and
Leonard had put on some clothes, he called the family into the
sitting room.
"This boy is to be beaten no more," he said. "No one on this
place is to call him 'nigger' again. I mean this. I'm going to
send him away to school just as soon as I can find one to send
him to. I'm boss here yet, and those who don't mean to treat him
right had best stay out of my house."


IN THE WOODSHED
123
That night Leonard requested permission to move his bed
from Effie's room to the junk room.
"Yes. Get out o' there," said the old lady. "I wish ye'd move
ter Africa. I don't want ter ever see yer face ag'in."
He was never whipped after that but his back remained
covered with scars. And at least one of the Harker grandchildren
never again let the word "nigger" escape his lips in Leonard's
presence. That one was Lee Jackson Whiteley.


IN THE JUNK ROOM
125
sion of that which he desired, just as the day before he had
defended himself from Lee Jackson's insults.
The following Saturday and Sunday were "meeting days" and
there were to be services in the church—the old man was at home.
Sunday night, after church, he visited Leonard's room.
"How do you like it here?" he inquired. "It's too warm,
isn't it?"
"No, sir," the boy replied. "I like it fine. I get plenty of air.
It's just right."
They talked a while and then the old man said abruptly,
"Leonard, I've got to take you to school tomorrow. I saw Johnson
last week. He's the Committeeman for the colored school. The
law now is that all children have to go to school at least two
months during the term. Passed that law last session of the Legis-
lature. We must always obey the law. I told Johnson you knew
more than his teacher knows—told him you read everything
you can get your hands on and that Sybil helped you with what
she had. You are better educated right now than Sybil is, and
she'll graduate next spring. I should have had you in some school,
though, during the past five years. Haven't treated you right
about that. But where could I have sent you? No good colored
school around here and the whites wouldn't let you in the door.
But get up early in the morning and do your work. It'll take an
hour or so to drive there."
They arose very early the next morning and Sybil prepared
Leonard's lunch. "I'm fixing your pail just like mine, Leonard,"
she told him. "I'd certainly like to see you in school with all those
little darkies. Bet you'll know more than the teacher. Wish I
could go with you just to see. Pap, can't I go with him some time
to visit? Some Friday?"
"Yes, Sure, if he'll let you." Then the old man turned to
Leonard and his eyes twinkled as they did so often when he had
something on his mind he wasn't going to talk about, and he
continued, "Ask him when he comes back tonight if he wants
you to visit him in school."
After breakfast he put on his second-best suit, his polished
shoes, and new straw hat, hitched Ben to the buggy, and, with


126
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
the old man by his side, drove away. The colored school sat on
the pike two miles from Brinkley, in the midst of a grove of
hardwoods. It was a little one-room frame building which had
had a coat of red paint on it when it was erected, but was now
very dingy. Leonard had passed it every time he had gone to
Tuckertown, but that had not been often. He could not remember
that he had ever seen it while school was going on. In Blank
County the school term was divided. The rural schools were open
during July and August, before "tobacco-cutting time," and dur-
ing December, January, and February before "tobacco-setting
time." Literally and in toto, the education of all Blank County's
farm children depended on the tobacco patches.
The colored people of the community were few and scattered.
Most of the families were tenant farmers who existed on some
rocky farms their owners had abandoned. But there were two
settlements of them; an island of some two hundred acres in
Pigeon River, called "Little Cuba," and the other, a settlement
of a half-dozen small farms which the whites called "Nigger-
ville." The school was approximately three miles distant from
each of these settlements.
After tying Ben to a sapling and covering him with a sheet
to protect him from the flies, Leonard followed the old man to
the schoolhouse door. The teacher admitted them, bowed, and
said humbly, "Good morning, Mr. Harker," then stood respect-
fully silent, expecting the old man to place his charge under her
care and depart. But the old fellow had no such intentions. He
glanced about the little room, and, seeing the stove in the center
and a bench turned sidewise facing it, he walked by the embar-
rassed teacher and seated himself before the stove.
From nine until twelve, and again from twelve-thirty until
three, not once did Silas Harker leave his seat beside the stove.
The teacher did the best she could. She was a pretty young girl,
a "high brown," with a mass of wavy hair that extended to her
shoulders. But when she read a chapter from the Bible and mis-
pronounced many simple words, and, after the Lord's Prayer was
repeated, the old man called her to him and asked her to allow
Leonard to read for her the same chapter she had just read. She


IN THE JUNK ROOM
127
consented. The pupils—there were ten of them—gawked at the
boy with wide-open mouths as he read aloud slowly and distinctly.
When he had finished, the teacher gave him some arithmetic
problems to do. He solved these rapidly and correctly and she
never bothered him any more during the day. When she dis-
missed school in the afternoon she told the old man his ward was
too far advanced for common school and recommended that he
be sent to the nearest high school for colored, which she said
was in Lexington.
"All right," the old man said, "but you tell Johnson when
you see him that I brought him here and obeyed the law. I knew
you couldn't teach him anything but I wanted to prove it to
Johnson."
"Mr. Johnson won't bother you about it any more," she
replied.
They arrived home and Sybil met them as they drove into
the barn.
"How'd you like it, Leonard?" she asked.
"Not much, and I'm not going back. She said I ought to go
to high school in Lexington. I'm not going to any colored school.
I don't belong to them and I'm not going to them."
The old man, who had heard these remarks, said nothing.
But that night after he had gone to bed, he told his wife, "I've
a big notion to send Leonard up North to school. I would, if I
didn't need him so much here now. Expect I'd better send him
next winter."
"Humph!" the old lady grunted sarcastically. "He's too smart
fer a nigger. You keep on spilin' him an' pritty soon he won't
have no sense a-tall. You'd better teach him he's a nigger 'fur
it's eternally too late. Can't yer see he's gittin' too big fer his
britches?"
But the old man turned on his side and was soon sleeping
peacefully.
Upstairs, in the junk room, Leonard was propped up in bed
reading a scrapbook he had found among a barrel full of dusty
old books, papers, and magazines. The scrapbook had been made
by Effie, the daughter whose room he had formerly occupied.


IN THE JUNK ROOM
129
also wanted five acres of corn, a large garden, and even some
broomcorn and sorghum. He told the old lady that he felt like
another panic was coming on—that that man Roosevelt in the
White House was going to keep on antagonizing the rich until
they made things hard for everybody, and he was going to be
prepared this time, and, at least, have plenty of bread and meat
in the house.
"Wal, you voted fer 'im an' you otter be made stan' by 'im,"
said the old lady.
"Yes, I did. And I'd do it again. Somebody's got to bust up
the trusts and put Wall Street where it belongs, even if we all
have to suffer for a while."
"Wal, I never did have no use fer Republicans," the old
lady clamored. "My pappy always told me they were a bunch o'
nigger lovers. We white people wouldn't have to struggle so
hard if them Republicans hadn't whipped the South."
"There you go again, Judy. You're always bringing in the
niggers. What on earth did those poor folks ever do to you that
makes you hate them so?"
"Wal, Pappy always said thar warn't no good niggers 'cept
dead uns, and I suttinly believes it now. When you do a good
turn by 'em they even jump on yer an' try to eat yer up. My
arms' sore yit whar that nigger bit me las' summer."
The old man's eyes flashed. "If you hadn't been trying to
beat him like a dog, he wouldn't have done it," he said.
"Wal, you kin pet an' pamper him if you want to, but he's
sure to kitch it fer he gets much older. The children and grand-
children hain't fergot 'bout it."
"No? Well, if I hear of one of them layin' a hand on him,
it won't be good for them. Just dry up. I don't want to hear
another word about it."
That summer Leonard sang more than he had ever sung in his
life. The open fields were his temples. He grew stronger, sturdier,
and better looking. He worked hard and ate ravenously. If the
old lady wouldn't give him as much as he wanted to eat when
his guardian was away, he took it. He came to life. Once he pulled
Sybil's hair and received a sharp slap on the jaw in return. He hit


130
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Jay Harker on the head with a rock one day when Jay came home
drunk and maliciously kicked over a bucket of fresh milk he had
just set on the ground in the driveway of the barn. And that fall
he went to a "corn shucking" and kissed Drusilla Harker, Ed's
youngest girl, who found a red ear of corn. She was sitting right
next to him, and when he saw the red ear in her hand he grabbed
her before she had time to hide it. Drusilla screamed and got very
angry when her cousins teased her and told her privately that
she had been kissed by a nigger. But the old man was there and
Leonard had shucked more corn than any other, so, as far as he
knew, the spontaneous kiss did not become combustible.
Also that fall the old man gave him a colt for his very own.
A colt! The most precious possession a Kentucky boy could have!
He named the little bay animal Pearl and loved her as a sister,
anxiously awaiting the day when she would be old enough to
break and ride.
Too, during the rainy days that spring and summer, Sybil,
who had been taking music lessons for several years, began teach-
ing him to play the piano. He practiced faithfully and soon was
playing better than his teacher. When Sybil left for the Seminary
in Lexington, where she was to attend school, he took her place
at the instrument Sunday mornings at family prayers, and one
bitter cold day that winter he played at church services because
no one else was there who could do it.
The following spring, an old tenant, Tod Wilkins, returned
to the Harker farm and moved into the house Jute and Effie had
been occupying. Effie was sent to the hospital in Cincinnati, her
father paying the necessary expenses. Jute moved to Tuckertown
but held onto his job transporting the mail and hauling supplies
from the depot to the little country stores in that section of Blank
County. Wilkins was a good farmer, but for several years had
been living in Louisville. There, his eldest son had gotten into
trouble and landed in the state prison. He returned to the farm,
he said, "because it seemed like my boys were headin' for th'
same place, an' I wantta save 'em if I kin."
"That Wilkins girl," however, was the first of the family
with whom Leonard became intimately acquainted. Elizabeth was


IN THE JUNK ROOM
131
sixteen, well-developed for her years, and soon got the reputation
of being "fast," mainly because she was full of life and had
learned the waltz and two-step and was willing to impart her
knowledge to any inclined to receive it. As dancing was con-
sidered a sin, and no one in the community danced but a few
sinners and the "poor trash," white and black, it is certain the
girl would have forgotten the art entirely had it not been for
Leonard and the piano in the Harker parlor.
Elizabeth visited the Harker house nearly every day. It was
not long before the old lady became quite fond of her. She took
the place of Sybil, who was away at the Seminary, and was so
industrious and handy the old lady was pleased when Em Sea-
graves informed her she couldn't work for her any more, and took
herself and her constant knitting out of the house. Elizabeth was
hired immediately to work by the week and was paid a dollar and
a half and her "keep."
The girl was a pioneer flapper—though at that time the word
had not been invented. She would shake her yellow curls and
primp and pose before a mirror an hour at a time. She was also
fond of finery and trinkets, and nothing delighted her more than
to ransack through the cupboards, chests, barrels, and boxes in
the junk room, looking for discarded silk and satin dresses and
old outlandish hats, with which to bedeck herself. This she would
do any time she had the opportunity, and the opportunities came
quite often.
One day while she and Leonard were in the junk room to-
gether she found a dress which was too small for her. It was a
narrow, sheer silk thing, but she was determined to see herself
in it whether or no. As she could not by any means get it over
the clothes she was wearing, she began to undress then and there,
in his presence. Off came the apron, then the dress, then the petti-
coat, until she stood before the boy looking like an underwear
advertisement. He was bewildered, then confused and abashed,
and turned hastily to leave the room. Before he reached the door
she called him back.
"Here, Leonard, help me button it," she said.
It was one of those back-buttoned things, and while he was


132
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
standing there behind her, she threw her arms around and her
fingers touched his hair. Instantly she faced him.
"Gee, what soft hair you have, Leonard!” she exclaimed.
"It's just like a baby's.”
She ran her fingers through his hair, then suddenly pulled
him close against her and kissed him. She held him tightly and
he did not resist. Somehow or other, he did not want to break
away from her.


134
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
preached many a sermon. And, too, his tears had fallen there,
very, very often after the old lady or one of her daughters had
given him a cruel beating. He always felt better if he could have
his "last cry" with his face pressed against the ground, or against
the rough, black bark of a maple.
But not the solitude alone—the life of the sugar camp also
interested the boy. With this life he became very familiar. It
taught him many lessons—lessons he never forgot. In the sugar
camp he became acquainted with birds of many species. He no-
ticed how cruel they were to each other, how they would quarrel
and fight. He watched the busy squirrels at work and play. The
grove was alive with them. The old man would allow no one to
kill a squirrel in the sugar camp without obtaining special permis-
sion. He said he wanted the squirrels there so one would always
be available for soup for a sick person, and, too, so the greedy
hunters couldn't kill all the squirrels in Blank County.
"Syrup-making time" was the biggest and grandest time on
the Harker farm. It was better than threshing time, sheep-shearing
time, or, even, Christmas. Then the old man remained constantly
at home. All was forgotten except the necessary preparations for
the bountiful harvest of amber maple syrup and sugar, sure to
come.
This harvest was never a failure. It came as certainly as spring
came. Usually it came suddenly. One day it would be freezing
cold and perhaps some snow would be sticking close to the soil
and to the trunks of the old trees. Then, during the night, the
wind would veer to the south. The next morning the sun would
peep over the horizon and climb into a cloudless sky. The snow
would vanish; the frozen ground would slowly soften; the day
was at hand.
Preparations began when Jute commenced bringing crates of
new gallon jugs from the Tuckertown depot every time he made
the trip. Every jug had the words Harker's Old Time Maple
Syrup stamped upon it. Then Aunt Fanny would appear some
morning. She was an aged colored woman who had been "helping
with the syrup" for over fifty years. She was the only Kentucky


IN THE SUGAR CAMP
135
colored person Leonard knew during his childhood and he never
really knew her. She was very dark and her face was long and
wrinkled. When any of the smaller children came around her
and asked a question, she always replied with a series of grunts.
If they became too importunate, she would turn around and look
at them—stick a forefinger in each end of her mouth—stretch
her mouth as far as it would stretch—and growl like some wild
animal. She had only two teeth, an upper and a lower, but they
were very large teeth. Together, the stretched mouth, the two big
teeth and the uncanny growl would send the children flying from
the kitchen.
When Aunt Fanny was in the house, Leonard always remained
at a safe distance. But when her back was turned he eyed her
critically. Her waistline was so slender she reminded him of a
mud-dobber wasp. Her hair was white and short and exactly like
the wool of a young lamb. Every round curl stood alone. It ex-
tended down her neck as far as the collar of her dress and was as
thick there as it was on top of her head. Leonard wondered if it
was like that all the way down her back.
Aunt Fanny brought all the jugs from the bee house and
washed and rinsed them thoroughly. Then, at night, the old man
and whoever of the family happened to be visiting made the
"spiles." They were made from the branches of elder bushes.
The round branches were cut ten inches long and each was split to
within two inches of the end. The unsplit end was sharpened and
the pithy center punched out. When the trees were tapped the
sharpened end was driven into the hole and the sugar-water ran
down the channel and dropped into the bucket.
It was usually around mid-February when the trees were
tapped. When the red-headed woodpeckers, called sap-suckers,
arrived in droves and began pecking on the branches of the
maples, the old man got out his augers. Then, every little boy and
girl in the neighborhood who wanted to earn a dime could earn
it some time during the season by carrying sugar-water. Three
large furnaces stood in the center of the camp, and boiling never
ceased unless there came a long rain.


136
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Carrying the sugar-water up and down the rocky hillside was
no easy task, but Leonard liked it because he hated dishwashing.
During syrup-making time he was free from the kitchen. He sat
before the furnaces until late at night and listened to the men
telling tales—ghost, hunting and Indian tales. He imagined he
was living in the days he had read about in history books. And
there was peace there beneath the bright February stars. The
furnace fires before him and the bonfire behind him kept the
cold wind at a distance. The aroma from the boiling sugar-water
was sweet and pleasant to his nostrils. The long, naked limbs of
the tall maples above his head seemed to form a network to pro-
tect him from any evil. No wonder that though the Harkers did
everything to make him hate them, he never, never could hate
their sugar camp or the state they called their home—old Ken-
tucky!
Syrup-making time always ended with a sugar party. The last
week's run of the sugar-water was boiled down into thick syrup
and retained in the huge kettles, ready for a little more boiling
on the night of the party and then to be poured out into greased
plates to harden as sugar. Every man, woman and child who
came to the party received a cake of sugar. They came from miles
around, old and young, colored and white, for "Uncle" Silas
invited the whole county.
Such a grand time it was for the young folk and children!
They played at hide-and-seek all over the sugar camp. They played
other games and ran races up and down the steep hillside. Then
there were the big races. The boy and girl who won the big, uphill
races were the heroes of the county for that year. This boy and
girl received ten cakes of sugar as prizes, were escorted to the
house, seated in the parlor on tall, decorated boxes called
"thrones," and were crowned and proclaimed Sugar King and
Sugar Queen of Blank County.
It was Leonard's big ambition to be the Sugar King. During
his fourteenth year he barely lost to long-legged George Harker,
Jr. The next year George was eliminated and Leonard was certain
he would win. He practiced on the sly and was able to run the


IN THE SUGAR CAMP
137
course in less than half a minute. The night of the party the
ground was muddy and he drove some hobnails into the heels of
his boots to prevent slipping. He was determined to win.
The girl's race came first. A long-legged colored girl called
Annabelle was a favorite, but the officials, none of whom were
related to the Harkers, were undecided whether to let her run or
not. It was an unusual thing for a colored girl to attempt to
compete with white girls. They took their problem to the old
man, who settled it pronto. "Yes," he said, "everyone must have
an equal chance. If she wins she'll be crowned Queen and get
the prize."
But probably no one but Leonard had noticed a quiet, modest
girl standing apart by herself near the end of the line. A black
knitted cap covered her shapely head, beneath which protruded
real golden hair, naturally curly. It was caught up at the back of
her neck with a black ribbon, then plaited. The thick plait ex-
tended to her waist, and was bound there with a blue ribbon, the
color of the woolen dress she was wearing. Her large, dreamy eyes
were blue. Her face was white—very white for a country girl's
face. There was not a blemish on it and it looked as though it
had never worn a coat of tan. Her thin lips were just a line of
delicate red. She barely parted them when she smiled, and when
she did smile, her face was the prettiest Leonard had ever seen.
He couldn't take his eyes away from it. It bewitched him. He
only distinctly remembered two very pretty faces, Miss Roberts'
and Elwood's mother's. Both were beautiful. This girl's face was
also beautiful, like theirs.
When the race was about to start, the crowd gathered up close
to the contestants. The favorites—mostly girls connected with the
Harker family—were deluged with words of encouragement.
Pretty Elizabeth Wilkins was also a favorite, especially with the
young men. The "fast girl" had won many admirers since coming
to the community, and, right then, was brazenly flirting with a
half-dozen boys, all at the same time. For reasons well known to
those who had contested previously, Annabelle was crowded near
the center of the line, next to Elizabeth. The girls in the center,


138
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
unless very fleet and sure-footed, were apt to be jostled by their
competitors and made to stumble and fall.
And now the watchful crowd leaves the starting point and
reassembles near the finish line. Here, two men are holding poles
to the ground, between which is extended a piece of twine. Leon-
ard walks slowly by the pretty girl and smiles in her direction.
She does not see him; the toe of her shoe is touching the mark
and she is waiting for the starter's command.
"Toe the mark!" The command echoes through the length of
the sugar camp and resounds across the bottom—on and on—
beyond Pigeon River—over the tops of the willows and sycamores
—on into the distant hills and valleys.
"Get set!" There is silence and tenseness. Not a girl in the
line is moving a muscle.
"Go!"
Then was heard a medley of gasps and screams and shrieks—
all the noises a group of young, excited girls can make. They are
coming forward! The line is now raggedy. The weird cross-lights
of the bonfires, fanned by the night wind, flickering on this mass
of moving limbs, bodies and heads, makes the scene appear like
some grotesque witches' dance. They are coming! The watchers
hear the labored breath. Someone slips and falls nearly every yard
of the course.
But three girls are far out in front. One is lithe, slender Anna-
belle—a deeper shadow among shadows. One foot touches the
ground and the other swiftly performs a half-circle. She waves
an arm and throws a foot. She looks as though she were swim-
ming—swimming in the air!
Another, in the center, is Emily Harker. The Harker honor
is at stake, and my, my! how she is trying to win and maintain it!
Her progress is a series of rapid jumps—her body rises and falls
—she reminds one of a galloping horse.
The other is the pretty, pale-faced girl who stood near the
end of the line. She seems to have springs in her limbs. She is
running straight forward—hardly zig-zagging an inch. Her feet
stick right where she places them. Her body ascends the hill
gracefully—like a feather floating in a gentle breeze.


IN THE SUGAR CAMP
139
"She's goin' to beat! She's goin' to beat!" Several excited
voices are heard.
"Oh, she's beatin' th' nigger girl!" a young matron close to
Leonard remarks.
And this girl does win—her chest touches the line first, and
she bows and rests her exhausted body on folded arms pressed
tightly against her thighs. No one is there for her to lean on, but
they gather around and congratulate her. She was a "dark horse,"
and had never previously attended the annual event. Few knew
who she was until some of them from over Brackett's Hill said
she was Abner Jones' girl, Gladys, "the Jones who runs the mill
down there." She came along with some of the Bracketts. No
one had ever known her to compete in any kind of race before.
In a few minutes the boys line up. Leonard tries to obtain
the same position Gladys occupied, but is forced out of it. He
doesn't care. He is confident he will win. When the command
"Go!" is given, he leaps forward ahead of the field and stays
there. Few congratulate him. Some of the contestants say they
knew he would win and they never tried to beat him.
He immediately left the crowd and entered the house. Slipping
upstairs, he removed the clothes he wore at the race—the muddy
boots, the patched coat and trousers, and put on the best suit he
owned. Going downstairs, he passed through the kitchen, where
Aunt Fanny and the other colored people were sitting. He never
spoke to them—just smiled—as a white boy might have smiled.
None of them spoke to him.
When he entered the parlor, Gladys was sitting on her throne
and the old man was placing the crown on her head. It was now
bare, and Leonard could see nothing but her face and golden
hair. When he realized he was staring at her, he cast his eyes
downward and was ashamed of himself. When he looked again,
she was wearing the crown. The circlet of dried winter flowers
of many shades made her face more beautiful.
When they called him for his own coronation, and everyone
was quiet, he felt very small. What he thought was to be a grand
and glorious event in his life was now a very little thing—just a
passing incident hardly worth a thought. Now he did not want to


140
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
be King. He was fearful he might rob Gladys of some honor
and glory due her.
Shortly afterwards, he stood close to the wall when they
started playing the old game "Spinning the Plate." The Queen
was having the first "try." She called out the name of one of the
Brackett boys, a short little fellow, who caught the plate before
it fell. But he was too bashful to claim the kiss he had won and
sneaked away amidst the laughter and teasing of his friends.
Gladys also stepped silently out of the limelight, and also out of
the brighter lamplight. Fate led her to the side of the room where
Leonard was standing among strangers, for he shunned the
Harkers, most of whom were congregated opposite him.
He was standing there when daughter Cindy brushed into
the room. Meddlesome and officious always, her presence was
like a rising storm, and her guttural voice sounded like the growl
of a wolf amidst a flock of bleating lambs. Soon she noticed
Leonard and her face darkened. She had always hated him. Com-
ing close to him, she remarked loud enough for all nearby to
hear:
"You'd better go out in th' kitchen an' let the other niggers
see yuh. They wantta look at your new hat. Get out!" she com-
manded. "You know you've no business in here."
Leonard's anger mounted, but he said nothing. Neither did
he move. But, in a little while he turned his head, and, as he did
so, his eyes met the calm gaze of Gladys. She smiled and he knew
the smile was for him alone.
Cindy disappeared in the crowd and soon the Queen and the
King were standing beside each other. An elderly woman no-
ticed them. She was the wife of Jeff Roth, a prosperous farmer
and the staunchest Republican in Blank County. Mrs. Roth
smiled.
"You two look fine together," she remarked. "I saw the races
and you both won fairly. I must congratulate you."
She walked away quickly, for the hour was growing late and
some of the guests were leaving. Then suddenly the boy found
his tongue and remarked, "I'm awful glad you won, Gladys."
"I'm glad you won too, Leonard," the girl replied.


IN THE SUGAR CAMP
141
She smiled as the softly spoken words fell from her lips. The
boy hurried out of the parlor. He wanted the company to leave
now as quickly as possible, every one of them, for he was anxious
to get to the junk room, where he could repeat Gladys' words
over and over to himself, and see her smile, alone—and in peace.


CHAPTER NINETEEN
In tHe Church
The Harkers, especially their womenfolk, were faithful to their
church. Not only did they worship in it—they worshiped IT.
The church was the main topic of their conversation, the chief
recipient of their voluminous prayers. It was the center of all
their social activities. A female Harker might neglect and abuse
her husband but she would never neglect or abuse her church.
The Harkers were Methodists, old-time, loyal, aggressive
Methodists. Most of them believed that only Methodists would
enter Heaven. They fought the Baptists in the community as hard
as they fought the sinners. They stuck to the Methodist creed
in toto and obeyed the letter of every law, rule, and regulation
of their church strictly. They could not obey the spirit of these
laws, rules, and regulations because they could not understand
it. They knew well what "Thou shalt not" meant but not what
"Thou shalt" meant. They spent their hours trying to be good
by not being bad. They might have been happier had they tried
doing a little good now and then.
That cold December afternoon when Leonard attended Sun-
day school the first time in the Brinkley church was, too, the first
time in his life that "going to Sunday school" brought him more
sorrow than joy. His presence created a serious problem in that
good, Christian organization. He had followed Sybil the "short
way" to the church; across Pigeon River on the ice then over
the hill; on across the snow-mantled fields; through woods, little
valleys and hollows, until they entered the pike at the Brinkley
school, a quarter-mile from their destination. His little fingers
and toes were numbed with cold. But when he entered the build-
ing no one was there to welcome him. The children stared at
him; some of the older ones grinned. The adults, teachers and
parents, hardly noticed him at all. Sybil pressed through the
throng surrounding the one, lukewarm stove, but there was no


IN THE CHURCH
143
room by the stove for Leonard. Finally, he sat down on the bench
by the door rubbing his cold extremities and suffering silently.
After a while the children separated and went to their classes.
Little tongues began reading the difficult Bible verses. There
was much spelling of words, and sometimes even the teachers
did not pronounce them correctly. Leonard wanted so badly to be
with those little boys in their classes. He wanted to show them
how well he could read—how much he knew about the lesson.
He wanted to recite some of the Psalms, for he knew more than
half of them and could recite them without making a mistake.
But no one noticed him at all, and the cold neglect pained his
little heart as badly as the cold outside had hurt his toes and
fingers.
It was a long time before the superintendent came to him
and asked his name. Then he turned and called the teacher of the
little boys' class. “Come back here, Mary.”
The teacher was wearing a new blue coat with very large
sleeves. She was tall and her face and neck were unusually long;
there was a mole on the side of her nose. Her pointed fingers
were rough and red. Holding a pencil very tightly, she would,
when in the act of writing, jab at the paper she was writing on
in a way that reminded Leonard of a chicken picking up grains
of corn from the ground.
When the teacher faced him, the superintendent also grinned
much like the larger boys had done. "What are we a-goin' to do
with him, Mary?” he asked.
"I hain't got no idea, Mr. Palmot. I kain't have 'im with my
boys, but I know I gotta do somethin' with him or Gran' pap'll
be mad as a hornet. What do you think we kin do?”
"I bin thinkin', Mary. He's been wisht right on us an' sudden-
like, an' I hain't had a chance to see Brother Lasty an' git his
advice. I bin thinkin' we mouwt let 'im sit in th' seat behin'
your class, an' after you git th' lesson done wit' th' boys, then
you mouwt hear 'im an'larn 'im th' Golden Tex' an' th' mimery
verses. That's all we kin do as I sees it.”
Following this conversation, Leonard became a parasitic mem-
ber of the Brinkley Methodist Sunday school. Every Sunday he


144
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
sat behind Mary's class of little boys, one long bench of them.
What he learned he learned by absorption. Sometimes Mary heard
him repeat the Golden Text and memory verses and sometimes
she did not. It all depended on the particular humor she happened
to be in. But when he returned home, the first question he was
asked by the old lady was: "Wal, did yer larn today?" Woe be
unto him if he had not learned as much as Judy Harker thought
he should have learned.
When the circuit-riding pastor, Brother Lasty, came on the
fourth Sunday, Ben was hitched to the surrey and the entire
family drove to church. The old man and Leonard occupied the
front seat, and Sybil and her mother sat in the rear. Leonard soon
learned to drive, and it became his duty to hitch Ben to the
Harker hitching post in front of the church and to help the oc-
cupants in and out of the conveyance. The old man was a "local
preacher" and sat in the pulpit beside the pastor. The first time
Leonard attended "preaching services" he led the boy to the
pulpit with him and told him to sit down on the pulpit steps.
"No one will bother you here," he whispered, "and you will
keep out of devilment."
So, until he was a rather large boy, the steps of the pulpit
were Leonard's private pew. Here, between the circuit rider and
the choir, the Methodist religion was preached, prayed, sung,
and testified into his soul in copious and regular doses. Heaven
and hell became real places to him, just like Bridgeville, Cin-
cinnati, and Brinkley. There, on the edge of the pulpit, sitting
almost within the fountain, he drank of the spiritual waters until
he was filled to overflowing. He prayed with the pray-ers, sang
with the singers, and preached with the preachers. He did not
testify until after he joined the church.
He did not want to join the church because the members of it
did not seem to want him. It happened during the administration
of Brother Robinson, who succeeded Brother Lasty as pastor.
Brother Robinson was a young man who had recently married a
very pretty wife. She was a city girl and her wants were many
and varied. She loved nice clothes and elegant house furnishings.
The young husband soon realized his wife would be grievously


IN THE CHURCH
145
disappointed unless a way could be found to increase his meager
salary. There was only one way to do this, hold a big revival,
convert sinners, reclaim backsliders, and renew the spiritual
strength of lukewarm Christians. A revived church and an in-
creased membership would donate liberally.
Brother Robinson invited the Reverend Brother Barber to
come to the circuit and carry on the revivals. There were to be
four of them, one in each of his churches. Each would be of three
weeks' duration. The first was to be held in the Brinkley church,
for this was the largest church on the circuit and the sinners were
thickest in the Brinkley community. And then it was necessary
to get ahead of the Brinkley Baptists, who also were planning
for their revival.
Brother Barber had everything necessary to produce the best
results. He was a young man, single and handsome. His mass of
red, curly hair, parted in the middle, would become mussed up
perfectly as he preached his fervid sermons. He was one of the
first of the Kentucky "sanctificationists" who had their day among
the Methodist churches during the early part of the present
century. He was spiritually perfect. He was saved from his sins,
he was sanctified, he had been reclaimed, he had received the
Holy Ghost, he had the "fire." Also, he was so well acquainted
with his Bible he recited chapters as he read, just as Leonard
recited the Psalms he had memorized.
On the first night of the revival Brother Barber did not preach
at all. But he prayed for thirty minutes there on his knees with
his face lifted toward the ceiling. His prayer brought a medley of
groans, moans, sniffles, whoops, and "Amens." Then he called
for testimonies. All the members testified. Two sinners were
present and fell at the "mourner' bench," remaining there until
midnight. When they arose from their knees they were Christians.
The first night's meeting was a grand success. Within a week the
little church was crowded to the doors at every service. On Sun-
days and Sunday nights many came and could not find even
standing room. Barber preached, prayed, and sang as no man
had ever done before, not in that church. When exhorting sinners
to repent, he would leave his pulpit and mount the backs of the


146
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
benches and glide over them with the agility of a cat. Few sinners
could resist his appeals.
Leonard did not know he was a sinner until one night, while
driving home alone with the old lady, she said to him, "I can't
see why you don't give yer heart to th' Lord an' repent o' yer sins
an' git converted. Don't yer know if you'd die you'd go straight
plumb to hell? I want yer to think on it an' git up thar to th'
mourner's bench tomorrer night."
"What for?" asked the innocent child in a hurt tone. "I
didn't know I had to be saved. I'm as good as George and Bob
and Sybil. I don't want to go to that old mourner's bench."
"You wantta git smart 'bout it, do you? Take that fer yer
smart-alecky talk," and before he could drop the lines the back
of the old lady's hand struck him hard in the center of the face.
The blow brought blood from his nose and tears from his eyes.
"If I ever hear yer talk like that ag'in, I'll thrash yer within a
inch o' yer life. You'd better git yer evil soul saved, yer had."
That next night, when Brother Barber called for mourners,
Leonard looked at the old lady and saw an evil scowl on her face.
He slipped off the steps and kneeled at the nearby altar. When
the first sinner arose from her knees, he also arose. That sinner
was Maud Bellern, eldest daughter of the country physician. They
always called Maud a "hardhearted sinner." There was so much
joy when she arose from her knees no one noticed little Leonard
at all.
He returned to his private pew and remained there until the
invitation was extended to those who had been saved to unite
with the church. Then he walked forward and held out his hand
to Brother Barber. But he was not baptized the following Sunday
morning with the other candidates. He was received into the
church by himself.
Church membership imposed upon him various duties and
obligations. Now he had to attend every class meeting and pray
and testify. His weekly prayer at the family altar on Sunday
mornings had to be longer and more fervid. And he had to pay
his class dues, his presiding elder dues, and his conference assess-
ments. He was also supposed to fast on "Love Feast Day" which


IN THE CHURCH
147
came every three months. But he did this only once. Thereafter,
he prepared for it by purloining a generous supply of biscuits,
boiled eggs, preserves, and other foodstuffs, and hiding it in
the hayloft or in his pantry in the woodshed. He believed he
could serve his God much better with a full stomach than with
an empty one.
As the boy grew older and larger, he began to realize that
there were many kinds of Christians. Some of them, the older
ones, were almost perfect as far as he knew. He had never known
old Silas Harker to do a wrong thing. The Number One Gass
Leader, old Uncle Tom Blueheart, was a perfect Christian. He
always said, "God bless you, my boy," when Leonard testified.
He would also pray for him publicly, calling his name, and re-
questing the God he served to make him grow up to be an honest,
upright, and Christian man. Uncle Tom was really a Christian.
There were also others.
But some he knew were funny Christians—very funny Chris-
tians. There was Judy Harker. When she testified in class meeting,
she would always say she was "saved, sanctified, and kept by the
power of God every moment of her life." But sometimes, when
she got home from class meeting, she would beat the boy unmerci-
fully. She would laugh all the time she was applying the rod—
laugh as he winced and twisted and screamed. His sufferings
brought her untold pleasure.
When Maud Bellern, the physician's daughter, had a baby
the year following the revival, and all the gossipers said Brother
Barber was the father of her child, Leonard discovered that even
zealous preachers could be tempted and led astray.
"Yes," said the daughter Cindy to her mother, "that's what
she got while he was prayin' with her so much durin' th' 'tracted
meetin'. I alwuz knew thar were no good in that stuck-up heifer.
Gittin' a woods colt to git a man." She laughed. "I'm plumb
glad he's gone somewhar an' they kin't find him. Serves her right.
Hope they never find him."
After the boy joined the church, he became a full-fledged
member of the Junior Missionary Society. The members of this
society were the young bluebloods of the church—the sons and


148
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
daughters of the upper families—of the officers and most re-
spected members. To be a "Junior," one had to be very faithful
to all church obligations. The weak were not welcome in this
society, neither were the illiterate or poverty-stricken. Leonard
was admitted mainly because the old man suggested they admit
him, and, too, because he had to attend the monthly meetings
with Sybil because she was afraid to drive any horse, even old
Ben, unless someone was in the buggy with her.
The Juniors were supposed to be supervised by the pastor's
wife, or by her appointee, if she could not attend the meetings
regularly. As the pastor lived in Tuckertown, Mrs. Jeff Roth,
whose hobby was missions, had supervised the Brinkley Juniors
many years. Mrs. Roth's neighbors and fellow church members
accused her of being queer, but Leonard thought she was a
pretty nice lady. The daughter of a mountaineer, she had at-
tended a term or two at Berea College, that little jewel of knowl-
edge and service that nestled there between the Kentucky moun-
tains and the bluegrass region. Then she taught school in her home
community and, when twenty-one, married her childhood sweet-
heart, Jeff Roth. Jeff's father had enlisted in the northern armies
and fought throughout the Civil War.
When the Juniors admitted Leonard as a member, Mrs. Roth
saw to it that he became a member in fact. No sitting on a rear
bench, as he was compelled to do in Sunday school. He sat with
the other children—sang and prayed with them—took his turn
at reading the missionary lesson, and spoke his piece if he was
on the program. Now he had an opportunity to rise and shine,
and well did he take advantage of his opportunity. He always
knew more about the lesson than any other member—he asked
the most pertinent questions—and when his turn came to preside,
he showed qualities of leadership seldom possessed by one of
his years. Mrs. Roth insisted he was going to become a great
preacher, and usually, after she told him this, he preached a few
sermons to the trees, birds, and squirrels, down deep in the re-
cesses of the sugar camp.
When Sybil went away to the Seminary and he was deprived
of the little companionship the old lady permitted her daughter


IN THE CHURCH
149
to give him, it was but natural that he should seek a closer asso-
ciation with the boys and girls who were friendly with him at
the meetings of the society. So he tried to be more friendly him-
self. He talked with them more before and after the meetings.
He tried to be agreeable and never refused to play a new song for
them or tell them a new story he had read. He continued driving,
and allowed the three girls Sybil had always picked up on the
way to ride in the buggy with him. But soon their parents put
a stop to the practice.
However, in spite of all his efforts, he could not bridge the
gulf. His youthful companions had been told that he was what
they were not. No matter how he looked, no matter how well he
dressed, no matter how much he knew, the mark had been placed
upon his forehead and could not be erased. He began to realize
the injustice of it all and his heart cried out in protest. Then
arose within him a strong determination—the determination to
compel his associates to treat him as an equal. He did not know
it, but the indomitable spirit of his forebears had taken posses-
sion of him. This same spirit forced his father to become a great
musician and rise from the depths every time he fell. This same
spirit forced his grandfather Vanalban to become a successful
businessman and a Congressman. This spirit forced him, their
son and grandson, to pit his intelligence against his companions'
ignorance; his shrewdness against their cunning; his talents against
their mediocrity; his Christianity against their Methodism. The
struggle commenced almost immediately.
It was the meeting following the last one after which the
three girls had been permitted to ride with him back to their
homes. He had ridden his colt Pearl to the church that day. He
had a new bridle and saddle which the old man had purchased for
him, and he wore a pair of shiny black leggings. Mrs. Roth told
him he looked mighty nice, and some of the girls smiled at him
coyly as he mounted his colt.
One of the girls was Ethel Thomas, whose father was a prom-
inent farmer and also deputy sheriff of the county. Ethel lived
on the pike nearly a mile from the church. She was one of the
girls for whom Sybil had always stopped. She was short and


150
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
chunky, sixteen years of age, and had been "going in company"
for over a year.
Leonard, who had stopped at the general store to make some
purchases for the old lady, overtook Ethel halfway between the
village and her home. Again she smiled at him and he tipped his
cap. As she remarked, "Gee, Leonard, your colt is so pretty!" he
quickly dismounted, for he had been taught it was impolite to
converse with a lady while mounted on a horse if the lady was
on the ground. He threw the bridle rein over his shoulder and
walked with the girl to her home.
He was not embarrassed, although it was the first time he
had ever walked with any girl except Sybil. Neither did Ethel
show any embarrassment, although several neighbors passed them.
When they reached her home, he unlatched the front gate for her,
then leaned on it, and they talked a while longer.
But one man who had passed them was angry at the boy for
his show of effrontery. That man was Farmer Neal, whose son,
Howard, was, for the time being, Ethel's regular fellow. Farmer
Neal was sucking an end of his long mustache when he drove into
his barn lot and met his son.
"Hey," he said, "I seen that nigger of old man Harker's
walkin' up th' pike with yur gurrel. Are ye goin' to stan' fer a
thing like that?"
Howard pulled the harness off one of the horses, mounted it
bareback, and in a minute was galloping up the pike. He over-
took Leonard near the covered bridge that spanned Pigeon River.
"Hey," he said as he halted his horse. "What you doin'
walkin' up th' pike with my girl while ago?"
"I didn't know she was your girl," Leonard replied. Then
he added boldly, "What are you kicking about? I didn't bite her,
did I?"
The farmer's son swung a long leg over his horse's back and
picked up a rock the moment his feet touched the ground.
"I'll learn you yere just a damned nigger," he said. But quick
as a flash Leonard dismounted too; dodged the rock which sailed
over the back of his colt and rushed his adversary. He grabbed
the wrist above the fingers which were about to release another


IN THE CHURCH
151
rock and said, "Drop it and fight fair, if you want to fight. I'm
not afraid of you."
Howard was older and larger than Leonard but he couldn't
free his wrist from the grip that held it. Leonard dexterously
dodged his poorly aimed blows and was laughing as a buggy
approached from around the bend in the road. But that laugh
was dangerous. He was cunningly waiting for an opportunity to
drive his left fist into Howard's mouth. The word "nigger" had
come out of that mouth and he wanted to see that mouth bleed—
bleed like Lee Jackson Whiteley's mouth had bled the day he
called him that name. Then he felt a soft hand on his shoulder
and Mrs. Roth spoke to him gently but firmly.
"Shame on you, Leonard. What are you boys fighting about?
And you're right from the missionary meeting too."
"He's a nigger, an' he walked up th' pike with Ethel," blurted
Howard.
Mrs. Roth's face became hard and stern as she said, "I don't
think it's right for you to call him such names, Howard. Now
you boys go on home. We've all had enough of this."
The contestants separated.
When Mrs. Harker heard about the "rukus" she raved and
fussed and told Leonard he would never amount to anything.
But the youth was very happy when Elizabeth informed him a
few days later that Ethel had "turned Howard down," and had
said he was "too ugly and silly" for her to keep company with.
This "fast girl," Elizabeth, now the Harker's housemaid, had
kissed Leonard and called him a "pretty boy" many times since
that day she had first kissed him in the junk room. But he had never
kissed her. Neither had he ever kissed any girl. He shunned
Elizabeth when he could, but he had felt her body close to his
and he knew her flesh was soft and tender. He knew kisses were
pleasant to the taste, for she had even kissed his lips. But now
he had seen Gladys. He thought about her every day and he was
ever trying to invent some excuse to get to Brackett's Hill, and
to the mill below, the mill Abner Jones ran. But it was another,
and not Gladys, who captured his first kiss. It was a little Metho-
dist Junior Missionary whom he liked mighty well, who, like


IN THE CHURCH
153
next to Leonard, he motioned for him to get up. But he would
not do so. He had never given up his seat and had vowed he
never would. It was his seat—his special seat. They had forced
him to accept that seat and he had no intention deserting it, no
matter how large the crowd. If George didn't want Eva there
next to him, he could stand up himself and make the accustomed
space supposed to be between his girl and the boy they all called
"colored," or worse.
While the hymn was being sung he offered Eva his hymnbook.
She accepted it, smiled, and whispered, "Thank you, Leonard."
Then the evangelist called on old Brother Hale to pray. Those
in the "Amen corners" fell to their knees and all heads were
bowed low.
Christians prayed long prayers in those days and, like Baal's
prophets, the longer they prayed the louder became their voices.
Leonard's head was bowed and his eyes were closed and Brother
Hale was praying. Then Eva touched his hand.
He never believed that touch was an accident. It was that
mysterious call of the flesh, the call that makes a bird seek its
mate in the springtime. Eva touched his hand and he touched
hers. Just the slightest touch it was, but she felt it and understood.
Her little hand slipped farther down between them and he took it
into his own. He could feel her heartbeats through her fingers.
Brother Hale prayed loudly—still more loudly—and he held
Eva's little hand. And then, when Brother Hale's voice reached
the topmost pitch, she moved her pretty head close to his and
whispered, "Come and see me."
He squeezed the little hand. "Tonight," she said. "I'll look
for you."
He rode before the old man's surrey on the way home and he
later unharnessed and stalled old Ben, but he did not unsaddle
Pearl. Afterward, when he entered the house, they were undress-
ing for bed. He covered the log fire with ashes and went upstairs
to the junk room, took off his shoes, slipped back downstairs
and out the front door. Soon he was again astride Pearl, riding
across pastures, woodlots, and bare fields, taking the shortest cut
toward Hennesey's, to Eva. He had hunted and roamed all over


154
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
the neighboring farms and knew just where he would enter the
pike near her home.
In spite of his belated start, he got there before she and George
arrived. George was in love and drove slowly. He saw the swain
help her out of his buggy at the stile and kiss her—only once.
George was bashful; or, probably, he felt himself unworthy of
her. she so spotless, so innocent, so good.
The house was dark, for her sister was already home and in
bed. Through the filmy curtains, he saw her light the lamp and
remove her wraps. Then she turned the lamp down very low,
came to the window, raised it, and peered out into the semi-
darkness. In a moment he was there. Noiselessly, he climbed to
the windowsill and took her in his arms. Her hot breath burned
his shoulder—his kisses covered, many times over, George's one
little, timid touch, and it was long past midnight when Pearl
got back to her stall and he got back to the junk room.


156
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
fields were too wet to plow or cultivate, and in the fall, when
every farmer was fattening hogs for the family meat. Then the
mill lot would be crowded with horses, wagons, and buggies.
The citizens of the community would get together, and if the
weather was warm they would gather beneath the branches of
the two big sycamores rooted in the soil of the riverbank, right
in the water if the river was high. In the winter they would gather
around the long wood stove in the "sack room." There sinners
would mingle with the saints—Baptists with Methodists—blacks
with whites—Democrats with Republicans. The old, the young
and the middle-aged, if they wore breeches, were welcome. Going
to the mill in Blank County was a male's job. The womenfolk
and the children shelled the corn.
The miller, old Bill Hamlock, was a typical poor white. But
he was not a poor man. Although his neighbors, higher in the
social scale, said he had cheated people and stolen all he had,
nevertheless he had it, and let one of them try to get a farthing
from him if he could. He was illiterate but smart. He couldn't
read or write, but he could outfigure the best of them.
The colored people of the community despised him, as it was
common knowledge that the had filched about half of the land he
owned from an old colored woman, the grandmother of most
of the inhabitants of Little Cuba. This little island was separated
from the miller's farm by a few yards of water—water clear and
blue during dry weather, but yellow and swift and foamy after a
heavy rain.
It was after a heavy rain one day, but the hot sun had dried
the two logs beneath the sycamores, and the men sitting there
were arguing about the merits of the respective candidates for
county, state, and national offices. "Little Bill" Hamlock, the
miller's son, was most vociferous. He had become the Democratic
leader of the township. In spite of his family tree and lack of
education, he was "delivering the goods," the goods being a
majority of the Democratic votes cast in the township. He had
delivered the votes to Judge Evan Merrill. Brinkley township's
votes had again given Merrill the Democratic nomination for
judge. It was old Jabez Henderson, a Baptist deacon, talking now.


AT THE MILL 157
"A judge! A fine judge he's made!" And to show his con-
tempt, the deacon turned his head and spat. The "old field to-
bacco" juice struck the water with a little smacking sound. Rub-
bing his hairy forearm across his mouth, the deacon continued,
"Thar's a whole passel o' us Dimmycrats right in this yere town-
ship what hain't agoin' to give him a vote in November. We uns
kin disremember some o' his crooked dealin's, but we'll never
disremember how he 'cided favorin' yer pap in that ol' Jane
Larkin's case. Yer know yerself, Bill, that case fairly stunk with
rottenness. Why old Jane even nussed Evan Merrill when he war
a baby war'n dities. He knew hisself that lan' war Jane's an' he
didn't need no proof. Right's right, Bill."
"Now see here, Mr. Henderson, old Jane had been owin'
Pap—"
"She newah owed yo' pappie ah dime in huh life."
"Little Bill" turned on the speaker who had interrupted him.
His face reddened. "Who asked you, Allen, to butt into white
folks' discussions? Better keep yo' trap shet afore some o' us
shet it up fer you fer keeps."
Allen, a powerfully built young Negro, rose slowly from the
log and clenched his fists. "Ah says Gran'mammie nevah owed
yo' pappie ah dime in huh life. Ah says it tuh yo' face an' not
behin' yo' back. Ah says it to yo' front so's yo' won't git sore
behin'. An' Ah'm not feared o' no po' white trash neither."
"Heh! A fight! Don't let 'em fight! That nigger'll kill 'im!"
Shouts and yells brought the crowd. Men and boys came
from all directions and there was much excitement.
When Leonard reached the scene the participants were facing
each other like angry and snarling dogs. But wisdom prevailed,
and soon Allen was carrying his sack of meal to where his little
iron-gray gelding was tethered. Tossing it over the pommel of
the saddle, he mounted and slowly rode away.
"Thar goes a damn mean nigger thar." A man, whose beard
was more black than white, uttered this remark and many said,
"Yes, he is," and nodded their heads in approval. •
The man continued, "Thim island niggers ar' gittin' too sassy
inyways. Ef I had my ways I'd run th' last damn one o' thim in


158 RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
the river some dark night. What good ar' they to th' township
inyway? Keepin' a passel o' po' houn' dogs erroun' to kill sheep
an' yer kain't git a one o' them to work fer you inymore fer a
decent wage. Even thar dam winches won't look atta kitchen
fer less than a dollar a week."
"An' I don't blame 'em nary bit," said a lanky, smooth-
shaven individual. "If we'd treat 'em right, Henry, an' give 'em
a better school an' not 'cuse 'em o' all th' lawbreakin' done in
th' county, we'd all git along better. I'm fer th' right thing fer
all mankin', be they white, black, grizzly, er gray."
"Oh, I knows yer 'pinions, Jeff Roth, but I'm damned ef I
respicts 'em. Yer'U alius talkin' 'bout eddicatin' thim niggers.
Niggers don't need eddicatin'; they're jist like animals. I don't
believe a nigger has a soul, I don't."
"What yer goin' to say 'bout a nigger like this boy here?"
The inquirer was Jeff's oldest son who was sitting next to
Leonard who sat on the end of the log. Leonard held a copy of
the triweekly Cincinnati Enquirer in his hand, and had been
reading aloud to a group of grownups surrounding him. He had
been rendering this pleasant service for some time. For more than
a year, now, when he sat at the mill, someone would produce a
newspaper. This he would read to them, and not only would he
read it, he would also explain what he read if they could not
understand.
"Ah, that er boy hain't no rale nigger nohow. I don't think
o' him like I think o' niggers. His daddy war shorely a white
man an' his mammie musta been damn nare white. He hain't no
rale nigger."
On the way home, Leonard wondered what he was, sure
enough. And after he got home, the old lady was perplexed
when he inquired, "Mrs. Harker, what's the difference between
a nigger and a real nigger?"
But he learned more about the Negro enigma as he grew
older. Another day he returned from the mill—it was a summer
day—and Sybil had just come home from the girls' school. When
he entered the house her merry voice called, "Leonard, is that
you?"


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the Miller's Home
He had not seen Gladys since the night of the sugar party,
but he had not forgotten her. When they held a "protracted
meeting" that spring in the Brackett schoolhouse, he attended
it three nights every week, only because he thought perhaps she
might be there. But she was never there and he returned home
disappointed. Once he went all the way to Brackett's Mill to
have the grinding done. He saw her father, the miller. But it was
a busy day—the miller had no time to chat—and he left the mill
a stranger.
Soon after Sybil returned from school that summer, he told
her about Gladys and how pretty she was. Sybil was not inter-
ested.
"I never saw her but once, Leonard," she told him. "Looked
then like she needed bigger and better meals. Someone told me
her folks were kinda funny. They're poor mixers. I bet when
she won the race it almost scared her to death."
Leonard described the girl and the race so minutely that Sybil
laughed. "I believe you got stuck on her, Leonard. Oh, I know
you did now," she remarked as she noticed a red flush spread
over his face. "Shame on you. Better be careful. Those boys are
awful rough and mean over at Brackett's, and you know you're
colored."
He seldom talked with Sybil about her afterward but he
talked to himself about her often. He could close his eyes any-
time and see her, just as he saw her that night in the parlor
when she smiled at him. He compared her with the other girls
he knew and she was always perfect. She was so different. The
others—well, they were just girls. He felt like it might be a
pleasure to play with some of them, just as he had played with
little Eva Hennesey. But could he play with Gladys like that?
No indeed.


IN THE MILLER'S HOME
163
When he told the old man he heard that Abner Jones had
some pure-bred Duroc pigs for sale, he imparted the information
with an assumed air of nonchalance. But his heart was beating
wildly. Would he get to see her now, after so long? Would the
old man purchase the pig? That pig—that little pig—so much
depended on that little pig!
The old man was pleased. There was a sly twinkle in his eyes
when he remarked, "Abner Jones—sure. He's the father of the
sugar queen, isn't he?"
He arose early the next morning, fed the stock, performed
the usual chores, and was back upstairs in the junk room when
Sybil called breakfast. When he came down he was wearing a
clean white shirt, a necktie, and his second-best shoes. He had
combed his hair a dozen times and was plenty angry with himself
because he had not gone to Blankton the last "court day" and
gotten a haircut. Sybil brought the red flush to his face again.
"Ma, I think I'd better go with him and take care of him.
He's goin' to his queen's castle. He might never come back."
The old lady frowned. "Mebbe he's larned his lesson since th'
way he acted with Ruth Bellern. If he hain't, he'd better."
Breakfast was eaten hurriedly. Afterward, he hitched Hal to
the buggy and started up the lane toward the pike. Sybil came out
on the front porch and was standing there with her arms akimbo,
smiling as he passed. He waved at her and grinned sheepishly.
He drove slowly and it was midmorning when he reached
Brackett's Branch. The narrow, shallow stream of water tempted
the horse as his forefeet touched it. He stopped of his own voli-
tion and tossed his head impatiently until Leonard stepped from
the buggy to the ground and loosened the check rein. While Hal
was drinking his fill, the boy looked at the reflection of his own
face in the water. Kneeling, he removed the broad-brimmed straw
hat, and, wetting his hands, smoothed the rumpled hair until it
lay smooth and shining on top of his head, and every half-curl
at the edges and above his eyes was just where it rightfully be-
longed. The narrow pike beyond the Branch wound up and over
Brackett's Hill, and on the other side of the hill a lane extended
across a fertile stretch of bottom land, then on to a little knoll,


164
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
upon the brow of which sat the home of Abner Jones. A quarter-
mile below the house stood the old mill.
He saw Gladys from afar, sitting on the narrow porch at the
rear of the house and—churning. He felt peculiar. He had never
pictured the girl in such a pose as that and his vision of her,
when she would meet him at the door, was a Gladys neat, well
groomed, and smiling. If she wore an apron, it was to be a white
one—a long white one with ruffles over the shoulders and con-
fined around the slender waist with wide strings tied into a big
bowknot. Her wavy golden hair was to be uncovered, the short
bangs shading the modest blue eyes. But the Gladys he saw at
the churn on the back porch was wearing a checkered sunbonnet
and he couldn't see her face at all, nor a single strand of the
golden hair.
He had driven up to the back-yard gate and tied Hal's rein
to the hitching post there before he again looked toward the
porch. But he knew, before he looked, that she had ceased singing
an old church hymn and the churn dasher was being operated
slower. She smiled as she spoke, and he noticed a pink flush
spread over her face. "Well! Good morning, Leonard. How are
you?"
He informed her that he was well and stated his errand.
"Papa'll be home about eleven for dinner. That's just an hour
or so. Won't you come in and wait?"
She guided him through the hall into the sitting room and
introduced him to her mother. Mrs. Jones arose from the low,
armless rocking chair and extended her hand. "I'm glad to meet
you, Leonard. Gladys told us how fast you ran to win that race.
Sit down and make yourself at home. Mr. Jones will be in before
long."
Her soft-spoken words dispelled his embarrassment and he
felt at ease immediately. As Gladys was unlike the other girls
he had met, so was her mother unlike the mothers of his acquaint-
ance. Mother and daughter reminded him of the friends of his
early childhood; of Mrs. Price and Miss Roberts; of Elwood's
mother and some of his early teachers. They were not like the
Blank County women.


IN THE MILLER'S HOME
165
In a little while Leonard was telling Mrs. Jones about Ohio
and the Home; about Miss Hannan and Miss Roberts; about Dr.
Dingby and his trip to the Brinkley community. He told her a
little of his home life—of the old man and Sybil. But he never
mentioned the old lady, nor did he tell how often he had been
beaten, insulted, and persecuted.
When Gladys returned to the room she looked more like his
Gladys of the sugar party. She had discarded her sunbonnet, and
the golden hair hung down her back in two long plaits, confined
at the ends with ribbons. But the short bangs did not shade her
eyes at all. He noticed now they were large blue eyes, and that
there were dimples in her cheeks. She was beautiful—strikingly
beautiful. She was all beautiful, from the small feet and slender
ankles to the crown of her head. He worshiped her and wanted
so badly to touch the velvet skin—to press a kiss on the pink
cheeks or lips. But, even if he had the opportunity, right then,
he knew he would not have taken it. First, he would have to be
wanted by her. She would have to want his kisses, his caresses,
his love, just as badly as he wanted hers.
The mother went to the kitchen to prepare the noonday meal,
and the lonesome boy and the lonesome girl were alone together.
For the first time they looked frankly into each other's eyes and,
oh, how quickly they understood! Both smiled and would have
been content for a season to have just sat there and looked at
each other. But only one thin wall separated them from her
mother, and that wall had a door in it. They must talk—they must
say something. Leonard picked up a book—Longfellow's Poems.
"Do you like poetry, Gladys?"
"Yes, if it is easy to understand. My favorite is Whittier. Do
you like him?"
Leonard had read the life of the Quaker poet and many of
his poems. "Oh, he wrote 'Maud Muller' and 'The Barefoot Boy.'
Everybody likes those. My favorite is 'Snowbound.' It's long but
so plain and—and—musical."
She went to the bookcase in the hall and returned with a vol-
ume entitled Great American Poems. "Papa gave me this book


166
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
for Christmas. I've read it through three times. The more I read
it the more I love it."
She handed him the book and he began reading aloud the
first verses that came to his notice. A long and unfamiliar word
puzzled him. He asked Gladys its meaning.
"Well, we'll settle that word for good, Leonard. That's what
Papa has always taught me to do. When I don't understand a
word I look it up in the dictionary."
They were close together, leaning over the ponderous book
lying on the table, when Abner Jones entered the kitchen from
the back door. He paused and looked at them. His wife spoke.
"He's Brother Harker's boy from up to Brinkley. Come after
one of your red pigs. He's the boy who won the race like Gladys
did."
The miller washed his hands and face, and when he came
inside the sitting room long strands of wet hair were lying over his
ears. The end of his sandy beard and the front of his blue shirt
were also wet. Gladys unfolded her handkerchief and flitted it
over his face in spite of his protestations. When she had finished,
he held out his hand to the boy.
"Papa, this is Leonard. He came over to buy a pig. He's the
sugar king in our county."
"Glad to see you, Leonard. Quite some honor to have a king
and a queen too in the house. Come in and have some dinner."
He washed his hands at the water bench behind the kitchen
door, and Gladys brought a clean towel. They sat down at the
small, round table, the boy and girl facing each other. The father
prayed. Leonard always remembered that blessing. It was so short
and simple, yet so honest and so humble. Abner Jones prayed as
though he was in the habit of talking with God and not to God.
"Lord, we are thankful for thy blessings. We trust thee.
Amen."
When the meal was finished all returned to the sitting room
and Abner requested a song. "Play a piece or two, chicken, while
I'm tryin' to get this dinner down." Then, turning to Leonard,
he asked, "Can you sing, young fellow?"
"I try to. But I can't sing much."


IN THE MILLER'S HOME
167
Gladys sat down at the little organ and started playing a
church song. It was a new and popular one, something about
"abiding and confiding." Spontaneously, all of them sang the
chorus. Then Leonard stepped up close to the organ and he and
Gladys sang the verses together. Their voices blended perfectly
—the Spirit of Music united their hearts, happiness and content-
ment filled them to overflowing—and, when the song was fin-
ished, the mother was smiling through her tears. Abner was
swallowing a lump in his throat, and the girl and boy were
looking into each other's eyes, seeing what no one on earth could
see but themselves; and understanding a secret no one but them-
selves could understand.
"You sing fine, Leonard. Let's hear you sing something by
yourself. Now when I was a young fellow, I'd rather sing than
eat a good meal's vittles, but my voice is gettin' sort o' cracked
now."
"No, it isn't, Mr. Jones," remonstrated Leonard, realizing
that Abner Jones's voice would bring credit to any choir he had
heard sing in Blank County. "You sing mighty well," he con-
tinued. "I hope I'll be able to sing that well when I'm as old as
you are."
Abner Jones smiled. The boy's honest compliment pleased
him. Gladys' eyes beamed.
"I've always said you were a good singer, haven't I, Papa?"
And she added, "That's why they're always trying to get you
into some choir."
"Don't you ever sing in the choir?" Leonard inquired.
"No. That's against my creed. I don't belong to any church
here. You see, we're what you might call 'ex-Quakers.'"
Leonard was unacquainted with the Quakers, except for the
poet Whittier, so he refrained from further comment or interro-
gation. He picked up the songbook, scanned the index, and chose
a number. "I'll sing this one if you'll play for me, Gladys."
"I don't know that one, Leonard. It's quite new."
"I think it's mighty pretty. Will you let me play it?"
"Certainly. Can you play too?"
She quickly arose from the bench, and soon Leonard's agile


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Behind the Veil
So much happens behind the veil. There we taste life's sweetest
joys and bitterest sorrows. Behind the veil a kindly Fate may
bestow upon us lavish blessings, and we revel in ecstasy—behind
the veil. Yes, behind the veil! There, the Wise Man said, "the
bread we eat is pleasant to the taste." Who cares what else he
said?
"The dead are there?"
Yes, but why worry; the dead are everywhere!
Leonard wrote Gladys a letter that night. Then he tore it
up. He wrote her several more letters and tore up every one of
them. He didn't know why he should write her a letter at all.
He only knew he just had to do so. But his mind was flustered.
When he returned from the miller's he found Mrs. Harker
on her "high horse." He had remained away nearly all day—had
wasted a good, warm working day in June—when the garden
needed hoeing, and the flowers transplanting, and there were
chicken coops to build, etc., etc. Oh, he was "gettin" so no 'count
he warn't worth his keep no more."
Then Sybil followed him to the barn at milking time and
teased him outrageously. He made matters worse by telling too
much, giving her information from which she could deduce the
truth he was trying to conceal. So he just couldn't write a letter
that pleased him.
He went downstairs and got the Cyclopedia of Useful Knowl-
edge and, for an hour, read and reread every "friendship" letter
in the volume. Then his letter, after a dozen more trials, became
a note. It read:
My dear girl:
I am glad you promised to be my girl, Gladys. You are the
first real girl I have ever had and I like you better than any girl


BEHIND THE VEIL
171
I have ever seen and I always shall like you to my dying day.
Look for me Sunday about three o'clock.
Your o'bt servant,
Leonard
The next morning he went to Brinkley, posted the letter, and,
before he returned home, wished he had it back so he could put
more in it. That week he worked harder around the place than
he had ever worked before, and was so cheerful and willing the
old lady said she couldn't see "whut's come over him."
But Sybil remarked, "Maw, Pap ought to send him after a
red pig every week."
Gladys was naturally cheerful. No matter what the sorrow
of the night, joy came to her every morning. Leonard's visit only
increased her exuberant cheerfulness. But, because it also in-
creased her loquacity, Mrs. Jones was compelled to express her
opinion of the boy to her daughter, which she certainly would
not have done had Gladys not forced her to do so. Between
mother and daughter, her only child, there was a comradeship
that tolerated little secrecy and no hypocrisy.
"Mama, isn't he nice?" she exclaimed when she returned to
the kitchen. "He's the nicest boy I've ever met. And can't he sing!
He's smart, too, isn't he, Mama?"
"Yes, he seems to be a nice, well-bred boy. I wonder what
those Harkers think about him. I don't think he likes them very
well—none but the old man. It's strange he hasn't finished school
yet. He seems to be well learned."
"He never said a word about going to school, did he? Maybe
he doesn't go at all. I'll ask him when I see him again."
"What?" Mrs. Jones looked hard at her daughter.
"Oh, he's coming back Sunday afternoon, Mama. He can
come and see me, can't he, Mama?"
Mrs. Jones made no reply, and Gladys knew her mother's
silence was always golden. In this case it meant, "Yes."
That June night was pleasant. White, red, pink, and yellow
roses, bursting into bloom, filled her room chockfull of their
fragrance. She was healthy and happy and her wants were few.


174
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
home. He threw the summer laprobe and his coat over her shoul-
ders, and they laughed merrily as they ran swiftly to the house
and to shelter.
And there for the first time she kissed him, a spontaneous
kiss on his forehead, kissed him quickly and ran away to the
kitchen where her mother was. Love—love—young love! What
happiness you bring! Who has never found you has never found
Life. For Love is the very genesis of Life. Blessed—so blessed are
those, Love, who can walk hand in hand with you down the
path of the years—and never grow weary of your company!
While Leonard was driving homeward, Abner and Mary
Jones were conversing with their daughter in the little sitting
room. The girl, sitting on her father's knee with her face hidden
against his shoulder, was weeping softly. That very afternoon
a serpent had entered her Eden, a serpent which the Holy Christ
himself has not yet been able to destroy. The father's gentle hand
was smoothing the girl's golden hair—still damp from the rain-
drops—while he talked to her in low and serious tones.
"Gladys, we hate it—your mother and me. We hate it, we do.
So much for your sake. We didn't know, that is, we didn't know
the truth of it. But it's so. John Blakemore asked George Harker
yesterday. John is our friend. He's warned us in time. You've
always obeyed us and you'll do so now. We are only thinkin' of
your good. He mustn't come to see you any more."
"But I can't tell him—I can't tell him. Oh, what shall I do?"
She rose quickly from her father's knee, darted into her room,
and flung herself face downward on the bed. She was weeping her
very heart away. Abner Jones followed to the door.
"You'll obey us, chicken. We know best." He closed the door
softly.
He arrived early at her home the following Sunday after-
noon and knew the moment he entered the sitting room that
someone had been discussing him with her family. The girl and
her mother welcomed him cordially, but there seemed to be a
black cloud there.
He had been there only a little while when Bob Wilkins came


BEHIND THE VEIL
175
in. This young man a year older than Leonard—was a distant
relative of Elizabeth's, "the fast girl” who was the Harker's
housemaid during Sybil's absence. He was a green, lanky boy, so
illiterate he could hardly write his name. He worked as a farm
hand for any who needed his services, and, it was said, could
cut more cordwood in a day than anyone in the county
When the mother left the room, Bob tried to put his arm
around Gladys and she pushed him away.
"Let me alone, Bob,” she commanded.
"Ah. Yer tryin' to be sorta techy, hain't yer?”
He made an ugly grimace and pointed a forefinger at her,
which he shook rapidly.
"Bet yer'd let me kiss yer if this little niggie boy warn't
here,” he remarked.
The blood rushed to Leonard's face. Gladys quickly tried to
change the conversation, and inquired about Bob's mother.
"Oh, she's well, I rickin'.” He turned to Leonard and grinned
foolishly. "Hain't yer some kin ter 'Nigger Jim Larks?" he in-
quired.
The subject of his inquiry was a very large, very dark, and
very ignorant Negro, who lived in a rotting cabin on the island
of Little Cuba. He had often been convicted and jailed for petty
larceny, and his reputation was more unsavory than that of any
person of color in the county.
The look Leonard gave him would have silenced anything
but a fool. This insult was too much. He rose to his feet and was
so angry he stammered. “I'm g-goin', I guess. Come outside a
minute, Bob. I-I—want to tell you something."
The girl read murder in his eyes. "Oh, wait a while, Leonard.
Papa wants to see you before you go."
When she left the room, Leonard moved to a chair in the
corner, as far away from his tormentor as he could get. Bob sat
there still; he was grinning like an opossum, and began repeating
over and over, "Niggie-niggie-niggie. Comin' tuh see er white
gal. You niggie—niggie—niggie.”
Oh, how Leonard wanted to taste his blood! His fingers
gripped a knife in his pocket, and only his deep regard for Gladys


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
In the Clover Field
George Harker, the eldest son, had become chief manager
of his father's affairs. The old man, now past ninety, was telling
his relatives, friends, and all he chanced to meet that he had
decided to take a rest for the remainder of his life, so he could
be a little used to resting when he died and went to his eternal
rest. But, although his step was slower and his hair whiter and
his shoulders drooped, his memory remained good and his mind
was alert and keen. He was still the strong-willed boss of his
business. His son, or others of the family, might beg or argue
special favors of him, but it was hard for them to fool him out
of anything. He still managed to keep one eye on his bank account,
and demanded his just share of every litter of pigs, bushel of
corn, pound of tobacco, or anything else produced on his large
farm.
Between the patriarch and Catherine's child there developed
an attachment which brought comfort and a degree of happiness
to both. The boy, gentle and patient by nature, was now his
constant companion. He drove him where he wanted to go—
away from home or about the farm. He helped him to attend to
his personal interests; the flock of sheep he loved; the pure-bred
pigs he was raising; the acre of smooth-head wheat he was grow-
ing as an experiment.
The old man repaid him with many favors. He purchased a
fine rifle for him, and kept him supplied with good warm cloth-
ing. He bought him books, magazines, and papers, which he
devoured. The old gent was wise, too, and could answer most any
question the boy asked. Neither mentioned school any more, for
school meant that the ties that bound them would be broken, and
the ties had now become strong.
But the old man was too good to him. Jealousy and envy arose
in the hearts of all the children, grandchildren, and great-grand-


IN THE CLOVER FIELD
179
Then August came, and on the very first day of that month Sybil
got a letter from Bernice, stating she was coming to visit until
the opening of school.
Bernice, her brother Phil's youngest daughter, was the baby
of the "stawrsteps" Mary, the cook, had told Mrs. Vanalban about
some eighteen years before. Then Phil was poor and struggling
hard to feed and clothe his large family. But the years had brought
him good fortune. Blessed with a wife who talked too much, but
withal possessing an abundance of ambition, industry, tact, and
common sense, he had forsaken the farm near Cuyler for a fac-
tory in Bridgeville—from there, to selling sewing machines—
then to an insurance office and on into politics. A shrewder poli-
tician than his father, he had twice been sent to the Ohio Legis-
lature; twice he had been elected clerk of the county court; he had
served one term as sheriff, and at that time was Bridgeville's post-
master. Bernice had attended school with Sybil at the Seminary.
When Leonard entered the house, the girl was holding the
letter in her hand. Her mother and Elizabeth were listening to
her description of her niece. "Maw, Bernice isn't a bit like the
rest of us."
"Wal, she couldn't be, Syb. Phil's her daddy but her long-
tongued maw— Nobuddy iver did find out whar she come from
or who she war."
"She's a brunette, Maw, and has the blackest eyes and hair.
And she's a regular devil. Everything we've got lying around we
don't want broken we'd better move before she comes, for I
know she'll take the house. Why, 'Lizabeth, she has regular
tantrums. This old cabin'll be alive while she's here. She even
kicks and talks in her sleep."
"Will I have to drive after her?" Leonard inquired. The
description had interested him.
"No," said Sybil. "She can come in with Jute. Riding in
a jolt-wagon will do her good. Besides, you'll have to help us
change the straw tick on the bed in Erne's room, and you'll have
to drive to the 'seven acres' after the new straw."
"Well, I'm not going to fill that tick myself. It holds half a


180
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"Shet up," said the old lady. "When did yer got so big 'roun'
here you kin say whut yer'll do er won't do?"
As usual, Leonard held his peace, but when he went to the
"seven acres" after the new straw, Sybil and Elizabeth went with
him.
Bernice arrived the next day. She came like a cyclone. Her
grandparents and Sybil were standing on the back porch awaiting
her. Jumping out of Jute's wagon, she ran like a gazelle through
the big yard, grabbed her grandparents, and kissed them a dozen
times or more each, and talked so fast one would have thought
she was two persons.
Leonard was out of sight but he was looking at her. He had
never seen a girl like her before. She reminded him of a picture
of a Spanish dancer he had seen in a book. She was almost as tall
as he was, but not too slender—"built up just right," as they
said of blooded colts in Kentucky. Her black and glossy hair,
confined within a net, was a mass of ringlets and curls. Her eyes
were large and lustrous, her skin more creamy than white, and
her lips had the Harker half-pucker but they were full, red lips.
She was more beautiful than any Harker girl Leonard had seen,
but one would not compare the beauty she possessed to that of the
lily or the rose. Her beauty was like that of a perfect Maiden
Blush apple.
When Leonard entered the sitting room at supper time she
saw him and sprang from the piano stool. "Oh! This is Leonard!
Gee, what a pretty boy. Why Sybil he looks just like—"
"Sh-h-h-h-h!" Sybil clapped her hand over her niece's mouth.
"Bernice, get ready for supper and don't talk so much."
At supper she sat beside her grandfather and across the table
from Leonard. She could not keep her eyes off the boy. He
assumed an air of indifference, but she made him talk. When
he finished a sentence she would remark, "So interesting! He's
smart, isn't he, Sybil?"
"Yes. That's because he hasn't been around you any." They
all laughed.
That night, a troop of aunts, uncles, and cousins came in and
Leonard retired to his junk room. But the next morning . . .


IN THE CLOVER FIELD
181
Bernice was up with the chickens and dressed in her riding
habit—the first one Leonard had ever seen. She wanted to ride
over the farm. She wanted to see the sugar camp and Pigeon River
her "Daddy" had talked about so much. She wanted to go swim-
ming in real running water that afternoon.
"Come on, Leonard," she commanded as soon as he came
downstairs. "You'll be my slave while I'm here, won't you? Syb
is so lazy she makes me sick. Can't he go riding with me, Grandma
—Grandpa?"
"If you kin git him to," whined the old lady. "Silas won't
make 'im do nothin' no more."
The old man and his wife were still in bed. Leonard remarked
that the horses were in the pasture and would be hard to corral
so soon in the morning.
But Bernice was a determined body. She meant to get what-
ever she wanted. She showed her impatience by stamping a little
foot and shaking herself like a sitting hen just off the nest and
exclaimed, "Oh, come on, Leonard. I'll help you catch the horses."
Then, grabbing his hand, she pulled him out of the house.
She ran swiftly all the way to the barn. The horses were
at the gate but they saw her coming toward them and galloped
away. After much trouble, they got them within the barn lot
and Leonard saddled Pearl and Hal. Bernice wanted to ride Pearl
and he let her have her way. She rode well on a man's saddle, and
they were out for more than an hour.
Her conversation was all nonsense—mostly to herself—to
her mount—or to the world at large—until they came to the
clover field. Here, he dismounted to open a gate so she could ride
through, but she also dismounted. When he turned from closing
the gate, she was standing very still, facing the east, her eyes
surveying the scene before her.
"Oh, Leonard! Oh, isn't it beautiful! No wonder Daddy told
me it's the prettiest spot on earth."
The field was covered with a green carpet of round clover
leaves—the new second crop—and dewdrops glistened on the
carpet like diamonds on green velvet. Through the leaves and
branches of the tall sycamores on the riverbank, the rising, red


182
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
sun was shimmering. Directly below them in a little hollow cov-
ered by shrubbery and bushes, the running water of a spring
branch could be heard as it glided over the rocks and tumbled
into deeper depressions. And the sky was cloudless and the morn-
ing air cool and invigorating.
They remounted and rode on through the field to the river.
Here, where they stopped, the water was quiet and very clear.
They could see the reflections of their faces quite plainly, as the
horses drank. The girl looked into the water, then suddenly
raised her head and looked at her companion.
"Leonard, don't you know you're a very pretty boy? You look
just like—" She stopped quickly and bit her lips.
"Who? Who? Who do I look like, Bernice?"
"Oh, they told me not to tell you. I'm going to tell you a lot
though, some day. Some day, when we're both older, I'll see you
again. Then maybe I'll tell you."
"Please, Bernice. Tell me now," he pleaded.
A few yards down the river, on a branch of a small tree above
the water, a red cardinal sat and sang.
"Oh, lookee, lookee, Leonard! What a lovely bird. Do you
love birds? Did you ever rob a bird's nest? That's wrong, isn't
it? I'd like to see this spot in the winter. Can you skate, Leonard?"
The boy was bewildered. She was a living question box.
Returning to the barn, they dismounted and led their horses
into the driveway. Leonard unsaddled Hal, and, as he turned to
Pearl, they heard Sybil coming down the path, singing. Quick
as a flash, the intrepid girl threw her arms around him and kissed
him twice. "That's for being so good, Leonard—and—and—just
because I want to."
In a moment she had greeted Sybil, and arm in arm the
girls strolled up to the house.
During succeeding weeks, she rode with him often and she
kissed him many times. But the memory of Gladys was fresh in
his mind, and not once did he kiss her. Gladys was his angel,
and his angel protected him from the wiles of the young, vivacious
animal—this girl so full of life and fire.
Because Bernice tried to be his friend, she gained the ill-


IN THE CLOVER FIELD
183
will of most of her relatives. But she was as frank as she could
be, and her wit and sarcasm went to the marrow. When any of
them made an insulting remark about him in her presence, she
would resent it in a way that would quickly silence the insulter.
More than once she told them, "He's the smartest and best looking
boy I've seen in Blank County and that's because he wasn't born
here. You kinfolks give me the ague."
She remained until the middle of September, then left with
Sybil for another year at the Seminary. The day she left, she kissed
Leonard good-by before a score of them, and the boy immediately
saddled Pearl and rode away to Brackett's, for a chance to laugh
unseen at her relatives' shocked countenances, and to see if he
could get a glimpse of Gladys.


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In the Sheep Pasture
Winter came early to Kentucky that year. The ground was
white with snow before Thanksgiving Day. Leonard was kept
busy providing comfort and security for the farm animals, espe-
cially the flock of sheep, and supplying the numerous woodboxes
with firewood.
Jay Harker, the vagabond son, was now spending more time at
home, but he was utterly worthless. He was quarrelsome, too, and,
to keep out of his company, Leonard spent most of his spare mo-
ments in the junk room with his papers and books. Occasionally,
the old man would plod up the carpeted stairs and sit and converse
with him. Together, they would discuss the past and the present
—but never the future. If either mentioned the future at all,
that time would be limited only to the next season—the coming
spring, summer, or fall. Perhaps both thought often of a more
distant future—the boy, of life's greener pastures—the old man,
of Death's dark valley. But both were richly endowed with hope
and courage. Both were fighters—and fighters are unafraid.
Early one morning, George Harker, the eldest son, who with
his brother Ed, had spent the night with their father, followed
Leonard to the barn. The boy was surprised, when, on turning
in the driveway, he saw him standing there, his arms folded, his
squinty eyes peering at him through the darkness.
"You've got a right smart o' work to do nowadays, hain't
you, Leonard?" The tone of his voice was natural and not un-
pleasant. Never before had he given him so much as a kind look.
"Yes, sir," he said. "I guess I keep pretty busy."
"Why don't you go away to school this winter?"
"Oh, Mr. Silas can't do without me."
The man unfolded his arms and a sharp glint appeared in
the squinty eyes. "Yes, he can do without you. Ed's two boys can


IN THE SHEEP PASTURE
185
live here with him. Tell you what I'll do. I'll give you two hun-
dred dollars for Pearl and another fifty if you'll go. You're about
grown. Nobody likes you 'round here, and the old man's so
childish he'll never tell you you ought to go. What you say?"
"I'll think about it," he said, and George bridled and saddled
his horse and rode away.
Ten minutes later, Leonard related the conversation and
George's offer to the old man. The patriarch shook with anger.
His eyes flashed. He drew up his old frame to its full height, and
twenty years or more seemed to roll off his shoulders.
"The ungrateful wretches! They got five thousand from me
last night and now they're trying to buy you to leave me," he
roared. "Well, you're not goin'. I know what they want, and
that they're not goin' to get. You keep out of their sight as much
as you can and tell me every word they say to you. I'm boss around
here yet."
The moment he left the old man's presence, he remembered
that he had heard loud and apparently angry conversation be-
tween the father and his two sons downstairs the night before.
Now he knew they had been discussing him. But why? Why
should they be so anxious to get rid of him. He was a great help
around the place. He looked after the stock well, did most of the
chores, and kept a plentiful supply of wood on hand all the time.
He never bothered any of the Harkers at all, especially any of
the children or grandchildren. In spite of their scorn and insults,
he had refrained from striking back—even from "talking back"
to them. He could think of but one reason. They hated him be-
cause he bore the stigma, because he possessed a few drops of
Negro blood. They wanted to treat him, and they wanted him
to act, like a real "nigger." Because the old man protected him,
they would be rid of him.
These reflections awoke the spirit of hate long asleep in his
heart, and almost instantly he became a new person. Returning
to the house from the barn, he entered the hall, seized two heavy
sticks of wood, carried them into the sitting room, and tossed
them on the fire. The force of the action scattered live coals over
the hearth and beyond.


186
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
The old lady objected. "Be keerful what yer doin'. Hain't
yer got no sense?"
He glowered at her and stalked off into the dining room.
"Come back here an' sweep up!" she yelled.
"Sweep 'em up yourself," he echoed, and walked on to the
kitchen.
Elizabeth looked at him, smothered an hilarious laugh, and
patted him on the cheek. "That's right," she whispered. "Talk
up to her. She's been ridin' you ever since I've been here."
When he entered the sitting room again that afternoon, Ed's
oldest son, another "George" Harker, was sitting in the corner of
the fireplace, in his chair and place, his long legs extended before
the fire. Deliberately, and without excusing himself, Leonard
stepped over the lengthy limbs, squeezed between the chair and
the wall, and picked up a newspaper lying on the table.
"Looks like you mighta gone 'roun'."
"Looks like you 'mighta' take up a little less space." The
mockery and insolence his words and tone of voice conveyed
brought the blood to the face of this scion of the Harkers.
"Better be keerful. 'Member who you are 'roun' here."
Leonard looked at him and sneered. "Who do you think you
are? You're nothing but a piece of poor white trash, that's all
you are. If you don't like it, lump it."
He carried the paper upstairs and Elizabeth patted his cheek
again when he was alone with her in the kitchen after supper.
Then she said to him, "I'm glad you're takin' up for yourself. I
thought you'd learn some day."
"They've been trying to make a nigger out of me long
enough," he said. "I'm just as white as they are—whiter than
most of them. From now on, they'll treat me white or fight, I
don't care which. I'm not a nigger and I can't be a nigger. I don't
intend to try to be one."
But the boy was young. He did not know when he was making
this bold declaration to the simple housemaid what a day or a
night could bring forth.
That very night, a bunch of dogs got among the sheep and
killed a dozen of them. Leonard discovered the massacre early


188
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
burning sensation beneath his left arm, as though his clothing
were on fire. He sprang from the fork and fell to the ground,
there in the deep snow in the fence corner. As he started to rise,
he heard someone walking rapidly toward him from the direction
of the tobacco barn. He looked and recognized Jay Harker,
carrying a rifle in his hand. Instantly he toppled over on his
side, and lay there in the snow as still as a corpse.
Jay Harker walked up and peered at him with his bleary,
watery eyes. Evidently thinking he was dead, he picked up
Leonard's rifle, which had fallen over the fence, removed a loaded
cartridge from the chamber, and, taking the empty shell from his
own rifle, inserted it into the boy's. This done, he turned and
walked as fast as he could to the house.
Mere words cannot describe the boy's emotions when he
realized what had happened. To be made the victim of such
abominable treachery replenished the fires of hate already burn-
ing in his breast. When he rose to his feet he was smiling—no,
grinning. Grinning as an insane person grins. He could see it all
now—as plainly as he could see the shining moon.
It would be an accident of course. He fell asleep; fell out
of the tree, and his rifle was discharged and killed him. So plain
and simple. Anyone would believe that and that only.
"I'll get even with you! I'll get even with you!" He repeated
the sentence over and over. "I'll get even with you this night!"
For an hour he stood there in the snow leaning against the
fence, deliberately planning how he would kill Jay Harker. He
couldn't shoot him, for the report of the rifle would arouse the
whole house and he feared the wails and the screams of the old
lady. At last he decided he would beat him to death. As he en-
tered the hall, he would get the old man's heavy, knotted hickory
cane, which stood behind the hall door, and carry it upstairs
with him. Jay's room was in the old part of the house, to the
right of the stairs, not as high up as the junk room. He never
locked his door. Perhaps he would be asleep and it would be easy.
He was excited, determined, and bloodthirsty, and ran all
the way to the house and quietly slipped within. All were in bed,
and the old man was snoring loudly. Pulling off his heavy boots,


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In Tuskegee
Had Leonard been a man, it is quite probable he would have
disobeyed his guardian and not gone to Tuskegee. He didn't
want to be a Negro, and certainly he did not want to go to a
Negro school. He had never talked with an educated person of
color in his life. That race, as he knew it, was a silly, ignorant,
ugly, uncouth, grinning, smirking group of people. In fact, he
had an idea they were closely associated with the heathen, for he
knew that some of the money his Junior Missionary Society sent
away every quarter went to help support "our colored missions
in the South." True, he had heard of Booker Washington, but
he had not read Up From Slavery. He had also heard of Pete
Vinegar, Kentucky Negro revivalist. The old man had promised
to take him to hear Pete preach, but had never done so. The
white people said Booker Washington was a great man, a great
teacher, because he taught the "niggers" to be good, reliable
workers. They said Pete Vinegar was a great preacher because
he told his people to stop drinking "moonshine" liquor, stealing
chickens, and living with women without being married to them.
Leonard had as much regard for the colored preacher as he had
for the colored teacher. All he knew about either was what he
had heard the white people say.
It was fear, more than anything else, that forced the boy to
follow the old man's instructions. He realized he had committed
a serious crime. He desired protection. He rode the many miles
through the country to Cincinnati as quickly as he could, expecting
every moment to be overtaken by the Blank County sheriff or one
of his deputies. When he reached the city, late the next night,
every man he saw wearing a uniform frightened him. He slept in
a chair in the livery-stable office, and was glad indeed to receive
the information from the Negro "night man" that his "boss"
always came down "very early mornin's."


194
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
It was "Slap" Jackson who became his guide and mentor
during his first days as a Tuskegee student, and a more faithful
companion could not have been found. There was a reason-
perhaps several reasons. But there was one big reason. It was pie.
Samuel Lawrence Adams Paul Jackson was just as "black"
as Leonard was "white." Born on the Adams plantation in central
Alabama, he was given the boss's name because he had so many
brothers and sisters his parents had used up the names of all
the great white and Negro characters they knew. Then, before
little Samuel Lawrence Adams was a year old, his share-cropping
father received a "call” to preach. Then the Paul was added.
Slap was a night student, working his way through school,
and was the oldest occupant of Number Nine, Old Barracks. He
had been sleeping alone in the big double wooden bed for some
three months, and was sorely vexed when he came from his work
at the horse barn, tired and hungry that late December after-
noon, and was told by Mack and Alfred, the other residents of
Number Nine, that the stranger in their midst was Leonard Hall,
a new student. Slap looked the new boy up and down and
grunted.
"Say, boy. Ef yuh kick nights, yuh'll hafta sleep undah mah
bed 'stead o' in it. I'm tellin' yuh, boy. I gotta git mah res', 'cause
I gotta git up an' feed th' hosses while yo’ all's still sleepin', an'
I cain't be bothered wit' no kickin' mules in mah stall."
He talked very fast, and it was difficult at first for Leonard
to understand his words. The meaning of all of them he never
was able to understand, even after he had known Slap a year or
longer. The boys went in to supper together, and after supper
Leonard and Alfred went to the study hall and Slap and Mack
went to their night classes. It was not until after chapel exercises
at nine o'clock that the four met again in Number Nine.
"Pies, buns, an' doughnuts! Here's your pies, buns, and
doughnuts! Git 'em while they're fresh-git 'em while they're
good-git 'em while I got 'em—know you'd git 'em if you could!”
The song of the "pie man” was heard in the distance the
pie man who brought, every night after chapel, supreme joy
and satisfaction to those hungry students fortunate enough to


IN TUSKEGEE
195
have a nickel or a dime to pay for his wares, but untold misery
and disappointment to all not so fortunate.
That night Slap was one of the unfortunates. His income
seldom amounted to more than a dollar a month. That night,
too, he was hungrier than he had been for weeks. When he
heard the pie man he bolted through the door, but returned almost
immediately, crestfallen and dejected.
"Can't borrow a penny," he wailed. "That's alius it. Nobuddy
evah got it w'en you hain't got nothin'. Bet next time I gits a
dollah nobuddy'll know it but me. Alius th' way w'en ye're
hongriest. Nobuddy got nothin'!"
The pie man paused before Number Nine. Slap looked
longingly at the basket. Beneath that white cover reposed the
idol of his stomach—some yellow, sweet, and juicy lemon pie, or
a thick, creamy sweet potato custard. His thick lips parted, a
broad, red tongue appeared and lapped at the upper one. He
shook his head sorrowfully. Leonard looked at him, then at the
pie man, who at that moment was surveying the new boy up
and down.
"Give Slap a pie," he commanded. "I'll pay for it."
The white cover was thrown back. "Lemon, man, lemon! You
know what I eats. Gimme a juicy one—not more'n two weeks
old." Slap grinned broadly.
The other boys were looking on.
"Want anything else?" asked the charitable Leonard.
"Get some doughnuts," Alfred advised. "We'll get two
apiece. Can't waste too much o' your money."
From that night onward, until Leonard moved from Number
Nine into one of the brick dormitories, Slap was his closest com-
panion. He became his guardian and counselor, as well as his
personal attendant. He told him who, of their many needy neigh-
bors, would repay a borrowed dime or quarter and who would
not. He forced him to resist many a temptation to break a school
regulation he did not like. He taught him how to make up the
bed so the pine straw would not penetrate the thin ticking and
irritate his body. He kept a bottle of "blisterin' "—purloined
from the horse stable—on hand all the time to kill the obnoxious


IN TUSKEGEE
197
institutions. Their opinions did not coincide with Leonard's
about Miss Erouser.
"Who? Miss 'Eraser'?” said Alfred. "That white darky hain't
interested in nothin' 'cept 'rasin' out your good marks an' writin'
down worse ones. She wouldn't take an interest in Beulah Land
an' wouldn't give Christ a prayer."
Mack was more critical. "The most 'uppish' teacher here,” he
informed Leonard. “Thinks she's all of it 'cause she's got good
hair and good clothes. Half the time she won't speak to you
when she meets you in the big road. An' I bet her daddy was
some poor, low-down white man."
Slap alone was tolerant. He remembered Leonard's color and
features and was afraid his new friend might be hurt by the
plain talk circulating so freely. "Now—now. Let's don' be so
radical, boys."
Alfred gave a big "haw-haw."
"Listen,” he whispered loudly to Mack, " 'Radical! That's th'
new word he learned yesterday."
Slap ignored their jests. “I thinks I knows huh bettah than
all o' you. She goes ridin' 'bout every othah day an' I saddle huh
hosses. Hain't nevvah seen nothin' uppish 'bout huh. Wants
waitin' on aplenty, an' I'm right thar to do that one little thing.
She neyvah fo'gits nothin'. Look at dat present she sawn't me las'
Chris’mus, an' she's allus tellin' me how glad she is I git sich
good marks in 'labor.' She cawn't he'p huh looks an' color, no
mo' than Leonard heah cawn he'p his. Lots o' 'em don' like huh
jist 'cause she hain't choc'late er nappy-haired. They jist jealous
'cause she dicty an'—an' got th' looks an' kin w'ar th' clo'es. I
knows she hain't color-struck. Look who huh 'special frien' is.
He blacker'n me.”
"Oh, no, Slap. No. No. No. You hain't looked at yerself
lately. 'Blacker'n me'!” Alfred gave another big haw-haw.
Leonard's progress did please Miss Erouser. He was also
well pleased with himself. He had determined to excel in every-
thing, and he studied hard and wasted few moments. He took to
mechanics like a duck to water; chose to learn the machinist trade,
and the shop instructor was more than pleased when he expressed


IN TUSKEGEE
199
saved him, in later years, from despair and degradation were the
Psalms he memorized while attending the little Presbyterian Sun-
day school in Bridgeville, and the spirituals he learned to sing
at Tuskegee.


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In the Little Bungalow
In spite of the friendly atmosphere of his school, Catherine's
child was often solitary and friendless. The ambitions and in-
terests of Negro people excited his curiosity but did not appeal
to his consideration. He laughed more at his associates than he
did with them. But always, he tried to be agreeable, he tried to
see their intricate racial problems as they saw them, and, by so
doing, he learned to know humanity. Not black and white but
just—his fellow men.
Slowly he began to comprehend that there were black angels
as well as white angels and black devils as well as white devils.
He found good and evil all mixed up in everybody, just as he
knew it was all there, all mixed up in himself. He saw the con-
sequences of good and evil. Because he was endowed with keen
intelligence and common sense, he chose to be good. He knew
he would reap only what he sowed and his mind was on the
harvest.
Back in old Kentucky, Silas Harker read his weekly letters
and was happy and satisfied. "God works in a mysterious way,"
he repeated over and over. "It was all for the best. If Catherine,
the little kitten, knew, she too would be content." Then, when
he thought of his niece, tears would come into his dim gray eyes.
"She does know! She does know! God is letting her guide her
son!" He would muse and smile.
One day he broke his glasses, and that afternoon Jute brought
him Leonard's letter. Immediately he sent for one of his grand-
children. "You be here bright and early tomorrow morning. I've
got to catch the train to Lexington," he told the young man.
He went to Lexington and his wife and Elizabeth, the maid,
thought he had gone to get some new "specs." He had. But
before he went to the oculist, he went to the Seminary where
Sybil was. He had her come to him immediately, straight from an


IN THE LITTLE BUNGALOW 201
important class session. His daughter sat on the arm of the rock-
ing chair he occupied and he drew the letter from his pocket.
"Here, Syb," he said, "This is what I came for. Read me this
letter. You're the only one I can trust and don't you miss a
word in it."
With every letter he wrote to his ward, he enclosed a generous
money order. Leonard was earning more than half his expenses
by working at the school and his wants were few. Ere long he
had several hundred dollars to his credit in the bank.
He spent his first summer in the library and machine shop.
Before the opening of school, he moved out of Number Nine,
Old Barracks, into Number Two room, in one of the brick dormi-
tories. Here he became intimately acquainted with steam heat, elec-
tricity, and young men who talked little about pie but much
about their girl friends. Leonard was teased so often because
he didn't have, or "couldn't get," a girl, some of them said, that
he began to tell them about his girl back home. It eased his mind
and helped to close their mouths when he told them he didn't
have a special friend there because he loved the girl back home
and was going to marry her as soon as he was graduated. Some
of the boys thought he was wise and others thought him foolish.
Afterward, when alone, he wouldn't think about it at all, himself.
He was trying to forget the girl "back home."
Then one day, a fortnight before the Christmas holidays, he
received a letter from Lexington, written by a strange hand. Be-
fore he read it he looked at the signature. It was from Bernice.
He had almost forgotten the cyclonic, dark-eyed minx. They
had never corresponded, and Sybil had not mentioned her young
niece in any of the letters he had received from her, which were
few and far scattered. But as he read the letter between frowns
and smiles, he remembered her all too well. He remembered her
brunette loveliness—the black mass of ringlets and curls—the
velvety, creamy skin—the pearly teeth—the large, piercing eyes
—the slender, supple, healthy body she had never confined in
rigid corset stays or starchy petticoats, for Bernice always had
her way and would not wear such things. He remembered, too,
her sharp tongue, her keen wit and sarcasm. How, when angry,


202
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
she seemed to bite a piece off her every word, but when thoughtful
and content, how her voice sounded like music made by little
silver bells—like the rippling water of Pigeon River flowing
over one of the numerous shallows.
"You nervy little devil!" he exclaimed aloud when he had
finished reading the letter. Then he read it the second time.
"I want you to spend Christmas with me," she had written,
"and I'll accept no excuses."
Her plans were made. One of the numerous cousins and her
husband lived in Covington. This cousin, who was named after
her Aunt Effie, occupied a brand-new, modern little bungalow
which they had recently purchased. When they moved into their
new residence they desired a maid, a good one, and were willing
to pay more than the customary weekly wages. Bernice recom-
mended Edna, the colored girl who had been doing odd jobs
for Sybil and her at the Seminary. Edna was well pleased and
satisfied and so was Cousin Effie.
Cousin Effie and her husband were going to spend the holidays
with the relatives in the Brinkley community, and Bernice and
the maid were going to spend their holidays at Cousin Effie's.
Cousin Effie knew Bernice would be in Covington with a school
friend, but, of course, she did not know the school friend. Cer-
tainly, she had no idea Bernice and the "school friend" would
spend the holidays in her little bungalow. No one knew this but
Edna, who loved Bernice, and had too much sense to talk. The
"school friend" and Bernice would leave before Cousin Effie's
return. And Leonard read the second time: "Won't it be a grand
and glorious Christmas for us? You come, Leonard. You be sure
and come. I just must see you. I really and truly love you. Answer
at once and don't say no. Here's your railroad fare." In the letter
was a twenty-dollar bill.
He read that letter over and over. He was surrounded by
Negroes, was eating and sleeping with Negroes. All he heard,
saw, and touched was negroid. But, somehow or other, that letter
absolutely separated him from his surroundings. He knew he
cared nothing for Bernice as a girl. He did not appreciate her
friendship, although he believed it was sincere. But he adored that


IN THE LITTLE BUNGALOW
203
little letter in the pink envelope because a white hand had written
it. A white girl's mind had composed it. A white girl's heart had
conceived it. He slept with it beneath his pillow. It became the
link that united him to the people and the race that had disowned
him—the race and the people with whom he still believed he
belonged.
But he answered the letter at once, refused the invitation, and
returned the money. "I'm too busy to come," he told her. "You're
the best and the sweetest young Harker alive, but I can't come,
even for you. You're apt to get caught and get into trouble and
I'll be wasting time and money. Besides, we're going to have a
mighty good time here."
Within a week, Bernice had written again and the twenty
dollars were in the letter. "So you are going to have a good time
there, are you?" she wrote. "Well, we, you and I, are going to
have a better time in Covington. If you're fond of any chocolate-
colored girl down there you had just as well forget her, right
now. If you're still crazy about that milk-white, moveless Gladys
Jones, you'd just as well forget her too, for Syb tells me she's
going to marry Arnold Larkins."
Arnold was a lawyer's son and lived in Blankton, the county
seat of Blank County. The information hurt Leonard but he be-
lieved Bernice was lying.
"If you don't come, I'm coming after you, for I'm going to
see you Christmas if I hang for it. If you can be colored, I can,
too, for you're as white as I am, and I'll tell those educated col-
ored folks down there when I come that I'm your sister. They'll
never know any better. And, too, I've got a lot to tell you, a lot
no one will ever tell you if I don't. They don't think I'll tell
you, but I will tell it, just because I love you, Leonard. I have
loved you all my life, even if you didn't know it and don't be-
lieve it now. I saw you in my dreams long before you ever saw
my face. Please come, Leonard. I must see you. I want to tell
you about your mother."
Those last eight words took him to Bernice—to Bernice's
Cousin Eme's little bungalow in Covington, sitting on the bluff
above the river. They took him to the girl who loved him—loved


IN THE LITTLE BUNGALOW
207
So bright the skies:
So soft my flesh;
So bright my eyes.
Ah, I am young and tender,
And you have found me, lover;
No sorrow I remember,
No sin have I to cover;
So soft the breeze;
So bright the skies:
So soft my flesh;
So bright my eyes.
Pale moon so high above me,
• You know what I've been missing;
A man to hold me, love me;
A man I would be kissing:
So soft the breeze;
So bright the skies:
So soft my flesh;
So bright my eyes.
He did not get a chance to think about himself, his new-
found relatives, or his future, until he was on a train again, bound
for Tuskegee. Bernice traveled with him as far as Lexington and
introduced him to some of her schoolmates who boarded the
train at different stations on the way. Some university students
were also in the coach, and they had a happy time together. He
informed them he was attending the University of Alabama.
But he tried hard to think after he had kissed Bernice good-by.
He wondered if he had been wise or foolish.


trav'lin' on
209
"trav'lin' on"! A new song! A new year! New faith! New de-
termination! New power! "Trav'lin' on!"
Leonard was humming the song when he undressed for bed.
He arose the next morning determined to be a "new boy." He
would forget the past. He would conquer his silly fears. He was
one of them—he would be one of them. He would be more
friendly, more intimate—yes, he would be a real Negro. Why not?
Negroes had nothing to be ashamed of any more than had the
white people. What else was he anyhow? It was the decree of
Fate.
That very day he tried to get friendly with a little light-
skinned Texas girl.
"What you doin', an' mean?" she asked. "Tryin' to make a
mash on me? You hain't the right color. I like dawk meat. You're
too white for me."
There was another very pretty girl in his class who often
talked with him and seemed to enjoy his conversation. She had
fine features, beautiful long hair, and, except for the full mouth,
possessed no noticeable Negro features. Her voice was soft and
low. It always reminded him of Gladys' voice. He knew she had
a special friend, but he was a poor night student who wore shabby
clothes and was in a low grade. "Why not her?" he thought. She
should be glad to be his special friend. Wasn't he good-looking,
a swell dresser, and often at the head of his class?
He was diplomatic this time. He wrote a modest note and
sent it to her by the girl who waited on her table. She replied
promptly. "I'm sorry, Leonard. I'll be your 'play sister,' but you
> know Jerry is my 'special friend' and he comes before all others."
Eventually he realized he had much to learn before he could
understand colored girls. They were different. He could be a
Negro, but it seemed he could not be the right kind of a Negro.
He just could not entertain a Negro girl as she desired to be enter-
tained. Most of them considered him "stuck up," a smart-aleck,
and an egotist. He was "set back" so often he was about to give
up his efforts to find a special friend, when one day he discovered
little Alice Boone.
She was certainly a frail little miss and he felt sorry for her.


210
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
A new student, and very intelligent, she had entered school as a
"Middler," the grade he was in at that time. But malaria sent her
to the hospital before she had attended classes a week. For three
months she hovered between life and death. When able to travel,
her parents came and took her back home. She had re-entered
school the first of the year.
She was writing an essay in the library one day, and Leonard
was sitting across the table directly opposite her. He could not
help but notice the frown that flitted across the pallid, reddish-
brown face, and the little wrinkles that appeared between the
glancing eyes. She returned his smile, and he arose and sat down
again beside her.
That day he helped her with the essay and thereafter she
clung to him. She was certainly the clinging vine type. He never
asked her to be his special friend. It wasn't necessary. Soon he
was escorting her to the games and social affairs, and she was
laundering his handkerchiefs, pressing his neckties and scarfs, and
doing other little kindnesses Tuskegee girls were supposed to do
for their special friends. Her mates teased her about her "white
man," and the boys guyed him and asked him how it felt to rock
the cradle. But Alice took on some flesh, her hair grew lengthy
and thickened; she stood, with Leonard, always at or near the head
of their class, and the time came when some of those who had
once guyed him tried hard to take the little miss away from him.
He continued to progress well in his studies and began experi-
menting on a mechanical device, an engine reverse gear, which
occupied all his spare time and interested him so much he decided
to remain at the institute the second summer, and, if possible,
complete the invention. Alice also was going to stay, for she was
taking a course in nursing and was compelled to make up for the
time she had lost during her illness. He was anticipating a pleas-
ant vacation period. All was well and he was content. He felt
indeed as though he was "trav'lin on."
The early southern springtime came. He wrote the old man
and told him how beautiful everything was—the flowers and bud-
ding trees, the balmy days and starry nights. The old gentleman
replied and told him to "send some of that good weather up here


trav'lin' on
211
for we're having the coldest, dampest, latest spring I've seen in a
generation." He told him the cold he contracted Christmas was
getting worse instead of better. He advised him, as usual, to take
good care of himself and save his money.
Recently the letters had been shorter than usual, but the money
orders had been larger. Since Bernice had told him about his
mother's legacy, he understood why. He knew his guardian was
sending him a portion of the money due to be paid to him when
he reached his majority. Convinced that he would be independent
financially, he became more liberal and donated freely to the
many worthy enterprises in which the school was interested.
He was a second lieutenant in the student battalion, and one
day, in early March, was enjoying himself at the officers' picnic.
This affair was the supreme social event of the season. Only com-
missioned officers and their special friends could attend it.
He was very proud of little Alice that day. Attired in a new
pink gown, she was wearing a half-open pink rosebud in her hair
and looked prettier than any girl there. He had maneuvered to
slip away with her unnoticed by the crowd, for the express purpose
of telling her how pretty she was. Then, when she hung her head
and blushed, as she always did when he paid her a compliment, no
one but himself would see and no one would tease her.
They were returning to join the others when he noticed the
assistant Commandant coming rapidly to meet them. The young
lieutenant saluted and the captain returned the salute. "I have bad
news for you, Lieutenant," he said and handed Leonard a tele-
gram.
He read the brief message from Sybil and his heart filled with
sorrow. "Father is dead. Come home at once."
Alice laid her little arm in his and they walked slowly. He
had told her about his guardian, but not that they were related.
He had told her how good and wise he was, how he had protected
him, how he advised and instructed him.
"I sympathize with you, Leonard," she said. "It's just like los-
ing a father and I don't know what on earth I'd do if I lost my
father. My father is like you are, big and strong—in mind and in
body," she continued. Then she looked at him like a frightened


212 RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
bird, fearing she had said too much. He caught her hand and
pressed it.
"Thanks, Alice. No one else will sympathize with me. They
won't believe I have any feelings—just because—because—"
He ceased talking, but she was looking into his face, and her
eyes demanded the conclusion.
"Because I am colored."
Silas Harker was dead. His body was laid out in his bedroom.
Leonard saw the coffin through the curtainless window as he drove
up to the farmhouse in the dim light of the dawn. "Wait," he
told the colored lad who had driven him from Tuckertown. "I'm
going on back."
He opened the front door, walked down the hall, and entered
the sitting room before any of them knew of his arrival. The logs
in the fireplace were burning feebly and the hanging lamp over
the center table was turned low.
"Good morning," was his only salutation.
He could not distinguish who they were—these children,
grandchildren, and other relatives. Some were asleep in their chairs,
some were awake, some with heads bowed, some with eyes turned
toward the flickering fire.
"'Lo, Leonard. Hi—i" and a few grunts were their responses.
He picked his way between them, walked into the bedroom,
and stood beside the coffin. There he wept. Someone entered the
room behind him, but he was not ashamed of his weeping and did
not try to hide it. He did not know or care who saw or heard him
weep. Silas Harker was his friend. Silas Harker had loved him.
Silas Harker had protected him. And he had loved Silas Harker.
"Good-by forever." He uttered the words in a broken whisper
and turned his eyes from the dead man's face. A half-dozen curi-
ous countenances appeared within range of his vision. He only
saw Sybil's. She, too, had been weeping—with him. The others
stood there, dry-eyed and half sullen. They could not clasp his
hand. They could not comfort him. They could not sympathize—
not with him. He was the pariah. He bore the stigma. He was
hardly human.


trav'un' on
213
"I'm going on back. The boy is waiting. Thanks for your tele-
gram, Miss Sybil."
"No, Leonard," she said. "Not 'til after the funeral. Go on
into the kitchen and get some breakfast." She turned to one of the
auditors. "Go out there, Jim, and tell the boy who drove Leonard
here to go back. Leonard is staying."
Jay Harker was in the kitchen, drinking hot coffee and eating
like a gourmand. They greeted each other cordially. "Guess ye're
'bout starved, hain't yuh?" said Jay. "Nice for yer to come. Sorry
Pap didn't live tuh see yer ag'in."
The man he once thought he had murdered was looking better
than he had ever seen him look. He was a "prayin' man" now,
Leonard was informed. Silas Harker's prayers had been answered.
Soon Sybil came to the kitchen with Elizabeth, then Bernice
came with her father and one of her brothers. It was the first
time Leonard and Phil had met. He was a true Harker—more like
his father than any of the children. They ate and drank together,
and talked until the gray morning was visible through the narrow
windows and the lights were blown out. Then Leonard went to the
barn, fed and curried and bridled a young sister of Pearl's, and
rode away, carrying his grief with him and leaving the family with
theirs.
He rode down into the sugar camp and dismounted at a
familiar stump, which brought back memories of sorrow and of
joy. There he knelt and prayed. When he arose he felt better. He
rode on to the river, and thought of the mill farther down the
crooked, narrow stream, and of the miller's house and Gladys. He
returned through the clover field, and remembered the day he had
stood there on the brow of that hill—there with Bernice. Then he
remembered the little bungalow in Covington and tried to feel
ashamed of himself but couldn't.
He rode on to Brinkley and returned in time to feed his mount
and to see Silas Harker's body carried from the house by his sons
to the narrow hearse standing below on the pike. Then he followed
in the procession, on to the Methodist church, which was filled to
overflowing. He pressed through the crowded aisle and sat down
again on the steps at the side of the pulpit. This was his place. It


214
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
had never belonged to another. Silas Harker had given that place
to him. And wasn't he a Negro? It was the place for him, separate
and apart.
He never heard the mournful hymns or the lengthy prayers
and sermons. He knew the man in the coffin so well—so much
better than those who sang and prayed and preached and mourned.
They would soon forget him—all of them—even his own chil-
dren. But he would never forget him. Silas Harker—Silas Harker's
soul—would walk with him down the paths of life, would always
be with him, his protector, his comforter, and his guide.
They buried him on top of a rocky hill, in the old Harker
burying ground. They buried a great Kentuckian—the last noble-
man of his clan. They buried a Christian who was not a hypocrite,
an honest man who was always honest, a fighting man, who fought
as hard against the wrong as he fought for the right, a humble
man, who was not afraid to acknowledge his sins, a gentleman,
even among the lowliest of his fellows, a white man who was
white. May his spirit keep "trav'lin' on"!
Blinded by his tears, the boy did not try to see those at the
church or at the burying ground whom he might have known.
What interest did he have in them anyhow? The one weak link
that had united him with the Harker family and the Brinkley
community had been broken. But he had forgotten another link—
one that had not been broken. Ah, not yet!
Bernice and Sybil had gone to the railroad station in Tucker-
town, direct from the cemetery. He had lingered and bade them
adieu. Most of the buggies, carriages, and those on horseback had
gone—gone down the narrow, rocky road to the turnpike—on to
their homes, far and near. Yes, it had been a big funeral. That
funeral would be long remembered. He was taking a midnight
train, and had several hours longer to wait. He would return to
the farmhouse, eat supper, and talk with Elizabeth.
He rode down the hill, crossed the little branch, and started
up the lane on the other side. A buggy, bouncing over the rocks
in front of him, came to a stop. Gladys and her mother and father
were in the buggy. They were waiting for him, but he was face to
face with them before he recognized them. He removed his hat


trav'lin' on
215
and bowed. Abner's friendly, drawling voice saluted him. "Glad
to see ye again Leonard. Very sad occasion, though."
He was wearing the everlasting blue shirt with the stiffly
starched collar, and Leonard saw the shirt before he saw its wearer.
He had just glanced at Gladys and had quickly averted his eyes,
for he realized, all too well, that if he looked again into the
depths of those blue eyes, he again would be a captive, a slave.
Their magic luster would hypnotize him—again he would fall a
victim of self-pity and melancholy—again he would have to go
through that awful process of forgetting. He had learned it was
hard to forget. Now, he was free, free of her race, her color, her
customs—her "set." Free, he would remain.
So he looked every way, toward the burying ground they had
just left, toward the woods in the distance, over the back of
Abner's horse toward a yellow, gullied field at the right—ahead
of him up the hill. He looked every way except toward Gladys.
Again he heard Abner's drawling voice. " 'Goin' back soon, Leon-
ard?"
'"Yes, sir. Tonight at midnight. It's almost examination time."
"Well, we're mighty glad to see ye. Ye look quite like a
grown man now. Hope ye abundant success."
His horse was restless and started on. He checked her quickly
in time to hear three good-bys echo from the buggy in unison,
and one of them was spoken sweet and low. He rode on ahead of
them but only a few yards. Abner called again. He reined his
horse. "Say, Leonard. How 'bout comin' over and takin' supper
with us? Ye kin ride down Brackett way to rh' crossroads an' won't
be very much farther from Tuckertown. Guess ye'll ride there,
hain't ye?"
"Yes, sir," he slowly replied. "I'm going to have a boy bring
the horse back tomorrow."
"Well, come on down an' sit awhile."
Then he looked toward the inside of the buggy and saw a
smile—a smile he had always loved—and two hopeful blue eyes
were shining.
"All right. Thank you, Mr. Jones. I'm going by home and
then I'll be right over."


216
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
The mare had been wanting to go and now he let her go. He
touched her flank with the switch he held and she trotted up the
hill to the pike. And there, on the better road, as she swiftly
trotted on, the sound of her ironshod hoofs striking against the
bedded rocks seemed to be a repetition of the words his heart was
uttering: "To Gladys—to Gladys—to Gladys!"
Elizabeth was alone in the dreary old farmhouse, and she re-
lated to him all the incidents of the old man's passing. "He just
laid down and went to sleep. Just as peaceful as a baby. He was
sitting in that chair and talking to us an hour before he died. Said
he was tired an' sleepy an' got up an' went to bed after we had
prayers. He was so quiet afterward, Aunt Judy looked in at him
an' he was gone. Wasn't that a fine way to die, Leonard?"
He admitted that it was. "The good Lord loved him, Eliza-
beth," he told her. "He couldn't let him suffer any. 'He giveth
His Beloved—sleep.'"
The lamps had never shone brighter in Abner Jones's home
than they shone that night as Leonard dismounted at the stile and
tapped on the door.
"Come right in, come right in, young feller. Been waitin'
for ye. 'Table's set, th' biscuits het, an' all the hands er hongry.'"
Abner repeated the rural doggerel and laughed and led the way
to the dining room.
He enjoyed the plain but well cooked meal as well as he had
ever enjoyed a meal in his life. There was so much love around
that table. And Gladys insisted that he keep on eating biscuits
because they were her biscuits, and the cake was hers too.
"Now, Gladys, you don't do all the cookin' around here,"
said her mother. "Leonard, I fried the meat."
"It's good too, Mrs. Jones." And he ate another slice of the
delicious home-cured ham.
He told them about Tuskegee and the South and they drank
in his every word. They thirsted for knowledge. They were that
kind. They always had. That was why they were broad-minded
and tolerant and above the average in their community. That was
why they were Christians and not just church members. That was
why.


TRAV'LIN' ON
219
"It can't be the 'Lover's,'” he whispered. "What shall it be?
The 'Conqueror's' kiss?"
"Yes, Leonard-sweetheart-friend, and make it a good one."
He pressed his lips to hers. It was a good kiss—a long kiss
a sweet kiss—and when he turned her loose both were laughing.
"Got to go," he said loudly, and advanced to the door. He
shook hands with her mother and father and Gladys followed him
to the stile. There he grasped her hand. "Good-by, Gladys.” And
he whispered in her ear, "The Conqueror rides away!"
He rode on. Sitting erect in the saddle, he raised his right arm
and clenched his fist. "The Conqueror! The Conqueror!” he re-
peated. “Gosh! You can even conquer love! I'm certainly 'trav'lin'
on'!"


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Changing Winds
IT WAS SUNDAY AFTERNOON when Leonard arrived at Tuskegee
—a warm and pleasant afternoon—and the band was giving a
concert of sacred music on the lawn in front of Alabama Hall. He
had been alone with his thoughts many hours: ever since he had
left the miller's house. The panorama of the past had appeared
before him more glaringly than he had ever witnessed it. He had
viewed the scenes of his turbulent young life and wished he
could erase all but a few of them from his memory. It seemed
that the sad, the cruel, the hideous pictures, were so much larger
that the sad, then the cheerful ones band and assen
He kept at a distance from the band and assembled students
and walked down to the Old Barracks. If Slap was in his room he
would talk with him a while. Slap's room was empty; in fact, the
whole building was empty. He saw only one student, a very tall
boy, who was standing in the hall before the door of his room
with a foot hoisted on a chair and a shining rag in his hand. He
was surveying the shine on the newly polished shoe. Leonard
understood why the boy was there at that hour. The eagle eye of
the captain or the sergeant had detected the unshined shoes that
morning at inspection, and their wearer had been sent from the
ranks in disgrace. Probably he had received fifteen demerits to
boot. It would be too bad for him if those shoes were not shined
before chapel that evening.
The boy only grunted when Leonard spoke to him, but a
mournful, melancholy tune emanated from his throat as soon as
the visitor was out of sight. Leonard's quick ear caught the tune
and also the words:
Oh I got nobody-ee-ee-ee-ee,
Fo' to tell mah troubles to-00-00-00.
Leonard went to his own cozy, comfortable room and sat down


CHANGING WINDS
221
on the edge of the bed. "Nobody to tell 'em to," he mused. "Yes,
they're all gone now."
Then he thought of Alice. The more he thought of her the
more he longed to see her. She was kind. She was sympathetic.
She was endowed with a lot of practical common sense. The more
he thought of her, the more he realized he needed her; needed her
badly right then. He needed her to "tell his troubles to."
He wrote a note to send to her during the supper hour, in-
forming her he was asking permission to see her in the girl's
parlor that evening before chapel. He obtained his request from
the matron.
She was as glad to see him as he was to see her. He told her
of his recent experiences in Kentucky—told her much, but nothing
about Gladys. She told him all that had happened after he left
the picnic that afternoon—told him much, but not that her chums
had teased her and told her he had gone where he would see some
of his white girl friends and that she was crazy to take up time
with htm. Now she would have something to tell them. It was the
first time he had ever visited her in the parlor. Parlor visits were
seldom allowed, and the girl fortunate enough to get a "parlor
call" from a special friend was envied. It was proof of a close
friendship—of what was considered to be more than mere friend-
ship.
His visiting time was nearly spent before he told her about the
song he had heard in the Old Barracks.
"That's why I came to you," he said. "Somehow I feel like I'm
going to have plenty troubles to tell someone from now on."
She laughed. She was wearing the plain, dark-blue uniform,
but it became her well, and for the first time he noticed how
slender her fingers were.
"Guess I can bear your troubles and mine too, Leonard. I'm
big and tough and hard as nails. They won't get me down, for I
never worry long about anything."
Her merry, sarcastic words brought smiles to his face. "Big
and tough! That's some joke. Bet you don't weigh ninety pounds."
"Oh, what a poor guesser! Why, I weigh a hundred and two."
He wanted to tell her much more. It was on his mind to ask


222
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
her to many him after they were graduated, but he could not
summon the necessary nerve. He wanted to be perfectly honest,
and he was afraid he didn't love her well enough to marry her.
In fact, he knew he didn't love her at all—not as he had loved
Gladys. Would it be all right to ask a girl you didn't love to marry
you?
But from that day on, little, friendly, sensible Alice was his
guiding light and shining star at Tuskegee. No matter how diffi-
cult or embarrassing the situations he got into, she seemed always
able to get him out of them, and in the right way. There was a
grown woman's head on her young shoulders. She mothered him
as she would have mothered a child. She always had so much more
to give to him than he could give to her, and, though he showered
on her every gift he could persuade her to accept, deep down in
his heart he felt she was never fully recompensed.
He wrote to Bernice every two weeks. In her first letter after
the death of her grandfather, she chided Leonard because he
neglected to seek an opportunity to be alone with her.
"I hardly got a chance to look at you," she wrote. "You must
have known how badly I wanted to kiss that sorrowful face of
yours. You'll understand some day how wrong it is to mistreat
one who loves you as much as I do."
He was always glad to hear from her as she kept him informed
about all the goings on at the Harkers', and her letters were full
of love right from the heart. He often wondered how she could
possibly love him so much when she must have known her love
was not returned in the least.
His letters to her were brief and full of nonsense. She would
be graduated from the Seminary in May. Early that month he
wrote to her and asked what she wanted for her graduation pres-
ent; he also inquired whether she would teach the next year or get
married. Her reply was frank.
"No, Leonard, sweetheart, husband. I am not going to teach
or marry. I hope to be busy mothering the dearest little thing in
the world—your baby and mine. I wouldn't tell you before be-
cause I didn't want to bother you with such good news till school
was out. Oh, Leonard, you don't know how happy I am. I know


CHANGING WINDS
223
I can never get you, but, just think, I'll always be able to hold
in my arms and have to love a part of you."
The "good news" surprised and worried him. He felt sorry for
her and was angry with himself. But he realized there was little he
could do. He offered to send any amount of money she needed,
but when she replied she refused his offer.
"Dad knows all about it," she wrote. "He even knows it's your
child, and he's treated me square. It will be born in a hospital in
Covington, and afterward I'm going to take a position with my
best girl friend's father, who runs a string of restaurants in
Indiana. I'll always be able to keep the baby with me. No orphan-
age for your child, Pretty Boy."
Summer passed and then came his senior year. Soon he would
be out in the world. He had heard much about that time since
entering Tuskegee. Tuskegee had been preparing him to face that
world—to face it as a true Tuskegeean. He knew the principles of
his Alma Mater and what was expected of every graduate. He
must go out and work and serve. He must be an example wherever
he went. He must bring no disgrace upon himself or upon his
school.
His teachers and instructors considered him to be one of the
few students Fortune had smiled upon. Most of his fellow students
wished they could stand in his shoes. Physically, he was well built,
he had a handsome face, his curly black hair was thick and
luxuriant. His only physical blemish was his color—he was too
white for a Negro, even for a yellow or mulatto Negro. He was
blessed with a keen intelligence; he had grasped and mastered
every subject he was taught. And he had money—plenty of money
—nearly two thousand dollars in the bank. Little wonder he was
envied, when 90 per cent of his fellow students had never pos-
sessed as much as fifty dollars.
Yes, he was prepared, and was going out into the world to
work and serve as a true Tuskegeean. Serve whom? His race, of
course. He would get a position in some machine shop and, after
he became of age and received his legacy, he would have a shop
of his own. He would join a colored church, a colored lodge,
colored clubs. He would marry a colored girl—probably Alice.


224
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
His children would be colored children. In spite of his color and
features, Tuskegee, now ready to graduate him, had made him a
pure American Negro.
Commencement came with all its worry, work, and excitement.
Alice was the second highest student, the salutatorian of their
class. He stood next to Alice. His teachers knew that all that kept
him from heading his class was his color. It would never do for
one so white to receive the valedictory honors before the many
southern and white visitors.
His graduation address was about machines and machinery.
Few understood what he was talking about; but at its conclusion,
he was roundly applauded. The audience was applauding the
young man, not his address. They were applauding him—the one
who had stood there before them looking so handsome in his new
captain's uniform, who had spoken so plainly, who had enunciated
so distinctly—who had shown in his speech not the slightest trace
of the dialect of his race. Every white mother and father there
would have been proud of him had he been their son. Some of
them secretly wished he was their son. Some of them felt sorry
for him; others wondered why he was there when he could have
been elsewhere—in some other school. Some of them even said in
their hearts that he was out of place there—there with those
Negroes. But not one of them would have accepted him as their
equal. Wasn't he there? Then—he bore the stigma.
He sang the hymn of his Alma Mater as fervently as any of
his classmates. Ah, "Mother Tuskegee," a noble son is leaving
your bosom! A son who loves you and respects you. A son who has
promised to be faithful to your teachings and never to forget your
instructions. There he goes, Mother, out into the world—your
son! Yes, you have made him a pretty good Negro. He doesn't
want to be a great President any more—he wants to be a good
machinist. He doesn't want to own a bank—he wants to own a
machine shop. He doesn't want to live in a mansion—he wants to
live in the kind of house ordinary colored people live in. He
doesn't want to ride in a Pullman—he wants to ride in a Jim
Crow coach. He doesn't want to sing a carol—he wants to sing a


CHANGING WINDS
225
spiritual. He doesn't want Gladys or Bernice—he thinks he wants
Alice. Mother, behold your son!
It is May—and he was born in the fall of the year. He won't
be of age for another six months. There is a fast-growing, in-
dustrial city in northern Alabama, where the ambitious and dili-
gent Tuskegee graduate can always get a job. His grips are packed.
The train is at the station. The conductor shouts, "All aboard!"


230
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
"What would you order, George, if you were real hungry?"
He looked up into the waiter's face. Then his eyes fell and his
mouth flew wide open; his shoulders gave a quick jerk. The waiter
was Giblets!
"Giblets," a fellow Tuskegeean, had come up on the same
train with him two days before. He had told him that he worked
in a restaurant every summer and got good tips but a mighty poor
salary. He had told Giblets he was going to get a job working at
his trade.
The waiter winked slyly and stooped low. "Don't be scared,
Hall," he whispered. "I don't blame you. I know how to keep
my mouth shut. Take it easy. I'll bring you a dinner you'll like."
He was relieved and thanked him When through dining,
Leonard tipped him a dollar. Giblets never let on. Instead, he
handed him his hat and bowed respectfully.
That night he wrote Alice a long letter and told her of his
troubles. He told her where he was living and how he was living.
He tried to tell her how he felt.
"I don't want to do this thing," he wrote. "I feel like I'm
sinning against my people—our people. If I continue like this, I'll
always feel like I'm living a he. I want to be true to myself and
to my race. I don't want to run away from this, so don't advise
me to leave Birmingham. I can't trust myself. If I leave here, I am
sure to keep on being white. I want to fight this thing out now,
once and for all; and I want the Negro in me to win the fight."
She replied immediately and her letter made him jubilant. He
kissed her photograph, which he kept well hidden, a dozen times
or more. Now he knew he would never be able to get along in the
world without her. She wrote:
Leonard, I think you're making a catfish out of a minnow.
You'll learn the ways of this country and the people by and by.
What's hitting a "poor-white" man? Aren't our men doing that in
this country every day? Sure, they'll give you ten years if they
catch you, and you don't try to settle it. But it will be easy to
settle. You call them "poor whites." If you knew them as well as
I do, you would know just how poor they are. The majority of
them are as poor in manhood as they are in gold. That's your cue.


IN BIRMINGHAM
231
Now you do this. Go to some good lawyer there, who usually
settles fighting cases between whites and our people, and tell him
to offer the fellow you hit fifty dollars to take up his warrant.
He'll be so glad to get your fifty dollars he'll forget you ever
struck him. That's more money than he's making in a whole
month—perhaps more than he's ever had at one time in his life.
Send the old gun back, too. And don't work in such places any
more. You were made to boss others—not to be bossed.
He settled the case in two days, settled it as Alice said he
could. But the Yankee in him would not permit him to give up
the room until his month was out. He had paid for a month's
lodging and he got it. But he was glad—so glad—when he moved
to Mrs. Jackson's, where a half-dozen other Tuskegee boys roomed
and boarded. Here they had a piano in the parlor and they sang
spirituals every night. He was glad when he could hold up his
head in a Negro church and when he could sit in a Negro barber-
shop reading a Negro newspaper. He was glad, too, when he
found a small, vacant building near the Negro district—but also
near the business district—that he could use as a machine shop.
He bought a few secondhand machines—a lathe, drill press, and
boring machine—and soon was getting some custom and earning
his expenses. Then he could experiment there with his newfangled
engine reverse gear. He was happy and satisfied.
In Birmingham he worked and dreamed throughout the sum-
mer. In September, Bernice wrote and told him about the birth of
a little daughter, whom she named Catherine Marcella. And in
November he celebrated the birthday of the son of another Cath-
erine, born twenty-one years before.


234
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
him, and did it. Then he could feel the raw sore which was so hard
to heal. Then he could feel the irritation of the rough cottonade
shirt he wore.
That night he wanted to remember—and he did remember.
He remembered the persecutions, cruelties, insults, slights. He
remembered well the first time a white hand had struck him with-
out cause. The bushy-browed stranger's hand—at Elwood's
mother's gate. His mother, too! His mother! So kind and tender!
So gentle and loving! How could anyone with a heart at all be
cruel to her?
But so many of them didn't have hearts—these white people.
These smart, Christian, civilized, cruel, devilish, mean white peo-
ple! So different from colored people. He had never heard of a
colored person being mean to a child. The most ignorant colored
person, though living in the depths of the South, though poor and
wretched and hardly human, even such a colored person as that
would fight anybody or anything—a white man or a circle saw—
about his children.
Leonard sold the few machines he had in his shop, packed
his grips, and purchased a through ticket to Bridgeville. He didn't
tell anyone he was leaving Birmingham—not even Alice. He
didn't know why he was going. But he knew something, some
power, impelled him.
He took a seat in the Jim Crow coach, and the Negro porter
politely informed him he couldn't stay there. Before Leonard
could stop him, he was lifting his grips from the rack. Into the
white coach they went, and he quickly glanced at the faces of his
fellow passengers. Near the center sat a girl reading a magazine.
He took the seat opposite her.
She reminded him of Cindy, the worst of the Harker women.
Brown hair and eyes, a rather full, round face. Perhaps Cindy
looked something like that when she was young. She raised her
eyes and looked at him and he felt uncomfortable. Soon he was
restless, moving about in his seat. Nothing he saw out the windows
interested him. Something was wrong—something. He had to
move.


236
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
And there was the Orphans' Home—newly painted a buff color.
It didn't look right. He wished they had left the brick walls red.
George Vanalban was in his office at eleven o'clock and he
told his secretary to admit the young man. Leonard entered.
"Shut the door," he said gruffly.
They faced each other. The young man was as tall as his
mother's brother. Steel-gray eyes met flashing black eyes on a per-
fect level. George Vanalban's eyes were hard and piercing, while
Leonard Hall's were soft and piercing. Vanalban could hurt and
never be sorry. Hall could hurt, too—but could bind up the
wounds he made.
"Well, what can I do for you, Leonard?"
"Give me a little information, Mr. Vanalban. I'd like to know
the exact amount of money my mother left with her Uncle Silas.
I'm twenty-one now."
George Vanalban turned red when he heard the words "my
mother." Perhaps it was because the young man emphasized those
two words. If Vanalban had any doubt his visitor was familiar
with the circumstances of his birth and early boyhood, Leonard's
nonchalant demeanor and positive manner of speaking dispelled
the doubt. Something resembling a hypocritical grin changed the
expression on the elder man's face.
"How much have they given you?" he queried.
"A thousand dollars."
The hypocritical grin changed to a sneering cackle. "Whew!
Hey-hey! A thousand dollars! Don't you think that's enough
money for a nigger to have to throw away?"
Once before in his life Leonard had felt as he felt that instant
—after George Vanalban uttered those words. Only once before,
the time he realized Jay Harker had attempted to murder him.
He laughed, clenched his fists, and advanced toward Vanalban.
"Take that word back, you insulting brute—you dog." His
large fist was dangerously near Vanalban's face. "Take it back, or,
by God, I'll brain you."
Vanalban knew he had met his match. He had kicked many
a man—men larger than Leonard—out of that very office. But he
knew he had better not try to kick the one there now.


BACK TO BRIDGEVILLE
237
"Take it back," Leonard repeated. "I mean for you to swallow
it. Now!"
"All right. I apologize. Didn't think it'd make you mad." Then
he talked on rapidly, "Can't tell you offhand how much it was.
Just a few thousand."
Leonard's jaws clicked. "I'm not asking for the money. Your
damned tribe'll need it before I will. I know I've been robbed.
You've all robbed me and your Uncle Silas, like you robbed my
mother. I just came to let you know I know it. Came to let you
know I remember you shoved me over and abused me in front of
your father's house when I was a kid. I ought to make you apolo-
gize for that, too. You're a dirty dog and a heartless beast. You'll
be dead pretty soon and you're one animal the world won't miss.
Lead the way out of here, you damned dog."
Vanalban was glad to be relieved of the young man's pres-
ence, and Leonard was glad to get away from the bank.
"If he ever comes here again don't let me see him. Tell him
I'm not in. Tell him I'm out of town—dead—anything. Keep him
out of here."
The banker's secretary had never seen him so agitated. He
left immediately for his residence and did not come out of the
house again all day.
Leonard returned to the depot. Then he thought of the letters
he was to write to Alice and Bernice.
"To hell with both of them," he muttered under his breath.
"Bernice! Love! Huh!" he grunted. "She's white. She's a Harker.
From now on I'm crushing everything white I can lay my hands
on. And the niggers—they'd be in my way. From now on it's hate
for hate!"


240
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Her clean, new shiny little room looked like an oasis in a
desert. There was hot and cold water, a desk and revolving chair,
a glass-topped table, a cupboard and covered jars of bandages,
gauze, and other surgical supplies. She felt very happy. Here was
opportunity—unusual opportunity. Hardly one colored nurse
among a thousand had such an opportunity as she had. She was
the only colored industrial nurse in Birmingham—perhaps in the
whole South. And, too, Leonard was somewhere in Birmingham.
She hadn't heard from him lately, but she knew she would hear
from him. They could be together again. Yes, she was happy.
She was examining her paraphernalia and supplies when the
two white men entered—the general manager and Tom Block.
Tom saw her first, for he entered first. He was blinking his eyes.
"Hello. You've got your first job, Nurse. Something's in my
eye."
He sat down in the chair in the center of the room beneath
the bright electric light and rested his head in the V-shaped
cushioned slot. The nurse wrapped some cotton around the end
of a little stick, dipped it in a solution, and her hand appeared
above his face.
"Which eye is it?" She talked like an experienced profes-
sional. There was no nervousness, no hesitancy.
"The right one—no—the left one." He continued blinking.
"Gosh! I believe it's both of them."
She examined his eyes, found nothing, but washed them out
anyway and gave him a piece of dean cotton. Then, going to the
basin, she rinsed her hands.
Tom looked at her as she turned her back to him, and the
general manager winked slyly. He knew the young man's weak-
ness. Remarking that he had to go to the office, he left the young
people alone.
Of course Tom got "fresh," as the colored girls say, when
insulted by white men. She expected him to get fresh. Poor-white
or rich-white, sinner-white or Christian-white, had he not gotten
fresh he would have been the lone one out of the dozen who
don't do so whenever opportunity presents. He continued blink-


BEHIND THE MAGNOLIAS
241
ing his eyes. Gose to her, he ran his hand down her arm, then
tapped her velvet-bronzed cheek.
"Certainly a neat little chicken. I like little women. How
about a date?"
She looked him squarely in the eyes and never blushed a
shade. "Nothing doing. I'm not that kind."
"Oh, come on. Be sweet. I'll give you a ten-spot." His face
was very red.
"Nothing doing," she repeated. "Not for a hundred of your
ten-spots. Leave me alone."
She backed away from him and looked toward the door. He
lingered a moment. Suddenly she faced him again.
"I know what you expect," she told him. "I need the position
and will do the best I can. But if you expect me to pay your price
for it, I don't want it. I like my own kind."
He was a white man and a gentleman among his kind. Yes,
he realized instantly she was also his kind. No difference at all but
the skin color. She had principles—high ones. She was intelligent.
She had plenty of common sense. She even had grit. She reminded
him of a few of the poor northern white girls he had met in Pitts-
burgh. He was compelled to say it. Her cool demeanor—her
flashing eyes—her sincerity—forced the words from him.
"I'll always admire you, Nurse. If any of this poor-white
trash around here bothers you, let me know about it. We'll get
along from now on." Then he laughed. "But I hope you back-
slide some day," he said as he walked out.
She remained there two years and never called on Tom for
assistance. She was always able to take care of herself. Then the
gas and the smoke and the dust got into her lungs, and she could
not get it out. Her physician asked her if she wanted to live. She
replied in the affirmative.
"Then get out of that mill and get away from this town," he
warned.
She did.
Two years—and Leonard Hall had left a red trail of sin and
folly from Bridgeville to the Pacific coast, then east to the South


242
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Atlantic, then north, and west again to Chicago, then down
through the central South. He was no longer a Negro. Neither
was he a white man. He was an arch-hypocrite. His name was not
Leonard Hall. He could not remember all the names he had given
himself. He was a purveyor of hate and ruin to every white who
fell for his false friendship—to every white he could betray.
They dropped into his clutches as insects fall into dripping
honey. He was handsome. He had a smooth voice and an oily
tongue. He could play the piano and sing like a lark. He could
make love like a Romeo. He had nerve, and he got money.
In the small cities and towns he was very lucky. Suddenly he
would appear in the Sunday school—in the Christian Endeavor
meeting—or his voice would ring out so sweetly during the
church service all eyes would turn toward him. After church the
choirmaster and members would congregate about him, would
invite him into their organization and into their homes. Then—
the serpent would bite!
If he ran short of money, there was always the race track. He
knew horses. He bet heavily and seldom lost. Too, he was a first-
dass mechanic, a sort of genius with tools. The automobile had
appeared and he quickly became an adept hand at repairing its
intricate parts and mechanism. Automobile owners had to have
money then. He knew this and forced them to pay him well for
any work he performed. He purchased a car for his own use, and
found it very handy for his purposes.
The red trail wound on. Here, a newborn baby wailed, and
the young, unwed mother held it to her breast and wept. Thank
God she would never know her little one was branded with the
great American stigma—a few drops of Negro blood. For its
father never fell so low as to tell that to a girl whose virtue he
had stolen. No, no! Not that! Not that—because the stigma could
be hidden. He knew this was true. He had hidden it himself. And
he knew, too, it is hidden so often and in such unsuspected hiding
places. A priest in a "white" church—the editor and owner of a
big "white" metropolitan daily—the pretty star in a "white" pic-
ture—a physician whose practice was limited to "white only"—
even a white who had had a Negro lynched. He had met these


BEHIND THE MAGNOLIAS
243
characters and others and discovered they were hiding the stigma!
How could one tell who was not hiding it, here in the United
States, where whites have been cohabiting with blacks and browns
and yellows and other stigmatized whites for more than three
hundred years?
The red trail wound on. The South was warmer in the winter
time. He wanted to go to Miami and Palm Beach—probably on to
Havana. He always had a better time in the South. Then Polly
lived in the South, and he was getting a little silly about Polly.
Polly held him at arm's length. He had only kissed her once—in
New York. But she was going to Miami that winter. She was
looking for a husband. He wasn't looking for a wife, but he
wanted Polly. He might go so far as to marry her if he couldn't
get her any other way. No, that was out of the question. Her family
was too rich and aristocratic. Old southern stock and all that.
■
They would try to investigate his family tree. He laughed. Family
tree!
Yes, but he just had to have Polly. He wanted to have a good
time with her in Miami. He couldn't see any other girl right then.
So he would go to Memphis where she lived. Her father owned
a big department store. He had been to the home—twice. Out
there on the bluff. Some place that! Plenty of eats and drinks too!
But he didn't drink. He hated the stuff. But gosh the eats! And
he certainly loved good food. That old colored cook Polly's folks
had! He laughed. Wouldn't the old sister lay down that "foot-
wash Baptist religion" and "mess aroun' " some if she knew who
she was cooking for and who that pretty yellow housemaid was
waiting on?
The red trail wound on. It had been winding for nearly three
years. Now, his new automobile was causing it to zigzag and
deviate more. It wound into Nashville and deviated from the
Negro district, for he knew too many big Negroes who lived in
Nashville. Then on to Memphis.
The red trail wound on in Memphis—up rather close to the
river—then back a few blocks. He would cross Beale Street—the
"black street," at the east end of it. There wasn't much danger,
but still some damn-fool nigger who once knew him might see


244
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
him and recognize him. Had to be careful in the South, always.
He had never forgotten Soil's in Birmingham, and Giblets. It
was very early in the morning, though, and few were out—only
Negroes—and they were going to work as usual, early in the
morning. They didn't have time to notice strangers. He thought
of the song he had heard them sing:
Po' niggah—po' niggah—
Wo'k th' hardes'—eat th' wust:
Po' niggah—po niggah—.
Git tuh bed las'—git hup fust!
The red trail wound on, across Beale Street, then ended—in a
pool of red blood.
The Negro truck driver reported the accident to the policeman
on the beat in this fashion: "Boss, he war starin' so hard at a gal
dar on de sidewalk he newah looked at de lights a'tall. He ran
right plum' dab inter me."
After the Keeper of the Peace discovered the white merchant's
big truck wasn't damaged in the least and that the driver and
owner of the smashed car must have been a colored man, for he
was taken to the colored hospital, he thought no more about it.
He never even reported the accident to his superiors until he was
off duty that evening.
"Nobody got hurt but a nigger. One o' them smart yaller
niggers too. Sarved him right," he told them.
She knew him when she saw him staring at her, but it hap-
pened so suddenly.
"Help me get him to the hospital, please," she requested.
While four of them—all colored men—were picking him up
an onlooker objected. He was a well-dressed individual of digni-
fied appearance.
"You'd better let me call an ambulance, Miss, and let them
take him to the other hospital uptown. You know we haven't
much room over there in ours. We haven't enough room for our
own folks."
Alice knew the objecting individual and never replied. Only


BEHIND THE MAGNOLIAS
245
a short time before, his dying sister was refused admission to one
of the white hospitals in that very city although the family had
money and the authorities knew they could pay.
When the surgeon arrived, she had him undressed and on the
operating table. The surgeon threw back the blanket that covered
the wounded body.
"Too bad," he remarked. "Certainly a fine physique."
He requested his instruments and went to work. There was a
slight fracture of the skull, a broken arm, and numerous cuts
and bruises.
"He won't die. Make a careful report of this case, Miss
Boone. We must remove him to the white hospital as soon as we
wake him up."
"He isn't a white man." Alice's voice was low and trembled
a little. The surgeon stared at her in amazement.
"What! If he's not white then I'm not black!"
The surgeon was very black—a shiny black. Even the palms of
his soft hands were purple.
"I know him, Doctor. He graduated from Tuskegee when I
did. His name is Leonard Hall."
He had over five hundred dollars in his pocket and the identi-
fication card read "Philip C. Tyler." Inside his watch case was a
photograph of a pretty, laughing girl—a white girl. The surgeon's
sharp eyes twinkled.
"I knew you were mistaken, Miss Boone. This girl's face
looks familiar. Think I've seen it in some paper or other."
"You have. In the Commercial-Appeal's society columns
many times. It's Polly Greenlea—the department store, you know.
But I'm not mistaken, Doctor. This man is Leonard Hall."
She compelled them to search his grips. Surely somewhere
among his personal effects was the proof she needed. They dis-
covered it—within a sealed envelope. "Don't open except in case
of emergency" was written on the outside. Alice opened the en-
velope with her own slim fingers. There they discovered her
photograph and his—taken at Tuskegee.
The hospital had been an old southern mansion. It sat far
back from the street behind a semicircle of stately magnolias.


246
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
Here, for a month, a gentle, bronze-skinned angel ministered
onto a white-skinned devil. Her soft fingers touched him, but he
could not see them. Hate and sin—and now, physical pain and
disappointment had calloused his very soul. And he still wanted
to see Polly and go to Miami.
Miss Greenlea was angry and hurt when he didn't appear
the day he said he was coming to visit her. Then she thought
about it and the more she thought the more she was convinced
something had happened to him. He wasn't the kind to he—not
to her. She knew he liked her.
When a friend both knew in Chicago wired that "Tyler"
had left that city a month before, she confided her fears to the
colored maid. Sometimes colored maids, especially experienced
ones like the Greenleas', know just how to meet emergencies.
They all know—when they are suspicious—and the Greenleas'
maid was a suspicious soul. She happened to be acquainted with
a maid who worked at the colored hospital, and the hospital
maid had told her all about the "yaller niggah" there they all
thought was a white man.
"I thinks I cawn he'p yo' out, Miss Polly," she told her
agitated mistress. "Don't wantta hurt yo' feelin's, but I'se newah
thought that ere Tyler war a white man. I thinks he's one o' us—
jist pass in'. I thinks yo' all'll fin' 'im right heah in our hospital,
right heah in Memphis."
Alice was sitting by the window, sewing, and Leonard was
dozing, when the limousine driven by the liveried black chauffeur
stopped before the hospital entrance. She saw Polly alight,
smoothed the blankets over her patient, and picked up a news-
paper lying on the extra chair. She met the white girl at the door.
"Gome this way, please," was all she said.
Polly stood over the sleeping patient. Then she looked at
Alice and shook her head. Tears welled in the eyes of the colored
girl. Leonard awoke with a start and both of them were looking
down on him.
He tried to smile, then turned his head and covered his face
with the hand he could use. The white girl touched him.
"Shame on you," she said. Turn over and let me see that


BEHIND THE MAGNOLIAS
247
handsome face again." He did as she wished and she laughed.
It was a pleasant little laugh. "Don't be afraid, Philip. It was
good while it lasted. I admire your courage, but I pity your
judgment," she added. "You have a mighty sweet little nurse.
Hope you get well soon. Here," she held out her hand. "Shake.
I'd kiss you if your nurse wasn't here. She'd tell it. I can tell
by the way she looks at us." Then the smile on her face vanished.
"You'd better not play your game too often. You almost got beat
this time."
She turned, dignified and smiling again. A low voice from
the covers answered her pleasant adieu as she passed out into the
hall. The nurse returned to the room. Shortly, he heard the limou-
sine drive away.
"Come here, Alice. Please come here," he pleaded. She stood
afar off, her expression solemn and pitiful. "Oh, Alice! Please
come here." She never moved. "Oh, hell and damnation!" he
groaned and turned his head and wept.
Her eyes were not dry either when he looked at her again; but
she was sitting close to his bed.
"Alice, can you forgive me?"
"Certainly. I have forgiven you. Ask the good Lord to for-
give you now, Leonard." And she stroked his forehead with the
tips of her soft fingers.


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Through the Shadows
When the kind surgeon came into the room one day and
found Alice sitting on the arm of the rocking chair Leonard was
occupying, he did not reprimand her. He had told his friends she
was the best unmarried girl he had met in many moons. He was
happily married himself and loved his pretty mulatto wife and
five healthy children. He had often chided Alice because she
didn't go out much with boy friends. Now he knew why. That
little flame had been burning there in her heart since those Tuske-
gee days of which she talked so much. But when he saw her sit-
ting on the arm of the chair, he wanted to call his rapidly
convalescing patient a rat.
Leonard asked her to marry him the day after Polly's visit.
She would make him no promises. But she told him she liked
him—liked him better than anyone she knew.
"Then why not marry me, Alice?" he insisted. "I can't do
without you. If you don't marry me, the devil will get me sure
the next time."
"I'm not certain but what he still has you," she replied,
laughing. "You stop thinking about me and what you want until
you get well. Sick people haven't any sense. They don't know
what they want."
Then the day came when he had to leave the hospital. He
could have left a month sooner, but there was room for him, and
he could afford to pay for his care. He had asked the surgeon to
give Alice the day off and had gained his consent.
"Yes. Take her and make her happy, young man. The poor
girl. She deserves happiness if anyone does."
His car, repaired and in good running order, was waiting for
them at a nearby garage. She knew some people in the country so
they drove out there. They were returning to the city in mid-


THROUGH THE SHADOWS
251
cozy, convenient four-room apartment. She loved the noise, smell,
and sights of the big city and wanted to stay in the midst of them.
She was a country girl in town—a southern girl in the North. He
couldn't change her and he never tried. He could only be happy
and contented when she was.
Then, suddenly, he sold his patent to the very company that
employed him. Sold it through their main offices in Pittsburgh.
They gave him ten thousand dollars for it and 10 per cent royalty
on sales. It was to bear his name, "The Hall." Alice shed tears of
joy because he was so happy. They went out that night and danced
for an hour together, something they had not done since the night
they were invited to a little party at a teacher's home in Tuskegee.
And when they returned to their apartment . . .
In the summer, the lake breezes usually found their open win-
dows around eleven o'clock, and then, in his pajamas, he would sit
in the roomy, upholstered chair and scan the daily paper. It was
Alice's time to "doll up to go to bed," he called it. But when he
tossed the paper to the floor and rested his head on his hand—it
was her time to come to him and squeeze down into the chair
with him and receive the kisses he pressed on her velvet cheeks
and lips. She was sitting there then—that night, that happy night—
when she rubbed his last kiss off her cheek onto the front of his
pajama coat, then sat upright, looked into his eyes and smiled.
"Want to know something, Leonard?"
"Uh-huh."
He was building an air castle—a big one now—for he had ten
thousand dollars. He hardly knew what she said. She put her little
hands on his broad shoulders and shook him.
"Wake up! Wake up and listen." Then, putting her lips close
to his ear, she whispered, "You're going to be a daddy, Leonard."
He awoke with a start. "What! What! Oh, Alice—"
He rose quickly, picked her up, and laid her on the bed, then
dropped to his knees and laid his head on her breast.
"Thank God." His voice modulated to a whisper. "Thank
God—my mother's God—old man Harker's God—your people's
God—the God that made me find you again."
Leonard quit his job, started another shop of his own, and


252
RUN, ZEBRA, RUN!
began to talk, walk, and act very importantly. Soon he had more
work than he could do and hired an assistant. Then he took on
three colored boys as apprentices. Then he was compelled to hire
more help. He became a small manufacturer before he realized
it. His story was just another one of those good success stories, so
common in the United States. So common here, where "every
prospect pleases," and every opportunity is, and everyone—black,
white, brown, yellow, or red—can find a way to success or make
a way! So common here—where there is nothing ever seriously
wrong with the country, and what wrong there is, in the country,
is just what has been created and invented by thoughtless, igno-
rant, evil, or misguided citizens.
They named their baby Harriet because Alice thought the
name was a pretty one. The little brown mother's one wish was
to see her baby toddling around. The cheerful smile, which had
been the light of the cozy apartment, was fast becoming fainter.
The shadows were thickening. Soon, very soon, both husband and
wife knew the light would vanish. Both were brave—very brave.
And the precocious little Harriet herself seemed to know the wish
of her mother's heart. She started crawling before she was nine
months old; soon she was grasping her father's forefinger and
holding on for dear life, while the chubby little feet took their
first steps. Then Alice said she knew Heaven must be a wonder-
ful place indeed, if she could be happier there than she was here
with her baby and husband. And when she said this to Leonard
he kissed her hectic forehead, then went outside and walked
around the block so she wouldn't see his tears.
Oh, she gave him so much to live for! So much to live right
for! In spite of his sorrow, he felt that he was living not in a sad,
dreary, and evil world. The Conqueror was riding again! She had
taught him to conquer hate; and he had overcome the world. Now
he was living in a new world where there was love, and more peace
than confusion; more honor than dishonor; more friendliness than
enmity; more sympathy than disdain. Alice's little brown hand
had led him into this world. Never again would he depart from
it. She had taught him so well to look for the good in everything.
She had taught him so well to see the good there is in everybody.


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Zebra Rests
After Alice was gone, Leonard sent baby Harriet to her aunt
at Tuskegee, gave up the cozy apartment, and took a room in a
hotel. Every night, returning from work, he would stop at a
florist's and purchase three cream-colored roses. He had always
wanted to grow cream-colored roses. Once Mrs. Jeff Roth had
given him a cutting from a rare and valuable monthly rosebush.
He tended it with care and it rooted and grew. Eventually it
bloomed. Then, it died.
Patience—wisdom—goodness. These were her supreme vir-
tues. Evenings, after he had scanned the daily paper he would
look at the cream-colored roses. Before he retired he would pick
up the vase that held them and inhale the fragrance, subtle and
sweet. Cream-colored roses! Not Alice—but what Alice was.
Patient, wise, and good. He was lonely but not regretful. The
roses were not pretty—they were beautiful! The roses did not
receive—they gave. Alice—and the three cream-colored roses!
The extras came out on a day two weeks later. Men he had
never seen before came to his shop. They wanted work done and
done in a hurry. He accepted their business and worked far into
the night. Sometimes he never went to his room at all. The United
States had declared war!
Chicago was full of Tuskegeeans and some were Leonard's
former classmates and schoolmates who came to see him. They
were going to Des Moines. Was he going? Uncle Sam was train-
ing colored men there for officers. Yes, he would go—gladly. He
closed his shop on Sunday and looked up a recruiting officer to get
some information. But he was on the "Tuskegee List" and the
officer had already made his investigation. They knew all about him
and his business. No, he could not go to Des Moines. The govern-
ment needed him in his shop right there in Chicago.
He hired every man and woman he could find who could run