Robert W. Woodruff
Library
EMORY UNIVERSITY
Special Collections & Archives
Che CiTe and Works of
Paul Caurence Dunbar
CONTAINING
HIS COMPLETE POETICAL
WORKS, HIS BEST SHORT
STORIES, NUMEROUS
ANECDOTES AND A
COMPLETE BIO¬
GRAPHY OF THE
Y
FAMOUS POET.
Q
V«
By
Lida Keck Wiggins
And an Introduction by
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
From "Lyrics of Lowly Life"
PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH
OVER HALF A HUNDRED
FULL PAGE PHOTO
AND HALF-TONE
ENGRAVINGS.
Published by
AUSTIN JENKINS CO.
Manufacturing Publishers of High Grade Subscription Books
WASHINGTON, D. C.
Agents Wanted
Copyright, 1896-98-99,1900-01-03-04-05-190
By Dodd, Mead & Company
Copyright, 1897-98-99,1900-01-02-03-04-0$,
By The Curtis Publishing Company
Copyright, 1895 -96-97-98,1901-02-03-04-031
By The Century Company
Contents
Introduction to " Lyrics of a Low y Life "
By William Dean Howells
Foreword .......
PART I
The Life of Paul Laurence Dunbar
PART II
The Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar
Absence 198
Accountability 138
Advice 319
After a Visit 162
After Many Days 333
After the Quarrel 161
After While 167
Alexander Crummell—Dead . , . 216
Alice 161
Anchored 321
Angelina 235
Ante-Bellum Sermon, An 144
Appreciation 314
At Candle-Lightin' Time 235
At Cheshire Cheese 227
At Loafing-Holt 329
At Night 320
At Sunset Time 328
At the Tavern 301
Awakening, The 320
Back-Log Song, A 237
Ballad 174
Ballade » 282
Banjo Song, A . 148
Barrier, The 205
Behind the Arras 199
Bein' Back Home 32^
Beyond the Years . - - • - - 162
«J
»9
• * • • •
• <37
Black Samson of Brandywine .
. . 286
Blue .
Bohemian, The
Boogah Man, The
. . 268
Booker T. Washington . , . .
Border Ballad, A
. . 166
Boy's Summer Song, A . . . .
. • 3°3
Breaking the Charm . . . . .
. . 241
Bridal Measure, A
By Rugged Ways
By the Stream
166
Cabin Tale, A
Change, The
• • 325
Change Has Come, The . . .
Changing Time
Chase, The
• • 325
Choice, A
Chrismus is A-Comin' . . . .
Christmas
Christmas Folksong, A . . . .
Christmas in the Heart . . . .
Chrismus on the Plantation . .
. . 231
Circumstances Alter Cases .
• • 327
Colored Band, The
Colored Soldiers, The ....
. . 168
Columbian Ode
Communion
Comparison
6
CONTENTS
Compensation 321
Confessional 222
Confidence, A 185
Conquerors, The 216
Conscience and Remorse ..... 157
Coquette Conquered, A 175
Corn Song, A 183
Corn-Stalk Fiddle, The 145
Crisis, The 2x5
Critters' Dance, De 267
Curiosity 311
Curtain 162
Dance, The 255
Dat 01' Mare o' Mine 273
Dawn 177
Day 315
Deacon Jones' Grievance 160
D^ad 185
Death 301
Death of the First Born 326
Death Song, A ......... 218
Debt, The 290
Delinquent, The 177
Dely 240
Deserted Plantation, The 180
Despair 327
Differences 275
Dilettante, The; A Modern Type . 166
Dinah Kneading Dough 274
Diplomacy 308
Dirge 178
Dirge for a Soldier 280
Disappointed 175
Discovered 174
Discovery, The 319
Distinction 217
Disturber, The 228
Douglass 287
Dove, The 252
Dreamer, The 205
Dreamin' Town 322
Dreams 205
Dreams 252
Dream Song I 208
Dream Song II 208
Drizzle 266
Drowsy Day, A . 177
Easy-Goin' Feller, An 166
Encouraged 3°7
Encouragement 268
End of the Chapter, The 206
Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the
Weary Eyes 137
Expectation 229
Faith 312
Farewell to Arcady ....... 226
Farm Child's Lullaby, The . . , . 313
Fisher Child's Lullaby, The . . . . 312
Fishing 259
Florida Night, A 275
Foolin' wid de Seasons 232
Fount of Tears, The 300
Forest Greeting, The 304
Forever 335
For the Man Who Fails 223
Frederick Douglass 139
Frolic, A 280
Garret, The 200
Golden Day, A 316
Good-Night 175
Gourd, The 214
Grievance, A 273
Growin' Gray 189
Haunted Oak, The 297
He Had His Dream 175
Her Thought and His ' 198
Harriet Beecher Stowe 223
Hope 314
" Howdy, Honey, Howdy! " . . . 277
How Lucy Backslid • 245
Hunting Song 242
Hymn, A 204
Hymn 178
Hymn 230
If ... 186
In an English Garden 215
In August 228
In May 248
lone 157
Inspiration 265
In Summer 197
In the Morning 274
In the Tents of Akbar 299
Invitation to Love 175
Itching Heels 297
Illustrations
Paul Laurence Dunbar .
President Theodore Roosevelt .
Hon. John Hay
Mrs. Matilda Dunbar . .
President William McKiniey .
Dr. Henry A. Tobey . .
William Dean Howells . .
Dr. William Burns . .
Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll .
Hon. Frederick Douglass .
Master Harry Barton Bogg, Jr.
The Dunbar House . •
Mr. Dunbar's Desk . .
Hon. Brand Whitlock . .
Mr. Dunbar's Library .
Oh, dere's lots o' keer an* trouble
Male an' female, small an' big,—
Seen my lady home las' night .
When de co'n pone's hot
De plow's a-tumblin' down in de fiel
O'er the fields with heavy tread
Put dat music book away
While Malindy sings
Who's pappy's darlin*
Den you men's de mule's ol' ha'ness
Po' little lamb »
Dat's my gal ...
Beneaf de willers .
Chris'mu* is a-comiir
II
12
ILLUSTRATIONS
I lays sorrer on de she'f . Page 233
Mek de shadders on de wall ..•••••" 234
Dese little boots ...••••••" 249
Come on walkin' wid me, Lucy . . • • • ."250
My Mandy Lou ...,•••••" 257
Bring dat basket nighah . • • • • • o ."258
The colored band ...••••••" 263
My 'Lias went to wah 264
He toss his piccaninny . . . . • • • ."271
She de only hoss fu' me 272
By a good ol' hick'ry fiah ..*••••" 283
Li'F Gal "284
Sam'l took a trip a-Sad'day . . • • • • • " 295
Don' fiddle dat chune no mo' . 296
It's goin' to be a green Christmas ..••••" 3°5
W'en you says yo' " Now I lay me " . . • • • " 3°^
DaK de watah's gu'glin' ...•••••" 3°9
Whut is mammy cookin' . . • • • • • " 3IQ
Dese eyes o' mine is wringin' wet . . • • • • *' 317
Des don' pet yo' worries . . • • • « • " 318
Chile, I's sholy blue . . . . • • • • " 323
In dat dreamland of delight . » . • • • •<<324
A letter f'om de sweetes'little gal " 33'
I . . . git to t'inkin'of de pas' » • • • « ** 332
Old Aunt Doshy ....»••••" 353
Mandy Mason . . . . . . • • • *' 354
Stan' still, stan' still, I say, an' see de salvation * *' * • • " 371
His eyes were bright, and he was breathing quickly . • • "372
Dat Tim ........ o • " 3®9
'* You old scoundrel," said a well known voice • • . • " 39©
Introduction
1 iHINK I should scarcely trouble the reader with a
special appeal in behalf of this book, if it had not
specially appealed to me for reasons apart from the
author's race, origin, and condition. The world is too
old now, and I find myself too much of its mood, to care
for the work of a poet because he is black, because his
father and mother were slaves, because he was, before
and after he began to write poems, an elevator-boy.
These facts would certainly attract me to him as a man,
if I knew him to have a literary ambition, but when it
came to his literary art, I must judge it irrespective of
these facts, and enjoy or endure it for what it was in
itself.
It seems to me that this was my experience with the
poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar when I found it in
another form, and in justice to him I cannot wish that it
should be otherwise with his readers here. Still, it will
legitimately interest those who like to know the causes,
or, if these may not be known, the sources, of things, to
learn that the father and mother of the first poet of his
race in our language were negroes without admixture of
white blood. The father escaped.from slavery in Ken¬
tucky to freedom in Canada, while there was still no hope
of freedom otherwise; but the mother was freed by the
events of the civil war, and came North to Ohio, where
their son was born at Dayton, and grew up with such
chances and mischances for mental training as every-
H
INTRODUCTION
where befall the children of the poor. He has told me
that his father picked up the trade of a plasterer, and
when he had taught himself to read, loved chiefly to read
history. The boy's mother shared his passion for litera¬
ture, with a special love of poetry, and after the father
died she struggled on in more than the poverty she had
shared with him. She could value the faculty which her son
showed first in prose sketches and attempts at fiction, and
she was proud of the praise and kindness they won him
among the people of the town, where he has never been
without the warmest and kindest friends.
In fact, from every part of Ohio and from several cities
of the adjoining States, there came letters in cordial ap¬
preciation of the critical recognition which it was my
pleasure no less than my duty to offer Paul Dunbar's
work in another place. It seemed to me a happy omen
for him that so many people who had known him, or
known of him, were glad of a stranger's good word ; and
it was gratifying to see that at home he was esteemed for
the things he had done rather than because as the son of
negro slaves he had done them. If a prophet is often
without honor in his own country, it surely is nothing
against him when he has it. In this case it deprived me
of the glory of a discoverer ; but that is sometimes a bar¬
ren joy, and I am always willing to forego it.
What struck me in reading Mr. Dunbar's poetry was
what had already struck his friends in Ohio and Indiana,
in Kentucky and Illinois. They had felt, as I felt, that
however gifted his race had proven itself in music, in
oratory, in several of the other arts, here was the first in¬
stance of an American negro who had evinced innate dis¬
tinction in literature. In my criticism of his book I had
MRS. MATILDA DUNBAR
The poet's mother, who as a child was held in slavery.
PRESIDENT WILLIAM McKINLEY
Who conferred on Mr. Dunbar the honor of a commission to
act as aide with rank of Colonel in his inaugural parade.
Mr. Dunbar accepted the invitation and rode in the procession.
PRESIDENT THEODORE ROOSEVELT
Who was a great admirer of Mr. Dunbar's literary productions,
and who was a personal friend of the poet.
HON. JOHN HAY
Who being the American Ambassador to England at the time
of Mr. Dunbar's visit to London, paid him marked attention,
and arranged an entertainment at which Mr. Dunbar recited
his poems before a highly intellectual and cultured audience.
Foreword
In preparing this biography of Paul Laurence Dunbar
for his publishers, his biographer was greatly helped and
encouraged by many persons who knew and loved him.
Among those to whom special thanks are due are the poet's
mother, Mrs. Matilda Dunbar of Dayton, and his friends,
Dr. H. A. Tobey, Mr. Charles Thatcher, Mayor Brand
Whitlock, and Mr. Charles Cottrill of Toledo.
Many letters of inquiry were written, and in almost
every case prompt and helpful replies received. The
other facts given or anecdotes told were found in letters
written in the poet's own hand to intimate friends.
It has been the steadfast purpose of his biographer to
give to the world only such data as could be established
in fact, and if she has failed in any instance the error was
of the head and not the heart.
It would have been a pleasant thing to have reproduced
all the appreciative letters that came in connection with
the writing of this biography, but as that would have been
impossible, it has seemed well to quote from two of the
many.
Having been told that upon one occasion, President
Roosevelt had said, in speaking of Mr. Dunbar :
" I like that young man, though I do not agree with
his philosophy," a letter was addressed by Mr. Dunbar's
biographer to the President. In response to this inquiry
Mr. Roosevelt wrote as follows:
19
20
FOREWORD
Oyster Bay, L. /., August 2, 1906.
My dear Mrs. Wiggins :
I have your letter of the 27th. While I only had
the pleasure of meeting Mr. Dunbar once or twice, I was
a great admirer of his poetry and his prose.
I do not believe I ever spoke such a sentence as that
you quote in reference to him. I had been struck by the
artistic merit of his work, and had not thought of what
you speak of as its " philosophy " save in the sense that
all really artistic work has a philosophy of application to
the entire human race.
Sincerely yours,
Theodore Roosevelt.
Having observed by newspaper reports that Mr. James
Lane Allen was a friend of the black poet's, though a
man of southern birth, a letter was sent him by Mr. Dun¬
bar's biographer. His reply is beautifully characteristic,
and the paragraph which he generously sends for use in
the Life is quoted verbatim here —
" I think that Paul Laurence Dunbar reached, in some
of his poems, the highest level that his race has yet at¬
tained in lyric form, and feeling : and if it can be of serv¬
ice to you to make use of this opinion, it is gladly at your
service."—James Lane Allen.
By all races and under all skies the poems of Paul
Laurence Dunbar are being read, and a decade later the
world will have learned to know, better than it does now,
the loss it sustained when the greatest poet of his race,
and one of the greatest of any race, passed into the
silence and dropped the veil.
To his biographer, who visited him many times, during
rhe last two years of his life, the friendship of such a man
The Dunbar house, at 219 North Summit Street, Dayton, Ohio, where
Mr, Dunbar's last days were spent, and where he died. His mother still
resides in this house, which he bequeathed to her.
Mr. Dunbar's desk and his arts and crafts bookcase, which contained copies of his own
books, ana autograph copies of the works of many of his contemporaries.
PART I
Life of Paul Laurence Dunbar
CHAPTER I
birth and parentage
At Dayton, Ohio, in the year 1871, Mrs. Matilda
Murphy, an ex-slave, was married to Joshua Dunbar,
who, having escaped to Canada before the war, had later
enlisted in the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts Infantry, and was,
at the time of his marriage, an old man. Neither Joshua
Dunbar nor his wife could read or write, but both had ardent
ambitions to know more of the world and of the achieve¬
ments of their fellow men. Matilda Dunbar's master was
a cultured gentleman of Lexington, Kentucky, and as a
little girl, she was allowed to sit at his feet and listen as
he read aloud to his wife from the great writers. Espe¬
cially was she delighted when he read poetry—the music
of it, the rhythm and the imagery fired her imagination
and left an unfading impression upon her mind. It was
always with regret and sometimes with a hidden tear that
little Matilda left her seat on the floor at her master's knee
and retired to bed. She dared not express a wish to re¬
main—she was only a slave child and was not expected
25
26
THE LIFE AND WORKS
to have opinions of her own. During her girlhood and
even after she went to Dayton, Ohio, and married her
first husband, Mr. Murphy, she still loved to hear verses
read and was a very capable judge of the merits of a
metrical composition. After her marriage with Joshua
Dunbar, she learned from school-children, whom she coaxed
into her humble home, the coveted letters of the alpha¬
bet. One by one she mastered them, and then began
spelling out words, and finally sentences. Her husband,
although well advanced in years, taught himself reading,
and after long hours spent at his trade, which was that of
a plasterer, he read universal history and biography.
In 1872 this pair became the parents of a boy baby.
When the momentous question of " naming the baby"
came to be discussed, Mr. Dunbar insisted that the child
be called Paul. His young wife thought the name too
" old-fashioned " for a baby. Mr. Dunbar had a quaint
and formal manner of addressing his wife, and upon this
occasion said:
" Matilda Madam, don't you know that the Bible says
Paul was a great man ? This child will be great some
day and do you honor."
Thus the question was settled, and the child was chris¬
tened Paul Laurence, the Laurence being in compliment
to a Dayton friend. The father of Paul Dunbar proved
a prophet. The boy was a genius. At as early an age
as seven years he wrote his first bit of verse. It was a
child's poem and naturally expressed childish sentiment,
but even then the flickerings of a great talent were ap¬
parent. There had to be a beginning, and to those who
view this short life from first to last it would almost seem
that the young poet knew his work must be done quickly,
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
as the time was short. His soul was old when his body
came into the world.
At school, Paul Dunbar was a diligent pupil, his fa¬
vorite studies being spelling, grammar and literature. It
is to the everlasting credit of his teachers that they en¬
couraged him in his writing, and praised the little poems
which he carried to them in a bashful way. Perchance if
they had been indifferent to these early attempts, the shrink¬
ing lad would never have had courage to go forward.
Timidity and modesty marked his bearing through life.
When in high school he edited The High School Times,
a monthly publication issued by the pupils of the Steele
High School. This work was done with so much tact
and evinced such extraordinary talent that many an older
head predicted the boy's future renown.
In 1891 he graduated from the high school with hon¬
ors, and the class song composed by him was sung at the
commencement exercises.
Commencement meant to Paul Dunbar the beginning of
his hard struggle for existence. His father having died in
1884, it devolved upon the boy to support his mother.
It is doubtful if in all history a child were ever more faith¬
ful and loyal to a mother than this young poet. While
yet in school he had assisted her in her humble tasks as
a washerwoman, and carried home the clothes to her
patrons. He did odd jobs about hotels and other places,
and was always willing and eager to lend a helpful hand.
His graduation over, Dunbar sought regular work. Hav¬
ing obtained an education, he quite naturally hoped for
better things than mere menial employment. He was
destined to meet with disappointment. On every hand
his color told against him, and at last in sheer despair.
30 THE LIFE AND WORKS
he was compelled to accept a position as elevator boy in
the Callahan Building at Dayton. Here he earned four
dollars a week, upon which to support his mother and
himself. Many a young man, possessing such a sensi¬
tive soul, would have recoiled from so humble an occu¬
pation. Not so with this budding genius. With brave
heart he set about his task, determined to gain recogni¬
tion later. There were few flowers in his path and many
cruel thorns. He gathered the roses, inhaled their fra¬
grance, and immortalized their beauty in verse, and the
thorns he bore bravely as a part of human life. Thus
he learned early to be a philosopher, and in consequence
a great poet. Every moment that could be snatched
from his busy hours was utilized in improving his brilliant
mind. His soul, attuned to the infinite music which is ever
to be heard even among most unfavorable surroundings,
detected a melody in the grating of the elevator cables
and the thud of the car as it stopped for passengers.
The people he served were of lively interest to the lad,
and into very ordinary faces his artistic mind painted un-
guessed nobility and beauty. His humble home, his dear
mother and his beloved black people formed the all-
sufficient inspiration for his earlier dialect poems. Many
of these were stories told by his mother, as the family
sat before the fire on winter nights, but he always added
a touch of quaint philosophy, or a breath of pathos,
which lifted them above the level of folk-lore and gave
them a dignity and depth which were all his own. The
best things he wrote in those early days were the poems
which were couched in classic English, and the produc¬
tion of such verses proved far more than his dialect the
remarkable scope of his mentality
CHAPTER II
woak and ivy"
The years 1892 and 1893 were memorable in the life
of Paul Laurence Dunbar. Encouraged by a number of
men, who promised to supply financial support, the
young man began to have ambitions to publish a book
of his poems. One evening, after a hard day on the
elevator, he went to his home, and said to his mother :
" Ma, where are those papers I asked you to save for
me ? " The " papers " to which he referred were man¬
uscript and newspaper copies of his poems. His mother,
having but little room in their tiny home, utilized the
kitchen for dining-room as well, and on the table in the
middle room, Paul had piled his papers during the years
of high school. His mother allowed the pile to grow,
though she did not know that it contained his manu¬
scripts, and thought that the papers to which he referred
were his botany sheets and things of that kind. Finally,
being criticised by her neighbors for allowing such a
stack of papers to lie on her table, she gathered them
all together, and put them in a large box under the old
fashioned " safe," in her kitchen. So, when her son came
home that particular evening and asked anxiously for his
" papers," she said:
" They're out there under the safe."
Dunbar selected from the pile a little bundle, which he
carried away with him next morning, saying, " Ma, I'm
going to publish a book."
33
34 THE LIFE AND WORKS
He went to the office of the United Brethren Publish¬
ing House and unfolded his plans to the agent of that
institution. His " friends " who had promised financial
backing, had laughed at him when he asked them to
make their word good, so he had to approach the pub¬
lisher empty-handed. Here again he met with disap¬
pointment. They would not " take the risk," and unless
he could secure $125.00 to pay for the books they would
not undertake their publication. One hundred and
twenty-five dollars 1 They might as well have asked for
a thousand. Poor Dunbar, unable to conceal his disap¬
pointment, was leaving the house with a sad countenance,
wholly discouraged. At this juncture, Mr. William
Blacher, the business manager of the concern, noticing
his disheartened appearance, called him to his desk and
said:
" What's the matter, Paul ? "
" Oh, I wanted to have a volume of poems printed,
but the house can't trust me, and I can never get $125.00
to pay for it in advance."
Mr. Blacher's heart was touched. He knew the boy,
and appreciated him. He had read his verses, and
knew that they were " real poems," truly inspired. He
told young Dunbar that he would stand between him and
the house for the amount required, and that the book
would be published for the Christmas holidays.
The boy's bright face was aglow with happiness when
he reached his mother's home that night, and there were
tears of joy in his eyes when he said:
" Oh, ma, they're going to print my book."
Several weeks later, one snowy morning, there came
a rap at the door of the Dunbar home. Mrs. Dunbar,
CHAPTER III
the world's fair—"a «special providence'n
At the opening of the World's Columbian Exposition
an opportunity came for young Dunbar to go to Chicago.
At first he hesitated, not wishing to leave his mother
alone. Mrs. Dunbar, feeling that the fair would be an
education in itself for her boy, insisted upon his going.
When all was in readiness, and the hour had come to say
good-bye, he leaned on the mantelpiece and sobbed like
a child, saying:
" Oh, ma, I don't want to go—it is such a wicked city:
I know I shall learn a great deal but I'm afraid to ven¬
ture. I don't want to go."
His mother, choking down her own tears, talked to her
son, and finally overcame his mood. He went to Chi¬
cago, and after several unsuccessful attempts to obtain
suitable employment, he was given a position by Hon.
Fred Douglass, then in charge of the exhibit from
Hayti. For this work Mr. Douglass paid Paul Dunbar
$5.00 a week, out of his own pocket. After a while Dun¬
bar sent for his mother, who, always willing to follow her
son, went to him. She was not too proud to work, and
so did light housekeeping for a family there, thus making
a bit of a home for her beloved child.
On " Colored Folks' Day " at the fair, Paul Laurence
Dunbar was called upon to render several " selections,"
before thousands of his own people. The verses were
greatly appreciated, but when it was announced, by an
39
42 THE LIFE AND WORKS
avenue of honest pursuit was closed against him.
Truly —
" Every door is barred with gold,
And opens but to golden keys,"
and poor Paul Dunbar didn't have the keys—and in ad
dition to that he was a negro ! Twice burdened indeed
is he who carries upon his shoulders the load of poverty
and the stigma of race prejudice.
In the fall or winter of 1893, Miss Mary Reeve of
Dayton,—a woman of rare intellectuality, who reviewed
books for magazines, went to Toledo to be the guest of
Dr. and Mrs. H. A. Tobey at the Toledo State Hospital.
Dr. Tobey was at that time superintendent of the insti¬
tution, and is one of America's greatest experts on
insanity. He is a man of broad mind, universal sympa¬
thies and decidedly democratic ideals. Miss Reeve and
he discussed many of the vital problems of the day, and
upon one occasion the doctor said that the only question
he ever asked about any person was: " What is there
in the individual, regardless of creed, nationality or race."
His companion replied:
"I suspect then that you would be interested in a
negro boy we have down in Dayton. I don't know
much of him myself, but my sister, Mrs. Conover (this
is the Mrs. Frank Conover to whom Mr. Dunbar after¬
wards dedicated his collection of poems entitled " Lyrics
of Sunshine and Shadow") says he has written some
very wonderful things."
" I would not be interested in him," replied the doctor,
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
" because he is a negro: I would only be interested in
him for what he is."
A little later Miss Reeve sent the doctor a copy of
Dunbar's first book, " Oak and Ivy." He read the little
poems casually, not giving them much thought, and was
not especially impressed. He went to Dayton a few
months later, however, and while there inquired about
Paul Laurence Dunbar. He heard of his obscure origin,
his hardships and his hopeless condition. He also
learned that the boy had been faithfully helping his
mother in her humble tasks as a laundress : that he had
graduated from high school: had held a position as ele¬
vator boy, and that he had ambitions to study law. All
this appealed to Dr. Tobey. His sympathies were en¬
listed for the boy because he was making such a noble
struggle. When he returned home he sought again the
little volume, " Oak and Ivy," and this time, being in
closer touch with its author, he saw new beauty in the
lines. Several of the poems he read over and over, each
time finding greater depths and truths almost sublime.
Finally, one Sunday evening, after going over the book
once more, he wrote a letter to the author, enclosing a
sum of money, and asking that the number of books for
which the amount would pay be sent him, as he wished
to distribute them among his friends. He also spoke
many encouraging words to the young poet, and ex¬
pressed a desire to be of service to him if that were
possible. He did not receive a reply from Mr. Dunbar
for three or four days, and then came the answer. This
letter is so remarkable in many ways, and is such a rev¬
elation of the character of the young man at that time,
that it is given verbatim below :
44
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Dayton, Ohio, /jM, 1895.
My Dear Dr. Tobey:—
If it is a rule that tardiness in the acknowledgment
of favors argues lack of appreciation of them, you may
set it down that the rule has gone wrong in this case.
Your letter and its enclosure was a sunburst out of a
very dark and unpromising cloud. Let me tell you the
circumstances and see if you do not think that you came
to me somewhat in the r61e of a " special providence."
The time for the meeting of the Western Association
of Writers was at hand. I am a member and thought
that certain advantages might come to me by attending.
All day Saturday and all day Sunday I tried every means
to secure funds to go. I tried every known place, and at
last gave up and went to bed Sunday night in despair.
But strangely I could not sleep, so about half-past eleven
I arose and between then and 2 a. m., wrote the paper
which I was booked to read at the Association. Then,
still with no suggestion of any possibility of attending
the meeting, I returned to bed and went to sleep about
four o'clock. Three hours later came your letter with the
check that took me to the desired place. I do not think
that I spent the money unwisely, for besides the pleasure
of intercourse with kindred spirits which should have
been sufficient motive, I believe that there were several
practical advantages which I derived from the trip,
whence I have just returned.
I wish I could thank you for the kindness that prompted
your action; I care not in whose name it was done,
whether in Christ's, Mahomet's or Buddha's. The thing
that concerned me, the fact that made the act a good and
noble one was that it was done.
Yes, I am tied down and have been by menial labor,
and any escape from it so far has only been a brief respite
that made a return to the drudgery doubly hard. But I
am glad to say that for the past two or three years I
have been able to keep my mother from the hard toil by
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
which she raised and educated me. But it has been anc'
is a struggle.
Your informant was mistaken as to my aspirations. I
did once want to be a lawyer, but that ambition has long
since died out before the all-absorbing desire to be a
worthy singer of the songs of God and nature. To be
able to interpret my own people through song and story,
and to prove to the many that after all we are more
human than African. And to this end I have hoped year
after year to be able to go to Washington, New York,
Boston and Philadelphia where I might see our northern
negro at his best, before seeing his brother in the South :
but it has been denied me.
I hope, if possible, to spend the coming year in college,
chiefly to learn how and what to study in order to culti¬
vate my vein. But I have my home responsibilities and
unless I am able to make sufficient to meet them I shall
be unable to accomplish my purpose. To do this I have
for some time been giving readings from my verses to
audiences mostly of my own people. But as my work
has-been confined to the smaller towns generally the re¬
sult has not been satisfactory.
Perhaps I have laid my case too plainly and openly be¬
fore you, but you seem to display a disposition to aid me,
and I am so grateful that I cannot but be confidential.
Then beside, a physician does not want to take a case
when there is reticence in regard to the real phases of it.
And so I have been plain. Sincerely,
Paul L. Dunbar.
14.0 Ziegler Street,
Dayton, Ohio.
CHAPTER IV
MAJORS AND MINORS
In August, 1895, Dr. Tobey wrote the young poet, in¬
viting him to come to the Institution at Toledo and read
for the patients. Having, in the meantime, learned that
Mr. Charles Cottrill, a brilliant young colored man of
Toledo, was a family friend of the Dunbars, Dr. Tobey
insisted on having him at the hospital to formally intro¬
duce the poet. A carriage was sent to meet Mr. Dun¬
bar at the railway station, and Dr. Tobey and Mr. Cot-
trill stood at a window, awaiting its return. When it
came back and young Dunbar alighted, the doctor ex¬
claimed :
" Thank God, he's black 1"
His companion, being of a much lighter color than
Dunbar, was momentarily offended, but the doctor re¬
deemed himself by adding:
" Whatever genius he may have cannot be attributed to
the white blood he may have in him."
In the autumn of the same year, Dr. Tobey sent a
second invitation to Paul Dunbar to come to Toledo and
give a reading at the Asylum. The doctor having
learned of Mr. Charles Thatcher's great interest in and
friendship for the Dayton boy, asked the attorney to be
his guest at this recital. Thus Dunbar's two great friends
joined hands for his future welfare.
48
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
At this second recital Mr. Dunbar read poems which
were new to his Toledo friends, and which had not been
published in " Oak and Ivy/'
They talked with him at the close of the program, and
found that he cherished hopes of getting a second book
published at Dayton on the same terms as the first.
Under his arrangement with the Dayton house he did
not own the plates of his book, but when he secured
orders for a number of volumes, the firm would bind them
for him, from the loose sheets kept on hand.
His two friends told him that they would assume the finan¬
cial part of the new publication, and that when the books
were printed they would belong to the author. Dunbar
was very happy over this arrangement and set about im¬
mediately to find a Toledo publisher. He finally arranged
in a very businesslike way, with the Hadley & Hadley
Printing Company to publish an edition of 1,000 copies
of a second book. This little volume was called " Majors
and Minors," and contains many of the finest things
he ever wrote. His mind was not mature, then, as it
was in later efforts, but his thoughts were honest, pure
and fearless, and there was not the slightest trace of
over-polish or artificiality. Mr. Dunbar was so con¬
scientious that very few of the poems which had ap¬
peared in his first book, were reprinted. He said, con¬
cerning the matter:
"Some poets get out 'new' books that are largely
composed of poems that have been published before. I
do not believe that such a practice is right."
The poet hoped to have this book ready for the Christ¬
mas holidays of 1895, but to his great disappointment,
it did not appear until early the following year.
54
THE LIFE AND WORKS
The next evening, in obedience to Dr. Tobey's request,
Mr. Dunbar carried his little book to the hotel, and hav¬
ing inscribed it to Mr. Herne, would have left it there.
It so chanced, however, that Mr. Herne had sought an¬
other hotel, where he could have greater quiet, and the
Boody House clerk suggested to Dunbar that he take the
book and give it to Mr. Herne, personally. This Dunbar
said he would do, and the next morning went to Mr.
Heme's Hotel. In describing this incident in later years,
Mr. Dunbar said:
" I approached the hotel with fear and trembling and
must confess that I was greatly relieved to find that Mr.
Herne was out."
He took the book back to the clerk at the Boody
House, who kindly volunteered to see that it reached Mr.
Herne. This he did, taking it himself to the clerk of the
other hotel, and leaving it for the actor.
That was on Friday, and the following Sunday after¬
noon the poet went out to the hospital^ all aglow with joy
over a letter which he had received from Mr. Herne. It
read as follows:
Detroit, Mich.
My Dear Mr. Dunbar :
While at Toledo, a copy of your poems was left
at my hotel by a Mr. Childs. I tried very hard to find
Mr. Childs to learn more of you. Your poems are won¬
derful. I shall acquaint William Dean Howells and other
literary people with them. They are new to me and they
may be to them.
I send you by this same mail some things done by my
daughter, Julia A. Herne. She is at school in Boston.
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 55
Her scribblings may interest you. I would like your
opinion. . . .
A am an actor and a dramatist. My latest work—
" Shore Acres " you may have heard of. If it comes your
way, I want you to see it, whether I am with it or not
How I wish I knew you personally 1 I wish you all the
good fortune that you can wish for yourself.
Yours very truly,
James A. Herne.
Later in that same good year of 1896 Paul Dunbar
met a friend who was destined to be one of the stars of
hope in his literary sky. Dr. Tobey, ever alert to the in¬
terests of his young friend, wrote to Colonel Robert G.
Ingersoll—in New York, and sent him a copy of "Majors
and Minors," saying:
" I know you are too busy a man to read all the poems
in this book, so I take the liberty of marking a number
which I consider the stronger ones. I do not profess to
be literary, but think I probably have ordinary human
feeling and common sense, and I would like you to read
over the poems I have marked, and which I think un¬
usual. If after reading them you feel the same way, it
would be a great consolation to Mr. Dunbar in his pov¬
erty and obscurity if you would write a letter of com¬
mendation."
Ten days later the doctor received the following reply:
No. 220 Madison Avenue,
April\ 1896, New York City.
My Dear Dr. Tobey:
At last I got the time to read the poems of Dun¬
bar. Some of them are really wonderful—full of poetiy
4
56
THE LIFE AND WORKS
and philosophy. I am astonished at their depth and
subtlety. Dunbar is a thinker. " The Mystery" is a
poem worthy of the greatest. It is absolutely true, and
proves that its author is a profound and thoughtful man.
So the " Dirge " is very tender, dainty, intense and beau¬
tiful. " Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary
Eyes " is a wonderful poem : the fifth verse is perfect. So
" He Had His Dream " is very fine and many others.
I have only time to say that Dunbar is a genius. Now,
I ask what can be done for him ? I would like to help.
Thanking you for the book, I remain
Yours always,
R. G. INGERSOLL.
When one considers the youthfulness of the heart and
hand that penned the poems to which Mr. Ingersoll re¬
ferred, one is filled with wonder and amaze. It will not
be out of place to quote here that " perfect" fifth verse
of "When Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary
Eyes." It is as profound as " Thanatopsis" and as
musical as " Hiawatha" or any of the " standard" poems
of the world:
"Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes
How questioneth the soul that other soul,—
The inner sense that neither cheats nor lies,
But self exposes unto self, a scroll
Full writ with all life's acts, unwise or wise,
In characters indelible and known :
So trembling With the shock of sad surprise
The soul doth view its awful self alone,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes."
COLONEL ROBERT G. INGERSOLL
Who, attracted by the merit of Mr. Dunbar's poems, expressed
a desire to " help," and who secured for him a situation
in the Congressional Library at Washington, D. C.
DR. WILLIAM BURNS
The young physician who was in constant attendance upon the
poet during the last three years of his life, and whose sudden
death was a terrible blow to Mr. Dunbar. They had been
warm friends from childhood.
CHAPTER V
A REMARKABLE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
TRUE to his promise, Mr. Heme sent a copy of " Majors
and Minors " to William Dean Howells, who was soon im¬
pressed (to quote part of a recent letter to the author of
this biography) "by the little countrified volume, which
inwardly was full of a new world."
Modesty is a hall mark of genius. Dunbar had it in a
superlative degree, and that Mr. Howells possesses the
same beautiful trait is evident when one reads the next
sentence of the letter written his biographer under date
of June i, 1906 :
" I want to say that many western friends fully felt the
quality of Dunbar's work before I had the good luck of
drawing notice to it in a prominent place, and so far as
any credit is concerned, it is they who deserve it."
The " prominent place " to which Mr. Howells refers
was Harpers Weekly. In the same issue which gave an
account of William McKinley's first nomination at
Minneapolis, which issue had an enormous circulation,
appeared a full-page review of Paul Laurence Dunbar's
little book—" Majors and Minors," and an unprecedented
appreciation of the young man's work by Mr. Howells.
He could not have found a more opportune time for in¬
troducing the young poet to the reading world. No
longer could the sweet singer of Ethiopia be spoken of as
obscure or unknown. Like the sun which suddenly slips
57
5»
THE LIFE AND WORKS
from behind a sombre cloud and floods the world with
glory, so the name of Paul Laurence Dunbar, swept into
sight and passed majestically before the reviewing stand
of the entire reading world. He literally retired one
night unknown, and woke at the dawn of his twenty-
fourth birthday to find himself a famous man. Advert¬
ently or inadvertently Mr. Howells had chosen June 27,
1896, for the appearance of his article, thus presenting the
young man with the most magnificent birthday present
he could ever hope to receive.
Having concluded his critique of " Majors and Minors,"
Mr. Howells remembering that the boy was possibly in
need of something more substantial than appreciative
phrases, dear as they would be, added:
" I am sorry that I cannot give the publisher, as well as
the author of this significant little book ; but I may say
that it is printed by Hadley & Hadley of Toledo, Ohio."
Immediately letters began pouring into the office of the
printers, many were addressed to Dunbar, asking for his
photograph and every imaginable kind of query. Others
ordered the book. Among the orders was one from the
American Consul at Athens, Greece. In fact demands
came from all parts of the world.
When Mr. Dunbar, having been told, by a friend, of
the Harper's article, bought a copy at a Dayton news¬
stand he was almost overwhelmed with emotion, and, as
he described it: " Didn't know whether to laugh or cry,
but guessed he did a little of each."
Mr. James Lane Allen became interested in Paul Dun¬
bar and his poems about this time, and called the atten¬
tion of several New York magazine editors and reviewers
to the verses of the negro bard. These men gave the
CHAPTER VII
ENGLAND
In January of 1897, Mr. Dunbar had an offer to go to
England as a public entertainer with a daughter of his
former New York manager, and feeling that this might
be the only opportunity he would ever have of crossing
the sea, he accepted the proposition, though the terms
were hard and his manager extremely mercenary. Phil¬
osophically he said : " They are going to make it hard
for me, but I need the training, and I shall try to keep
my upper lip well starched."
On February 8th, Mr. Dunbar sailed for England, and
in a letter written his mother on shipboard, he confided:
" You will be surprised to hear that Alice Ruth Moore
ran away from Boston, and came to bid me good-bye.
She took everybody by storm. She was very much
ashamed of having run away, but said she could not bear
to have me go so far without bidding me good-bye. She
is the brightest and sweetest little girl I have ever met,
and I hope you will not think it is silly, but Alice and I
are engaged. You know this is what I have wanted for
two years."
Thus, childlike and trustful, he wrote to his mother
of the happy culmination of his first and only love affair.
While in England he wrote again to his mother, saying
he hoped to get " Alice to set the day," as soon as he re¬
turned to America.
Although his " manager " soon deserted him, Mr. Dun¬
bar found a warm and influential friend in the American
67
68
THE LIFE AND WORKS
embassador, Hon. John Hay, who arranged an entertain
ment at which Dunbar read several of his best poems be¬
fore a number of the brightest men and women of Lon¬
don. Other poems, having been set to music by promi¬
nent English musicians, were sung by them at this recital.
He was a guest at a banquet given by the great Savage
Club of London, where he was asked to recite, and after
the first number, was lifted bodily to the table, and en¬
thusiastically encored.
Writing of this occasion to a friend in America, Dun¬
bar said:
" I have attended a banquet given by the great Savage
Club of London. I was the guest of the secretary, of the
Royal Geological Society, and my host was more than
gratified at the reception which I had when I was called
upon to take part in the post-prandial program, as I re¬
ceived two requests to come back. The audience was
very critical, and if they did not like a speaker would hiss
him down.
" I have also been entertained at tea by Mr. and Mrs.
Henry M. Stanley. I there met some very decent people,
but the men, poor fellows, did not have eye-glasses enough
to go around, and so each had one stuck in the corner of
his eye!"
Concerning an evening's entertainment which Mr. Dun¬
bar gave at the Southplace Institute, a London paper car¬
ried the following notice :
" A large audience at the Southplace Institute, listened
yesterday to Mr. Paul Laurence Dunbar's recitations of
some of his own poems, which have excited so much in¬
terest among literary men in the United States. Mr.
Dunbar is thought to be the first of his race who has thor-
CHAPTER VIII
THE CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY
THE time had now arrived for Colonel Robert G. Inger-
soll to make good his promise to " help." While Mr.
Dunbar was in London, he received an encouraging let¬
ter from the Colonel, advising him that he thought it
likely he could secure a position for Mr. Dunbar in the
Congressional Library. How well this promise was ful¬
filled is shown by a paragraph in the records of the
Library at Washington, which reads:
" Paul Laurence Dunbar, appointed from New York to
position assistant in Reading Room, Library of Congress,
October i, 1897, at a salary of $720.00 per annum : re¬
signed December 31, 1898, to give full time to his literary
work."
Mr. Daniel Murry, under whom Mr. Dunbar worked at
the Library, wrote his biographer concerning the ap¬
pointment as follows:
" In 1897, Mr. Dunbar was made an assistant to me
that he might learn library methods and have, at the same
time, one who would take an interest in his advancement.
The late Colonel Robert Ingersoll was largely responsible
for his taking the position, believing that it would afford
him an opportunity to acquire information that could be
turned to account in his literary career. . ."
Under a dating of October 11, 1897, Dunbar said, in
a letter to a friend:
6 73
7*
THE LIFE AND WORKS
" I have landed the position at Washington. It is a
small one, but it means a regular income, the which I
have always so much wanted. . . .
"I am home for the purpose of getting my mother
ready for the Washington trip. Her health is very far
from good, and I want her settled with me, as soon as
possible. Must leave here Saturday night at the latest."
While Mr. Dunbar was happy to have obtained regular
employment, and went to his work with his native en¬
thusiasm, it was with real regret that he said farewell to
his childhood home at Dayton. Of this leave-taking he
wrote while packing —
" I am at last at home getting things ready for our
removal to the east. There are a good many dear mem¬
ories clustering around this rickety old house that awake
to life on the thought of leaving it permanently."
In going to Washington and becoming identified with
the brilliant life of the national capital, Paul Dunbar did
not forget his Toledo friend, through whose influence all
this happiness and good fortune reached him, and at the
very beginning of his career at the Library he wrote that
friend thanking him and saying:
"My dear Dr. Tobey—I shall show little of human
gratitude if I fail to deserve the kindness you have
shown."
It was this ever-manifest spirit of loving gratitude ex¬
hibited towards his benefactors that made them so eager
and willing to do what they could to aid him. His heart,
toward this particular friend, was always that of a trusting
child.
Having established his mother in a pretty home, Mr.
Dunbar set conscientiously to work at the Library. The
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
New York. We were married Sunday night by the
bishop (Bishop Potter of the Episcopal Church—a great
friend of the poet's) but hope to keep it secret for a while,
as she does not wish to give up her school.
Everything is clean and honorable and save for the fear
of separation there was no compulsion to the step.
I hope you will not think I have been too rash.
Sincerely yours,
Paul L. Dunbar.
Dr. Tobey answered this letter in a few days, and Dun¬
bar again wrote him —
Washington, D. C., April 6, 1898.
My dear Dr. Tobey :
I was very glad to get your letter and find that you
did not think ill of my step. I must confess I was very
anxious as to how you would take it. As to mother—I
told her before it took place—she was in the secret, though
not at first willing. All has come around all right now
and my wife will be with me on the 18th. My announce¬
ment cards will then go out. Mother is quite enthusiastic
and my new mother-in-law has yielded and gracefully ac¬
cepted the situation.
Aren't you saying I had better have got out of debt be¬
fore taking a wife? Honest, aren't you? Well, see her
and know her and I won't need to make any plea for my¬
self. Her own personality will do that
To his biographer to whom was given the privilege of
reading letters covering a long period of years, it was
very evident that those bearing dates of his first married
years contained the only mention of real happiness that
came into his shadowed life.
The confining and exacting work at the Library, to¬
gether with the dust from the books made distressing in¬
roads upon the never abundant health of the poet. The
88
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Many persons suffering from pulmonary troubles have
found relief in the balmy air of the Catskills, but poor
Paul Dunbar was so little benefited that he was com¬
pelled to take the much-dreaded journey to Colorado.
Mrs. Matilda Dunbar returned from Virginia and accom¬
panied her son and his wife on their western journey.
Their first stop was at Denver, and Mr. Dunbar sent a
note to Dr. Tobey, which is important in that it shows
how Dunbar's fame had gone before him.
Denver, Colorado, September i2> 'pp.
My Dear Doctor :
Here we are, the whole " kit and bilin'" in Denver,
and already I feel considerably reconciled to my fate. I
am well impressed with the town, though I have been
here but a few hours.
Only one thing—or really, several things in one—have
bothered me—the reporters. They have taken the house
and I have not yet had time to rest from my journey.
. . . The Denver Post wishes to pay my expenses
if I will travel slowly over the state and give occasionally
my impressions of it. They wired me at Chicago, and
have sent two men to interview me since I have been
there. They claim the trips would be healthful, that my
wife could go along with the best accommodations, and
that I only need do what I want in the way of writing.
These people are the New York Journal of the west!
In the early days of October, 1899, the Dunbars found
a suitable home at Harmon, a small town near Denver.
Mr. Dunbar described this temporary domicile as a
" dainty little house, very pleasant and sunny."
From Harmon he wrote, soon after going there, to an
Ohio friend, " I have an old cob of a horse, and some kind
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 89
of a buggy for me to jog in as the doctor forbids much
walking and entirely prohibits bicycling."
This " old cob of a horse " became so dear to the poet
that he immortalized her in his dialect poem " That ol'
mare of mine," for which he received a sum equal to half
the price he paid for the mare.
That Mr. Dunbar realized his cure could not be perma¬
nent, but that he was determined to be patient and cheer¬
ful is manifested by a few paragraphs in a Denver letter
of his:
" Well, it is something to sit down under the shadow of
the Rocky Mountains even if one only goes there to die."
" Have you been reading Stevenson's letters as they
run in the Scribner's Magazine f There was a brave fel¬
low for you, and I always feel stronger for reading his
manly lines."
He speaks in this same characteristic epistle of his
health and of the doctors having examined his sputum,
and says, " I too have looked upon the ' little red hair-like
devils' who are eating up my lungs. So many of us are
cowards when we look into the cold, white eyes of death,
and I suppose I am no better or braver than the rest of
humanity."
The life of Paul Laurence Dunbar while in Colorado
was a long, losing fight for health. Hope and fear were
alternate guests in his heart, but while his naturally
optimistic spirit drank deep of the sunshine, his lungs
constantly weakened by the ravages of the "little red
devils" of disease—could not assimilate the beneficent
qualties of the light and air.
As often as his strength would permit he recited,
many of the wealthiest homes of Denver being opened to
5
CHAPTER X
BACK TO WASHINGTON
In the spring of 1900, the Dunbars went back to Wash¬
ington. The Colorado trip did not accomplish for Mr.
Dunbar's health what they had all hoped it might, but he
returned to Washington, trusting that he should now be
able to live there and make it his headquarters. Early in
the summer, however, it was found necessary for him to
" move on" again, and he and his wife went again to the
Catskills. A rather pleasant summer was spent there, but
the ravages of consumption had only been checked, and
it was with a sinking heart that the gifted man returned
once more to Washington.
It has seemed right to quote just here a paragraph or
two from an article which appeared in the March, 1906,
issue of Talent Magazine. This quotation will explain at
last an incident of which many of Mr. Dunbar's friends
read with much surprise and regret at the time of its
occurrence.
While one must acknowledge, with the poet, that he
made a grievous mistake, still this admission is tinged
with a feeling of shame that American newspapers must
needs have heralded the unfortunate affair all over the
country.
The incident to which Mr. Pearson of Talent refers
happened late in the autumn of 1900.
" It has been frequently reported in the public prints
that Dunbar was a drunkard. Though it was founded on
92
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
truth, it was not the whole truth. With a friend I had
engaged Dunbar to give an evening of readings at Evans-
ton, Illinois. We had thoroughly advertised the event,
and a large audience from the University and the city
were present to hear him. At eight o'clock, a messenger
brought me word that he had broken a dinner engage¬
ment at the Woman's College, and that no word had
been received from him. After an anxious delay he ar¬
rived a half hour late and with him were a nurse, a phy¬
sician and his half-brother, Mr. Murphy. The first num¬
ber or two could not be heard, but not until he had read
one poem the second time did we suspect the true cause
of his difficulty in speaking. His condition grew steadily
worse, so that most of the people left in disgust. The
report was passed about that he was intoxicated. The
Chicago papers printed full accounts of the incident, and
it was copied throughout the country.
" The following letter which has never been published,
explains the situation.
" 321 Spruce St., Washington, D. C.
" Professor P. M. Pearson :
" Dear Sir : Now that I am at home and settled,
I feel that an explanation is due you from me. I could
not see you as you asked, because I was ashamed to.
My brother went, but you were gone.
" The clipping you sent is too nearly true to be an¬
swered. I had been drinking. This had partially in¬
toxicated me. The only injustice lies in the writer's not
knowing that there was a cause behind it all, beyond mere
inclination. On Friday afternoon I had a severe hemor¬
rhage. This I was fool enough to try to conceal from my
family, for, as I had had one the week before, I knew they
would not want me to read. Well, I was nervously anx-
94
THE LIFE AND WORKS
ious not to disappoint you, and so I tried to bolster myself
up on stimulants. It was the only way that I could have
stood up at all. But I feel now that I had rather have dis¬
appointed you wholly than to have disgraced myself and
made you ashamed.
"As to the program, I had utterly forgotten that there
was a printed one. I am very sorry and ashamed, be¬
cause I do not think that the cause excuses the act.
" I have cancelled all my engagements and given up
reading entirely. They are trying to force me back to
Denver, but I am ill and discouraged, and don't care much
what happens.
" Don't think that this is an attempt at vindication. It
is not. Try to forgive me as far as forgiveness is possible.
" Sincerely yours,
" Paul L. Dunbar.
" P. S. I have not told you that I was under the doctor's
care and in bed up until the very day I left here for Chi¬
cago. There had been a similar flow, and I came against
advice, and now I see the result.
"Such an explanation silences criticism. But the re¬
port has been widely circulated, and afterwards it was often
revived, without cause."
The winter of 1900-01 was spent with Washington as
his permanent address, but even though his health would
ill permit of it, he made a number of trips to various parts
of the country to recite.
On March 1st, 1901, Mr. Dunbar received a parchment
appointing him as aid with rank of colonel in the Inau¬
gural Parade of President McKinley. Concerning this
appointment, Mr. Dunbar said, several years later to his
biographer,—
"When the document was brought to me, I refused
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 95
positively to appear in the parade, as I did not consider
myself a sufficiently good horseman. So I sent the gen¬
tleman away with that answer, but as soon as he was out
of the house, my wife and mother made siege upon me,
and compelled me to run after him. I remember the oc¬
casion well, how I ran down my front steps in house-
jacket and slippers and calling to my late visitor, told him
that I had changed my mind, perforce." Mr. Dunbar
appeared in the inaugural parade, three days afterwards.
A month later finds him writing from Jacksonville,
Florida, to a friend in the North :
" Down here one finds my poems recited everywhere.
Young men help themselves through school by speaking
them, and the schools help their own funds by sending
readers out with them to the winter hotels. Very largely
I am out of it. Both my lungs and my throat are bad,
and, from now on, it seems like merely a fighting race
with Death. If this is to be so, I feel like pulling my
horse, and letting the white rider go in without a contest."
Fooled by the false courage that alternates with despair
in the lives of tuberculosis sufferers, Dunbar spent a hope¬
ful summer, in spite of this spring-time discouragement.
He even went so far as to buy a house and establish a
beautiful home in Washington. But Fate did not intend
that this darling child of Genius should enjoy for long
any of the good things of life, and less than a year later,
the most terrible tragedy of his life occurred. His home
was broken up, and he left Washington forever. In such
very personal and heart-touching matters it has always
seemed to his biographer that the world should have no
interest. This brilliant pair, having walked for several
96
THE LIFE AND WORKS
years together, at last came to a parting of the ways.
Neither has spoken to say why they parted there, each
going ever after alone—and, an attempt at explanation
would be unkind to the living and unjust to the dead.
One of his friends has given his biographer a letter writ¬
ten under date of July 27th, 1902, which being as much
as the poet cared to reveal to a lifelong and trusted friend,
should suffice even the most curious of those interested in
the story of his life. He writes as follows :
" You will be seriously shocked to hear that Mrs. Dun¬
bar and I are now living apart, and the beautiful home I
had at Washington is a thing of the past. ... I am
greatly discouraged and if I could do anything else, I
should give up writing. Something within me seems to
be dead. There is no spirit or energy left in me. My
upper lip has taken on a droop."
This letter is written from Chicago, where Mr. Dunbar
went, accompanied by his faithful little mother, when the
crash came.
Mr. Dunbar wrote his old friend, Mr. Charles Thatcher
at Toledo, in December of 1902 —
"My plans are few but definite. There is a mid¬
winter's book of poems forthcoming— ' Lyrics of Love
and Laughter,' and an illustrated one for next fall. An
Ohio novel is promised to Lippincotfsy and dialect
stories and verses to various periodicals. Besides this I
shall possibly read in the southwest during the latter part
of Jar.aary. My appearance is robust, but my cough is
about as bad as it can be."
Thus the unquenchable ambition of Paul Laurence
Dunbar whipped the frail flesh to its labor and accom¬
plished an almost unbelievable amount of work in those
LAST DAYS OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
(Being a Series of Personal Reminiscences of the Poet)
One summer day in 1904, I was invited by the talented
reader, Miss Anna Loy May, to accompany her to the
home of Paul Laurence Dunbar, where she made frequent
pilgrimages to recite for him the poems and sketches he
loved to hear. Together we traversed the pretty street,
which leads to the Dunbar home. The house is a com¬
modious brick structure, shaded by magnificent elms, and
on the lawn, at a point where the sick man's eyes could
rest upon it, when he sat by a southern window, was a
luxuriant bed of pansies.
As we stepped upon the piazza, Mr. Dunbar's collie
dog inaugurated a rather too-friendly greeting, and in
another moment, the door was opened by the poet him¬
self, who immediately apologized for his dog by saying:
" My dog never barks at any one but poets : he is
jealous for his master's reputation !" He asked me sev¬
eral jocular questions, and then, looking at me in a quiz¬
zical sort of way, exclaimed :
" Did you expect to find me a long-faced, sancti¬
monious individual of whom you would be afraid ? "
" Y-es, Mr. Dunbar, I will confess it—I had formed
some such opinion."
" And now you are disappointed, aren't you ?" he
asked laughing more like a mischievous schoolboy than
a. world-famous man and an invalid.
" A trifle," I replied, " but very delightfully so."
This pleased him greatly, and we began to talk of com-
103
io6 THE LIFE AND WORKS
for the greatest poet of his race to thus bring to our
knowledge immediately the fact that the new arrival
possessed a talent for making verse. Too ill to go driv¬
ing, he was compelled to decline his friend's hospitality,
but his beautiful words of gratitude sent the young man
away with a beaming face and a happy heart. It never
seemed to matter to Paul Dunbar whether a man was
rich or poor, black or white or yellow, if he offered him a
kindness or expressed a good wish, the poet took pains
to show his appreciation in as public a way as he could.
He was almost wholly free from the blight of ingratitude,
Mr. Dunbar would have had us remain indefinitely, but
knowing that we had already drawn over-deep upon his
slender store of vitality, we literally " tore ourselves
away " promising a speedy return.
A Chinese Tea Party
Our second visit to Paul Laurence Dunbar was on a
gray day in October. There was a chill in the air, and a
drizzle from the clouds. A cold wind, like an advance
agent for winter, was feeling the pulse of the people as
though to discern how they felt towards the coming show,
If the world could have been judged that day, by our
wishes, winter would have felt far from complimented.
Knowing the tendency of the artistic temperament to be
depressed when the sun is not shining, I expected to find
the sick man indulging in an attack of the blues. On the
contrary, as soon as he entered the room, we felt that it
was flooded with sunshine. He was simply bubbling
over with good cheer and fun, and we were soon ob¬
livious to the weather.
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR in
An Impromptu Musicale
Among the things that were dear to the heart of Paul
Laurence Dunbar was music—vocal or instrumental—he
loved it, and he was, in his prime, no mean performer on
the violin.
One afternoon I went to see him on a matter of business,
but ere I had been there long, he told me that I was " in
luck," for there was to be a musicale in half an hour.
Soon his guests began to arrive. Among them were
prominent persons of both races. Mr. Dunbar sat on a
couch smilling and chatting with every one,—the gayest
of the throng. One of the colored women began the
program by singing several of Mr. Dunbar's favorite
songs. One of these was " Lead Kindly Light." This
was a great favorite of the poet's, and he once wrote a
companion-piece to it which by many is thought to be as
beautiful as the original poem. His poem is called a
Hymn, and is really his own prayer to God for help in
his illness. The last stanza is especially beautiful:
" Lead gently, Lord, and slow,
For fear that I may fall:
I know not where to go
Unless I hear thy call.
My fainting soul doth yearn
For thy green hills afar —
So let thy mercy burn —
My greater, guiding star! "
The young woman who sang for us that afternoon was
wholly African, and her voice was typical of the race.
Well may the negro be proud of his musical ability.
Seldom indeed have I heard a soloist of any race whose
tones could equal those that delighted us that day. The
116 THE LIFE AND WORKS
Poems "While You Wait"
Doubtless there are hundreds of instances, memory-
cherished by his friends, of Mr. Dunbar's having pro¬
duced impromptu verses of remarkable cleverness and
beauty. One or two of these I will recount, merely as
examples of his ability to work under high pressure—»
a gift as rare as it is unusual.
Having business in Dayton, I had not intended
going out to see Mr. Dunbar, but as was my custom,
I called him by telephone. As soon as he recognized
my voice, he said:
"I am feeling fine to-day, and you must come out
before leaving town. I shall have something for you
when you get here!"
He did not give me the slightest hint as to what the
"something" would be, but I went out to see him.
When I reached the house his mother admitted me,
and Mr. Dunbar called from the parlor, where he sat
curled up on a couch, for all the world like a small boy.
"Just wait a moment, I'm hunting for a rhyme."
Mrs. Dunbar and I had conversed but a few min¬
utes when we heard him say exultantly:
"Ah, that's it—good!" and the next instant he was
with us, smiling and bowing to me, and holding
towards me a scrap of paper on which he had written
in his own delicate hand (a feat by no means common
on those latter days) the following:
To a Poet and a Lady.
You sing, and the gift of a State's applause
Is yours for the rune that is ringing,
But tell me truly, is that the cause?
Don't you sing for the love of singing?
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 117
You think you are working for wealth and for fame,
But ah, you are not and you know it,
For Wife is the sweetest and loveliest name,
And every good wife is a poet!
These lines, written to please me, and not meant for a
public reading, nevertheless contain, as did everything he
wrote, a grain of helpful truth, and a delicate suggestion
of the poet's love for the home and its mistress. He did
not prostitute his talent, but even when the occasion was
of a trivial character, he conscientiously gave his story a
new dignity in the telling.
Mr. Dunbar was ever grateful for kindnesses shown
him and took occasion to remark that day :
" My stenographer is not here to-day, or she would type
the verses for you."
" Why, have you a secretary Mr. Dunbar ? "
" Yes, the loveliest young woman in the world comes
almost every day and does my writing for me, and she
does it gratis—will not think of accepting compensation."
His face fairly beamed as he said it, and one could not
help seeing how he appreciated this service from a young
woman of his sister race. Could he but have heard what
she said to me after he died, he would have understood
why she came day after day to write for him—" I never
knew the beauty and breadth of life until I knew Paul
Laurence Dunbar," said the young woman with moist
eyes, " and I can never tell you what those days spent in
his society meant to me." She then told me of his hav¬
ing composed aloud his last poem—" Sling Along " while
she wrote it down in shorthand. It was with great diffi¬
culty that he talked that day, because of the frequent
spells of coughing that attacked him, but one can see
126 THE LIFE AND WORKS
"Whether Paul Dunbar will be rated a great poet or
not, no human being can tell. It is impossible for his
contemporaries either to get a proper perspective of his
achievement or to actually guage his genius. Person¬
ally I believe he will occupy as high a place in American
literature as Burns does in the British, if not higher.
"But whether Paul Dunbar will be rated great or not, it
is certain that he has rendered an invaluable service to
his race. Because he has lived and wrought, the race to
which he belonged has been lifted to a higher plane.
Each and every person in the United States remotely
identified with his race is held in higher esteem because
of the ability which Paul Dunbar possessed and the suc¬
cess he undoubtedly attained.
"Indeed the whole civilized world has greater respect
for that race which some have the ignorance to underes¬
timate and others the hardihood to despise, because this
black man, through whose veins not a drop of Caucasian
blood was known to flow, has given such a splendid and
striking proof of its capacity for high intellectual achieve¬
ment. ''
My Last Visit to Paul Laurence Dunbar
The austere face of a winter sun was hidden behind a
veil of forbidding gray, and the earth and sky were monk-
garbed and sombre-eyed that last day that I saw Dunbar.
His bed had been brought down-stairs, so that his
mother could be near him as she performed her house¬
hold duties, and as he lay there among the pillows one
could see how weak he was, how wasted and how frail,
^ut, as I entered the room, approached his bed and took
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
once more for Dayton—on the day of Mr. Dunbar's
funeral.
Down town I bought a few flowers and was about to
go in search of a messenger to take them out to the Dun¬
bar home, when I noticed a colored man with another
florist's box, addressed in large letters: " For Paul Lau¬
rence Dunbar." The man was waiting for a car, and ap¬
proaching him I said : " Will you take my flowers too ? "
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and I could not but see that
his eyes were full of tears.
Handing him a bit of silver I said, " Here is your fee."
I have never had any one look at me so reproachfully as
did that poor colored man that day —
" Money ? No, indeed. It is all I can do for poor Paul
now."
Later I called at the Summit Street home, and saw him,
for the first time, wholly at rest and free from pain.
His Death and Burial
On February 9th, 1906, it became apparent, early in
the afternoon, that Mr. Dunbar's end was fast approach¬
ing. A physician and then a minister came. Thrice the
poet asked the time, and whether it was day or night.
Then the minister read the Twenty-third Psalm, which had
always been Mr. Dunbar's favorite portion of Scripture.
The dying man lay quietly listening. When the reader
ceased, Dunbar, in a fast-failing voice, began to repeat
the psalm for himself, and when he came to the words —
"When I walk through the valley of the shadow—"
God must indeed have been " with him," for it was then
that he fell asleep.
136 THE LIFE AND WORKS
Dr. Davis W. Clark, of the Methodist Episcopal
Church, one of the most scholarly men of that com¬
munion, offered the final prayer at Mr. Dunbar's funeral.
Dr. Clark was so impressed by the occasion that he soon
after set about securing funds for a monument to the
poet's memory. Speaking of the event a few weeks
afterwards Dr. Clark said:
" When I saw him lying there in his casket, he seemed
to me a prince."
The remains of Paul Laurence Dunbar were placed in
the vault at the beautiful Woodland Cemetery in Dayton,
and two months later, he was buried. The site of his
grave is well chosen, being at the summit of a little hill,
and in selecting it his mother endeavored to follow as
nearly as might be, the wishes voiced by her son in his
" Death Song." She will plant a willow near the mound,
so that by and by he will be lying " neaf de willers in de
grass." He is near also to " de noises in de road," for
the grave is in view of one of the entrances to the
cemetery. . . .
Summing it all up, this short, feverish, brilliant life—an
honest observer can but agree with the poet's best be¬
loved friend Dr. Tobey, who when a sympathetic admirer
of Mr. Dunbar's said: " It is such a pity he had to
die,"—exclaimed:
" No, thank God, I'm glad he's gone—this world was
too sad a place for him."
Whut is Mammy Cookin'
Dah de Watah's Gu'glin'
PART II
The Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar
ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO
SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES
This poem is one of the most profound
that Mr. Dunbar ever wrote, though it is
one of his early productions. It attracted
the attention of many learned persons be¬
fore the poet became famous. Among
those who spoke of it especially, were the
playwright James A. Heme and Colonel
Robert G. Ingersoll.
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes,
Which all the day with ceaseless care
have sought
The magic gold which from the seeker
flies;
Ere dreams put on the gown and cap
of thought,
And make the waking world a world of
lies,—
Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,
That say life's full of aches and tears and
sighs,—
Oh, how with more than dreams the
soul is torn,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes.
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes,
How all the griefs and heartaches we
have known
Come up like pois'nous vapors that arise
From some base witch's caldron, when
the crone,
To work some potent spell, her magic plies.
The past which held its share of bitter
pain.
Whose ghost we prayed that Time might
exorcise,
Comes tip, is lived and suffered o'er
again,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes.
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes,
What phantoms fill the dimly lighted
room;
What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise
Are bodied forth within the teeming
gloom.
What echoes faint of sau and soul-sick
cries,
And pangs of vague inexplicable pain
That pay the spirit's ceaseless enterprise,
Come thronging through the chambers
of the brain,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes.
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes,
Where ranges forth the spirit far and
free ?
Through what strange realms and unfa¬
miliar skies
Tends her far course to lands of mys
tery ?
To lands unspeakable—beyond surmise,
Where shapes unknowable to being
spring,
Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies
Much wearied with the spirit's journey¬
ing,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes.
I4C
the life And works
And felt the magic of his presence nigh,
The current that he sent throughout the
land,
The kindling spirit of his battle-cry.
O'er all that holds us we shall triumph yet,
And place our banner where his hopes
were set!
Oh, Douglass, thou hast passed beyond the
shore,
But still thy voice is ringing o'er the
gale!
Thou'st taught thy race how high her
hopes may soar,
And bade her seek the heights, nor
faint, nor fail.
She will not fail, she heeds thy stirring
cry,
She knows thy guardian spirit will be nigh,
And, rising from beneath the chast'ning
rod,
She stretches out her bleeding hands to
God!
LIFE
It is doubtful if any modern poem has
had a wider reading than this. It was a
favorite selection of Mr. Dunbar's when
reciting, and his reading of it was very
impressive. It is peculiarly typical of his
own experiences in life as well as of those
of us all. In spite of his frank acknowl¬
edgment of the predominance of the
" groans," however, he would not end the
poem without a bit of exhortation and a
crumb of comfort—for, after all, it is true,
as he sings, that
" Joy seems sweeter when cares come after.
And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter,"
and the man of sorrows is the man who
wins the ear and the heart of the world.
A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,
A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,
A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,
And never a laugh but the moans come
double;
And that is life 1
A crust and a corner that love makes
precious,
With the smile to warm and the tears :o
refresh us;
And joy seems sweeter when cares come
after,
And a moan is the finest of foils fo«.
laughter;
And that is life!
THE LESSON
My cot was down by a cypress grove,
And I sat by my window the whole
night long,
And heard well up from the deep dark
wood
A mocking-bird's passionate song.
And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
And my life's cold winter that knew no
spring;
Of my mind so weary and sick and wild.
Of my heart too sad to sing.
But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's
song,
A thought stole into my saddened heart,
And I said, " I can cheer some other soul
By a carol's simple art."
For oft from the darkness of hearts and
lives
Come songs that brim with joy and
light,
As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
The mocking-bird sings at night.
So I sang a lay for a brother's ear
In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart
And he smiled at the sound of my voice
and lyre,
Though mine was a feeble art.
But at his smile I smiled in turn,
And into my soul there came a ray:
In trying to soothe another's woes
Mine own had passed away.
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
That cheered her soul like dew a dusty
flower,—
Until she smiled, approached, and touched
his hand!
THE SEEDLING
As a quiet little seedling
Lay within its darksome bed,
To itself it fell a-talking.
And this is what it said :
" I am not so very robust,
But I'll do the best I can ; "
And the seedling from that moment
Its work of life began.
So it pushed a little leaflet
Up into the light of day,
To examine the surroundings
And show the rest the way.
The leaflet liked the prospect,
So it called its brother, Stem ;
Then two other leaflets heard it,
And quickly followed them.
To be sure, the haste and hurry
Made the seedling sweat and pant;
But almost before jt knew it
It found itself a plant.
The sunshine poured upon it,
And the clouds they gave a shower;
And the little plant kept growing
Till it found itself a flower.
Little folks, be like the seedling,
Always do the best you can ;
Every child must share life's labor
Just as well as every man.
And the sun and showers will help you
Through the lonesome, struggling
hours,
Till you raise to light and beauty
Virtue's fair, unfading flowers.
9
PROMISE AND FULFILMENT
This pair of poems was so admired by
Minnie Maddern Fiske that she wrote the
author asking permission to use them on
the stage. This was granted, and the
lines were read many times with flattering
applause. It is pathetic to reflect upon
the fact that this very thing came in after
years, to* be a real part of the poet's heart
history. At the moment when his joy
should have been at its height, and his
rose of love was ready for the blooming,
it was discovered, alas, that, in very deed,
a " worm was at its heart."
I grew a rose within a garden fair,
And, tending it with more than loving
care,
I thought how, with the glory of its bloom,
I should the darkness of my life illume;
And, watching, ever smiled to see the
lusty bud
Drink freely in the summer sun to tinct
its blood.
My rose began to open, and its hue
Was sweet to me as to it sun and dew ;
I watched it taking on its ruddy flame
Until the day of perfect blooming came,
Then hasted I with smiles to find it blush¬
ing red —
Too late! Some thoughtless child had
plucked my rose and fled!
Fulfilment
I grew a rose once more to please mine
eyes.
All things to aid it—dew, sun, wind, fair
skies —
Were kindly; and to shield it from de¬
spoil,
I fenced it safely in with grateful toil.
No other hand than mine shall pluck this
flower, said I,
And I was jealous of the bee that hovered
nigh.
It grew for days ; I stood hour after hour
To watch the slow unfolding of the flower.
148
THE LIFE AND WORKS
come a lawyer, preferring to be a poet
and an inspiration for his race.
I've been list'nin' to them lawyers
In the court house up the street.
An' I've come to the conclusion
That I'm most completely beat.
Fust one feller riz to argy,
An' he boldly waded in
As he dressed the tremblin' pris'ner
In a coat o' deep-dyed sin.
Why, he painted him all over
In a hue o' blackest crime,
An' he smeared his reputation
With the thickest kind o' grime,
Tell I found myself a-wond'rin',
In a misty way and dim,
How the Lord had come to fashion
Sich an awful man as him.
Then the other lawyer started,
An', with brimmin', tearful eyes,
Said his client was a martyr
That was brought to sacrifice.
An' he give to that same pris'ner
Every blessed human grace,
Tell I saw the light o' virtue
Fairly shinin' from his face.
Then I own 'at I was puzzled
How sich things could rightly be ;
An' this aggervatin' question
Seems to keep a-puzzlin' me.
So, will some one please inform me,
An' this mystery unroll —
How an angel an' a devil
Can persess the self-same soul ?
LONGING
If you could sit with me beside the sea to¬
day,
And whisper with me sweetest dreamings
o'er and o'er;
I think I should not find the clouds so dim
and gray,
And not so loud the waves complaining at
the shore.
If you could sit with me upon the shore
to-day,
And hold my hand in yours as in the days
of old,
I think I should not mind the chill baptis¬
mal spray,
Nor find my hand and heart and all the
world so cold.
If you could walk with me upon the strand
to-day,
And tell me that my longing love had won
your own,
I think all my sad thoughts would then be
put away,
And I could give back laughter for the
Ocean's moan!
A BANJO SONG
Oh, dere's lots o' keer an' trouble
In dis world to swaller down;
An' ol' Sorrer's purty lively
In her way o' gittin' roun'.
Yet dere's times when I furgit 'em,—
Aches an' pains an' troubles all,—
An' it's when I tek at ebenin'
My ol' banjo f'om de wall.
'Bout de time dat night is fallin'
An' my daily wu'k is done,
An' above de shady hilltops
I kin see de settin' sun;
When de quiet, restful shadders
Is beginnin' jes' to fall,—
Den I take de little banjo
F'om its place upon de wall.
Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me
In de fadin' o' de light,
Ez I strike de strings to try 'em
Ef dey all is tuned er-right.
An' it seems we're so nigh heaben
We kin hyeah de angels sing
When de music o' dat banjo
Setc my cabin all er-ring
On, Dere's Lots o' Keer an' Trouble
Male an' Female, Small an' Big
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
An' my wife an' all de othahs,—
Male an' female, small an' big,—.
Even up to gray-haired granny,
Seem jes' boun' to do a jig;
'Twell I change de style o' music,
Change de movement an' de time,
An' de ringin' little banjo
Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime.
An' somehow my th'oat gits choky,
An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise
Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water
Dat was flowin' to my eyes;
An' I feel dat I could sorter
Knock de socks clean off o' sin
Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny
Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in.
Den we all th'ow in our voices
Fu' to he'p de chune out too,
Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry
Tryin' to sing a mou'nah th'oo.
An' our th'oahts let out de music,
Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free,
'Twell de raftahs o' my cabin
Echo wif de melody.
Oh, de music o' de banjo,
Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow,
Is de greates' joy an' solact
Dat a weary slave kin know !
So jes' let me hyeah it ringin',
Dough de chune be po' an' rough,
It's a pleasure; an' de pleasures
O' dis life is few enough.
Now, de blessed little angels
Up in heaben, we are told,
Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime
'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold.
Now I think heaben 'd be mo' home¬
like
Ef we'd hyeah some music fall
F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo,
Like dat one upon de wall.
NOT THEY WHO SOAR
Not they who soar, but they who plod
Their rugged way, unhelped, to God
Are heroes; they who higher fare,
And, flying, fan the upper air,
Miss all the toil that hugs the sod.
'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod,
Whose feet have pressed the path unshod,
May smile upon defeated care,
Not they who soar.
High up there are no thorns to prod,
Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod
To turn the keenness of the share,
For flight is ever free and rare;
But heroes they the soil who've trod,
Not they who soar!
WHITTIER
Not o'er thy dust let there be spent
The gush of maudlin sentiment;
Such drift as that is not for thee,
Whose life and deeds and songs agree*
Sublime in their simplicity.
Nor shall the sorrowing tear be shed.
O singer sweet, thou art not dead!
In spite of time's malignant chill,
With living fire thy songs shall thrill,
And men shall say, " He liveth still!"
Great poets never die, for Earth
Doth count their lives of too great worth
To lose them from her treasured store;
So shalt thou live for evermore —
Though far thy form from mortal ken —
Deep in the hearts and minds of men.
ODE FOR MEMORIAL DAY
Done are the toils and the wearisome
marches,
Done is the summons of bugle and
drum.
Softly and sweetly the sky overarches,
Shelt'ring a land where Rebellion is
dumb.
Dark were the days of the country's de¬
rangement,
Sad were the hours when the conflict
was on,
But through the gloom of fraternal es¬
trangement
God sent his light, and we welcome the
dawn.
O'er the expanse of our mighty dominions,
e68
THE LIFE AND WORKS
A NEGRO LOVE SONG
This poem illustrates the way in which
Mr. Dunbar utilized the most humble of
happenings as material for his verses.
During the World's Fair, he served for a
short time as hotel waiter. When the
negroes were not busy they had a custom
of congregating and talking about their
sweethearts. Then a man with a tray
would come along and, as the dining-room
was frequently crowded, he would say,
when in need of passing-room : " Jump
back, honey, jump back." Out of these
commonplace confidences, he wove the
musical little composition—" A Negro
Love Song."
Seen my lady home las' night,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f om huh eye,
An' a smile go flittin' by —
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockin'-bird was singin' fine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
An' my hea't was beatin' so,
When I reached my lady's do',
Dat I couldn't ba' to go —
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Put my ahm aroun' huh wais',
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an' took a tase,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true ?
Love me well ez I love you ?
An' she answe'd, " 'Cose I do"—
Jump back, honey, jump back.
THE COLORED SOLDIERS
If the muse were mine to tempt it
And my feeble voice were strong,
If my tongue were trained to measures,
i would sing a stirring song.
I would sing a song heroic
Of those noble sons of Ham,
Of the gallant colored soldiers
Who fought for Uncle Sam!
In the early days you scorned them.
And with many a flip and flout
Said " These battles are the white man's.
And the whites will fight them out."
Up the hills you fought and faltered,
In the vales you strove and bled,
While your ears still heard the thunder
Of the foes' advancing tread.
Then distress fell on the nation,
And the flag was drooping low;
Should the dust pollute your banner ?
No! the nation shouted, No!
So when War, in savage triumph,
Spread abroad his funeral pall —
Then you called the colored soldierss
And they answered to your call.
And like hounds unleashed and eager
For the life blood of the prey,
Sprung they forth and bore them bravely
In the thickest of the fray.
And where'er the fight was hottest,
Where the bullets fastest fell,
There they pressed unblanched and fear¬
less
At the very mouth of hell.
Ah, they rallied to the standard
To uphold it by their might;
None were stronger in the labors,
None were braver in the fight.
From the blazing breach of Wagner
To the plains of Olustee,
They were foremost in the fight
Of the battles of the free.
And at Pillow! God have mercy
On the deeds committed there,
And the souls of those poor victims
Sent to Thee without a prayer.
Let the fulness of Thy pity
O'er the hot wrought spirits sway
Of the gallant colored soldiers
Who fell fighting on that day!
Sf.en My Lady Home Las' Night
When de Co'n Pone's Hot'
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom,
And they won it dearly, too;
For the life blood of their thousands
Did the southern fields bedew.
In the darkness of their bondage,
In the depths of slavery's night,
Their muskets flashed the dawning,
And they fought their way to light.
They were comrades then and brothers,
Are they more or less to-day ?
They were good to stop a bullet
And to front the fearful fray.
They were citizens and soldiers,
When rebellion raised its head;
, And the traits that made them worthy,—
Ah! those virtues are not dead.
They have shared your nightly vigils,
They have shared your daily toil;
And their blood with yours commingling
Has enriched the Southern soil.
They have slept and marched and suffered
'Neath the same dark skies as you,
They have met as fierce a foeman,
And have been as brave and true.
And their deeds shall find a record
In the registry of Fame;
For their blood has cleansed completely
Every blot of Slavery's shame.
So all honor and all glory
To those noble sons of Ham —
The gallant colored soldiers
Who fought for Uncle Sam!
WHEN DE CO'N PONE'S HOT
Dey is times in life when Nature
Seems to slip a cog an' go,.
Jes' a-rattlin' down creation,
Lak an ocean's overflow;
When de worl' jes' stahts a-spinnin'
Lak a picaninny's top,
An' yo' cup o' joy is brimmin'
'Twell it seems about to slop,
An' you feel jes' lak a racah,
Dat is trainin' fu' to trot —
When yo' mammy says de blessin'
An' de co'n pone's hot.
When you set down at de table,
Kin' o' weary lak an' sad,
An' you'se jes' a little tiahed
An' purhaps a little mad ;
How yo' gloom tu'ns into gladness,
How yo' joy drives out de doubt
When de oven do' is opened,
An' de smell comes po'in' out;
Why, de 'lectric light o' Heaven
Seems to settle on de spot,
When yo' mammy says de blessin'
An' de co'n pone's hot.
When de cabbage pot is steamin'
An' de bacon good an' fat,
When de chittlins is a-sputter'n'
So's to show you whah dey's at;
Tek away yo' sody biscuit,
Tek away yo' cake an' pie,
Fu' de glory time is comin',
An' it's 'proachin' mighty nigh,
An' you want to jump an' hollah,
Dough you know you'd bettah not,
When yo' mammy says de blessin',
An' de co'n pone's hot.
I have hyeahd o' lots o' sermons,
An' I've hyeahd o' lots o' prayers,
An' I've listened to some singin'
Dat has tuk me up de stairs
Of de Glory-Lan' an' set me
Jes' below de Mahstah's th'one,
An' have lef' my hea't a-singin'
In a happy aftah tone ;
But dem wu'ds so sweetly murmured
Seem to tech de softes' spot,
When my mammy says de blessin',
An' de co'n pone's hot.
THE OL' TUNES
You kin talk about yer anthems
An' yef arias an' sich,
An' yer modern choir-singin'
That you think so awful rich;
But you orter heerd us youngsters
In the times now far away,
A-singin' o' the ol' tunes
In the ol'-fashioned way.
There was some of us sung treble
An' a few of us growled bass,
An' the tide o' song flowed smoothly
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Then he spoke to the wind: " Friend,
seest thou not
Yon vessel is eastward bound ?
Pray speed with it to the happy spot
Where thy loved one may be found."
And the wind rose up in a dear delight,
And after the good ship sped;
But the crafty sea by his wicked might
Kept the vessel ever ahead.
Till the wind grew fierce in his despair,
, And white on the brow and lip.
He tore his garments and tore his hair,
And fell on the flying ship.
And the ship went down, for a rock was
there,
And the sailless sea loomed black ;
While burdened again with dole and care,
The wind came moaning back.
&nd still he moans from his bosom hot
Where his raging grief lies pent,
^.nd ever when the ships come not,
The sea says: " I repent."
THE DESERTED PLANTATION
Oh, de grubbin'-hoe's a-rustin' in de
co'nah,
An' de plow's a-tumblin' down in de
fiel',
While de whippo'will's a-wailin' lak a
mou'nah
When his stubbo'n hea't is tryin' ha'd to
yiel'.
In de furrers whah de co'n was alius
wavin',
Now de weeds is growin' green an' rank
an' tall;
An' de swallers roun' de whole place is
a-bravin'
Lak dey thought deir folks had alius
owned it all.
An* de big house Stan's all quiet lak an'
solemn,
Not a blessed soul in pa'lor, po'ch, er
lawn j
Not a guest, ner not a ca'iage lef to haul
'em,
Fu' de ones dat tu'ned de latch-string
out air gone.
An' de banjo's voice is silent in de qua'ters,
D'ain't a hymn ner co'n-song ringin' in
de air;
But de murmur of a branch's passin' waters
Is de only soun' dat breks de stillness
dere.
Whah's de da'kies, dem dat used to be
a dancin'
Evry night befo' de ole cabin do' ?
Whah's de chillun, dem dat used to be
a-prancin'
Er a-rollin' in de san' er on de flo' ?
Whah's ole Uncle Mordecai an' Uncle
Aaron ?
Whah's Aunt Doshy, Sam, an' Kit, an'
all de res' ?
Whah's ole Tom de da'ky fiddlah, how's
he farm' ?
Whah's de gals dat used to sing an'
dance de bes' ?
Gone! not one o' dem is lef to tell de
story;
Dey have lef de deah ole place to fall
away.
Couldn't one o' dem dat seed it in its glory
Stay to watch it in de hour of decay ?
Dey have lef de ole plantation to de
swallers,
But it hoi's in me a lover till de las';
Fu' I fin' hyeah in de memory dat follers
All dat loved me an' dat I loved in de
pas'.
So I'll stay an' watch de deah ole place
an' tend it
Ez I used to in de happy days gone by.
'Twell de othah Mastah thinks it's time to
end it,
An' calls me to my qua'ters in de sky.
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 183
A CORN-SONG
On the wide veranda white,
In the purple failing light,
Sits the master while the sun is slowly
burning;
And his dreamy thoughts are drowned
In the softly flowing sound
Of the corn-songs of the field-hands slow
returning.
Oh, we hoe de co'n
Since de ehly mo'n ;
Now de sinkin' sun
Says de day is done.
O'er the fields with heavy tread,
Light of heart and high of head,
Though the halting steps be labored, slow,
and weary;
Still the spirits brave and strong
" Find a comforter in song,
And their corn song rises ever loud and
cheery.
Oh, we hoe de co'n
Since de ehly mo'n;
Now de sinkin' sun
Says de day is done.
To the master in his seat,
Comes the burden, full and sweet,
Of the mellow minor music growing
clearer,
As the toilers raise the hymn,
Thro' the silence dusk and dim,
To the cabin's restful shelter drawing
nearer.
Oh, we hoe de co'n
Since de ehly mo'n;
Now de sinkin' sun
Says de day is done.
And a tear is in the eye
Of the master sitting by,
As he listens to the echoes low-replying
To the music's fading calls
As it faints away and falls
Into silence, deep within the cabin dying.
Oh, we hoe de co'n
Since de ehly mo'n;
Now de sinkin' sun
Says de day is done.
RIDING TO TOWN
When labor is light and the morning is
fair,
I find it a pleasure beyond all compare
To hitch up my nag and go hurrying down
And take Katie May for a ride into town;
For bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la our lay.
There's joy in a song as we rattle along
In the light of the glorious day.
A coach would be fine, but a spring
wagon's good;
My jeans are a match for Kate's gingham
and hood;
The hills take us up and the vales take us
down,
But what matters that ? we are riding to '
town,
And bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la sing we.
There's never a care may live in the air
That is filled with the breath of our
glee.
And after we've started, there's naught
can repress
The thrill of our hearts in their wild hap¬
piness ;
The heavens may smile or the heavens
may frown,
And it's all one to us when we're riding to
town.
For bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la we shout,
For our hearts they are clear and there's
nothing to fear,
And we've never a pain nor a doubt.
The wagon is weak and the roadway is
rough,
And tho' it is long it is not long enough,
For mid all my ecstasies this is the crown
To sit beside Katie and ride into town,
When bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la our song;
190
THE LIFE AND WORKS
And can you blame her that her gaze
Is turned away from earthly ways,
When to her eyes God's light and love
Have giv'n the view of things above ?
A gentle spirit sweetly good,
The pearl of precious womanhood;
Who heard the voice of duty clear,
And found her mission soon and near.
She loved all nature, flowers fair,
The warmth of sun, the kiss of air,
The birds that filled the sky with song,
The stream that laughed its way along.
Her home to her was shrine and throne,
But one love held her not alone;
She sought out poverty and grief,
Who touched her robe and found relief.
So sped she in her Master's work,
Too busy and too brave to shirk,
When through the silence, dusk and dim,
God called her and she fled to him.
We wonder at the early call,
And tears of sorrow can but fall
For her o'er whom we spread the pall;
But faith, sweet faith, is over all.
The house is dust, the voice is dumb,
But through undying years to come,
The spark that glowed within her soul
Shall light our footsteps to the goal.
She went her way; but oh, she trod
The path that led her straight to God.
Such lives as this put death to scorn;
They lose our day to find God's morn.
WHEN MALINDY SINGS
This poem has been adjudged as the
best of his dialect pieces. It has been set
to music and sung in homes all over the
land. It was dedicated to his mother
whose name Matilda, was slightly modified
to suit the rhythm and melody of the
verses.
Mr. Dunbar recited this poem before a
critical audience in London, England, and
it was given very complimentary mention
in the London Daily News.
While in New York in 1896, Mr. Dun¬
bar was tendered a reception by the entire
staff of the Century Magazine, and was
asked to read a few of his poems. This
poem was among those recited that day.
His hearers were loud in their applause,
and showered compliments and congratula¬
tions upon its author.
Several of Mr. Dunbar's poems had been
published in the Century before that date,
but, full of the spirit of mischief, the
young black man turned to Mr. Gilder,
the editor of the Century, and said:
"That's one you returned."
Mr. Gilder was a bit embarrassed, but
gallantly said:
" We'll take it yet."
" Sorry," replied Dunbar laughingly,
" but you're too late. It has now been
accepted by another magazine."
G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy—•
Put dat music book away;
What's de use to keep on tryin' ?
Ef you practise twell you're gray,
You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin'
Lak de ones dat rants and rings
F'om the kitchen to de big woods
When Malindy sings.
You ain't got de nachel o'gans
Fu' to make de soun' come right,
You ain't got de tu'ns an' twistin's
Fu' to make it sweet an' light.
Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,
An' I'm tellin' you fu' true,
When hit comes to raal right singin',
Tain't no easy thing to do.
Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah,
Lookin' at de lines an' dots,
When dey ain't no one kin sence it,
An' de chune comes in, in spots;
But fu' real melojous music,
Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings,
Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me
When Malindy sings.
Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy?
Blessed soul, tek up de cross!
Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey?
'Well, you don't know whut you los'.
Y' ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin',
Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things,
Put dat Music Book Away
While Malindy Sings
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 193
Heish dey moufs an' hides dey faces
When Malindy sings.
Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin',
Lay his fiddle on de she'f;
Mockin'-bird quit tryin' to whistle,
'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f.
Folks a-playin' on de banjo
Draps dey fingahs on de strings —
Bless yo' soul—fu'gits to move 'em,
When Malindy sings.
She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs,
" Come to Jesus," twell you liyeah
Sinnahs' tremblin' steps and voices,
Timid-lak a-drawin' neah;
Den she tu'ns to " Rock of Ages,"
Simply to de cross she clings,
An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin'
When Malindy sings.
Who dat says dat humble praises
Wif de Master nevah counts ?
Heish yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music,
Ez hit rises up an' mounts —
Floatin' by de hills an' valleys,
Way above dis buryin' sod,
Ez hit makes its way in glory
To de very gates of God!
Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music
Of an edicated band;
An' hit's dearah dan de battle's
Song o' triumph in de lan'.
It seems holier dan evenin'
When de solemn chu'ch bell rings,
Ez I sit an' ca'mly listen
While Malindy sings.
Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me!
Mandy, mek dat chile keep still;
Don't you hyeah de echoes callin'
F'om de valley to de hill ?
Let me listen, I can hyeah it,
Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings,
Sof an' sweet, " Swing Low, Sweet
Chariot,"
Ez Malindy sings.
THE PARTY
Of this production William Dean
Howells said in his notable article in
Harper's Weekly:
" I wish I could give the whole of the
piece which he calls ' The Pahty,' but I
must content myself with a passage or
two. They will impart some sense of the
jolly rush of movement, its vivid pictur-
esqueness, its broad characterization, and
will perhaps suffice to show what vistas
into the simple, sensuous, joyous nature of
his race Mr. Dunbar's work opens." He
then quoted a number of the lines.
" One sees," continued Mr. Howells,
" how the poet exults in his material as
the artist always does. It is not for him
to blink its commonness, or to be ashamed
of its rudeness : and in his treatment of it
he has been able to bring us nearer to the
heart of primitive human nature in his
race than any one else has yet done."
(These quotations from Mr. Howells'
article are used by permission and courtesy
of Messrs. Harper & Brothers.)
Dey had a gread big pahty down to Tom's
de othah night;
Was I dah ? You bet! I nevah in my
life see sich a sight;
All de folks f'om fou' plantations was in¬
vited, an' dey come,
Dey come troopin' thick ez chillun when
dey hyeahs a fife an' drum.
Evahbody dressed deir fines'—Heish yo'
mouf an' git away,
Ain't seen no sich fancy dressin' sence las'
quah'tly meetin' day;
Gals all dressed in silks an' satins, not a
wrinkle ner a crease,
Eyes a-battin', teeth a-shinin', haih breshed
back ez slick ez grease ;
Sku'ts all tucked an' puffed an' ruffled,
evah blessed seam an' stitch;
Ef you'd seen 'em wif deir mistus, couldn't
swahed to which was which.
Men all dressed up in Prince Alberts,
swallertails 'u'd tek yo' bref!
I cain't tell you nothin' 'bout it, yo* ought
to seen it fu' yo'se'f.
mo was dah ? Now who you askin' ?
How you 'spect I gwine to know ?
You mus' think I stood an' counted evah¬
body at de do'.
200
THE LIFE AND WORKS
And his head bends low and lower
Till his chin lies on his breast,
And he sits in peaceful slumber
Like a little child at rest.
Dear old man, there's something sad'ning,
In these dreamy moods of yours,
Since the present proves so fleeting,
All the past for you endures.
Weeping at forgotten sorrows,
Smiling at forgotten jokes;
Life epitomized in minutes,
When the old man smokes.
THE GARRET
The poverty which befel Mr. Dunbar
while in London, and which would have
wholly discouraged many another sensitive
soul, proved only a frame upon which he
hung beautiful garlands qf song.
The little poem, given herewith, shows
that his English was a bit Londonized
while in that city, but the philosophic
cheerfulness was the same that came with
him into the world, and forms the trim¬
ming of so many of his graceful poems.
No doubt if he had been stranded on a
desert island, he would have found abun¬
dant food for fun and would have written
humorous verse at his own expense, to
while the time away.
Within a London garret high,
Above the roofs and near the sky,
My ill-rewarding pen I ply
To win me bread.
This little chamber, six by four,
Is castle, study, den and more,—
Altho' no carpet decks the floor,
Nor down, the bed.
My room is rather bleak and bare;
I only have one broken chair,
But then, there's plenty of fresh air,—
Some light, beside.
What tho' I cannot ask my friends
To share with me my odds and ends,
A. liberty my aerie lends,
To most denied.
The bore who falters at the stair
No more shall be my curse and care,
And duns shall fail to find my lair
With beastly bills.
When debts have grown and funds are
short,
I find it rather pleasant sport
To live " above the common sort"
With all their ills.
I write my rhymes and sing away,
And dawn may come or dusk or day:
Tho' fare be poor, my heart is gay,
And full of glee.
Though chimney-pots be all my views ;
'Tis nearer for the winging Muse,
So I am sure she'll not refuse
To visit me.
LITTLE BROWN BABY
Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes,
Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee.
What you been doin', suh—makin' san'
pies ?
Look at dat bib—you's ez du'ty ez me.
Look at dat mouf—dat's merlasses, I bet;
Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his
han's.
Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up
yit.
Bein' so sticky an' sweet—goodness
lan's!
Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes,
Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's
chile ?
Who is it all de day nevah once tries
Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile ?
Whah did you git dem teef ? My, you's a
scamp!
Whah did dat dimple come fom in yo'
chin ?
Pappy do' know yo—I b'lieves you's a
tramp;
Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler
got in!
Who's Pappy's Darlin'
Den You Men's de Mule's Ol' Ha'ness
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
203
Let's th'ow him outen de do' in de san',
We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun'
liyeah;
Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man;
I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right
neah.
Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de
do',
Hyeah's a bad boy you kin have fu' to
eat.
Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo',
Swaller him down fom his haid to his
feet!
Dah, now, I t'ought dat you'd hug me up
close.
Go back, ol' buggah, you sha'n't have
dis boy.
He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of
co'se;
He's pappy's pa'dner an' playmate an'
joy. t
Come to you' pallet now—go to yo' res';
Wisht you could alius know ease an'
cleah skies;
Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my
breas'—
Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes!
TIME TO TINKER 'ROUN'
Summah's nice, wif sun a-shinin',
Spring is good wif greens and grass,
An' dey's some t'ings nice 'bout wintah,
Dough hit brings de freezin' bias';
But de time dat is the fines',
Whethah fiel's is green or brown,
Is w'en de rain's a-po'in'
An' dey's time to tinker 'roun'.
Den you men's de mule's ol' ha'ness,
An' you men's de broken chair.
Hummin' all de time you's wo'kin'
Some ol' common kind o' air.
Evah now an' then you looks out,
Tryin' mighty ha'd to frown,
But you cain't, you's glad hit's rainin',
An' dey's time to tinker 'roun'.
Oh, you 'ten's lak you so anxious
Evah time it so't o' stops.
W'en hit goes on, den you reckon
Dat de wet'll he'p de crops.
But hit ain't de crops you's aftah ;
You knows w'en de rain comes down
Dat hit's too wet out fu' wo'kin',
An' dey's time to tinker 'roun'.
Oh, dey's fun inside de co'n-crib,
An' dey's laffin' at de ba'n;
An' dey's alius some one jokin',
Er some one to tell a ya'n.
Dah's a quiet in yo' cabin,
Only fu' de rain's sof' soun';
So you's mighty blessed happy
W'en dey's time to tinker 'roun'!
A BRIDAL MEASURE
Come, essay a sprightly measure,
Tuned to some light song of pleasure.
Maidens, let your brows be crowned
As we foot this merry round.
From the ground a voice is singing,
From the sod a soul is springing.
Who shall say 'tis but a clod
Quick'oing upward towards its God ?
Who shall say it ? Who may know it,
That the clod is not a poet
Waiting but a gleam to waken
In a spirit music-shaken?
Phyllis, Phyllis, why be waiting?
In the woods the birds are mating.
From the tree beside the wall,
Hear the am'rous robin call.
Listen to yon thrush's trilling ;
Phyllis, Phyllis, are you willing,
When love speaks from cave and tree,
Only we should silent be ?
When the year, itself renewing,
All the world with flowers is strewing,
Then through Youth's Arcadian land,
Love and song go hand in hand.
Come, unfold your vocal treasure.
Sing with me a nuptial measure,-—
Let this spring-time gambol be
Bridal dance for you and me.
2IO
THE LIFE AND WORKS
I have heard a robin singing
When the boughs were brown and bare,
And the chilling hand of winter
Scattered jewels through the air.
And in spite of dates and seasons,
It was always spring, I know,
When I loved Lucy Landman
In the days of long ago.
Ah, my little Lucy Landman,
I remember you as well
As if 'twere only yesterday
I strove your thoughts to tell,—
When I tilted back your bonnet,
Looked into your eyes so true,
Just to see if you were loving
Me as I was loving you.
Ah, my little Lucy Landman
It is true it was denied
You should see a fuller summer
And an autumn by my side.
But the glance of love's sweet sunlight
Which your eyes that morning gave
Has kept spring within my bosom,
Though you lie within the grave.
THE KNIGHT
Our good knight, Ted, girds his broad¬
sword on
(And he wields it well, I ween);
He's on his steed, and away has gone
To the fight for king and queen.
What tho' no edge the broadsword hath?
What tho' the blade be made of lath ?
'Tis a valiant hand
That wields the brand,
So, foeman, clear the path !
He prances off at a goodly pace;
'Tis a noble steed he rides,
That bears as well in the speedy race
As he bears in battle-tides.
What tho' 'tis but a rocking-chair
That prances with this stately air ?
'Tis a warrior bold
The reins doth hold,
Who bids all foes beware!
LULLABY
Bedtime's come fu' little boys.
Po' little lamb.
Too tiahed out to make a noise,
Po' little lamb.
You gwine t' have to-morrer sho' ?
Yes, you toleme dat befo',
Don't you fool me, chile, no mo',
Po' little lamb.
You been bad de livelong day,
Po' little lamb.
Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way,
Po' little lamb.
My, but you's a-runnin' wil',
Look jes' lak some po' folks chile;
Mam' gwine whup you atter while,
Po' little lamb.
Come hyeah! you mos' tiahed to def,
Po' little lamb.
Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref,
Po' little lamb.
See dem han's now—sich a sight 1
Would you evah b'lieve dey's white
Stan' still twell I wash 'em right,
Po' little lamb.
Jes* cain't hoi' yo' haid up straight,
Po' little lamb.
Hadn't oughter played so late,
Po' little lamb.
Mammy do' know whut she'd do,
Ef de chillun's all lak you;
You's a caution now fu' true,
Po' little lamb.
Lay yo' haid down in my lap,
Po' little lamb.
Y' ought to have a right good slap,
Po' little lamb.
You been runnin' roun' a heap.
Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep,
Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,
Po' little lamb.
Po' Little Lamb
Dat's My Gal
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
THOU ART MY LUTE
Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—
My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing,
And meltest me to melody.
Thou art my life, by thee I live,
From thee proceed the joys I know;
Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give
The meed of love—the cup of woe.
Thou art my love, by thee I lead
My soul the paths of light along,
From vale to vale, from mead to mead,
And home it in the hills of song.
My song, my soul, my life, my all,
Why need I pray or make my plea,
Since my petition cannot fall;
For I'm already one with thee 1
THE PHANTOM KISS
One night in my room, still and beamless,
With will and with thought in eclipse,
I rested in sleep that was dreamless ;
When softly there fell on my lips
A touch, as of lips that were pressing
Mine own with the message of bliss —
A sudden, soft, fleeting caressing,
A breath like a maiden's first kiss.
I woke—and the scoffer may doubt me —
I peered in surprise through the gloom;
But nothing and none were about me,
And I was alone in my room.
Perhaps 'twas the wind that caressed me
And touched me with dew-laden breath ;
Or, maybe, close-sweeping, there passed
me
The low-winging Angel of Death.
Some sceptic may choose to disdain it,
Or one feign to read it aright;
Or wisdom may seek to explain it —
This mystical kiss in the night.
But rather let fancy thus clear it:
That, thinking of me here alone,
The miles were made naught, and, in
spirit,
Thy lips, love, were laid on mine own.
THE PHOTOGRAPH
See dis pictyah in my han' ?
Dat's my gal;
Ain't she purty ? goodness Ian'!
Huh name Sal.
Dat's de very way she be
Kin' o' tickles me to see
Huh a-smilin' back at me.
She sont me dis photygraph
Jes' las' week;
An' aldough hit made me laugh —
My black cheek
Felt somethin' a-runnin' queer ;
Bless yo' soul, it was a tear
Jes' f'om wishin' she was here.
Often when I's all alone
Layin' here,
I git t'inkin' 'bout my own
Sallie dear;
How she say dat I's huh beau,
An' hit tickles me to know
Dat de gal do love me so.
Some bright day I's goin' back,-
Fo' de la!
An' ez sho' 's my face is black,
Ax huh pa
Fu' de blessed little miss
Who's a-smilin' out o' dis
Pictyah, lak she wan'ed a kiss I
COMMUNION
In the silence of my heart,
I will spend an hour with thee,
When my love shall rend apart
All the veil of mystery:
All that dim and misty veil
That shut in between our souls
When Death cried, " Ho, maiden, hail! "
And your barque sped on the shoals-
2X6
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Naught may protect me save a strength
divine.
Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling
cause;
I scorn men's curses, but I dread ap¬
plause !"
THE CONQUERORS
THE BLACK TROOPS IN CUBA
Round the wide earth, from the red field
your valor has won,
Blown with the breath of the far-speaking
gun,
Goes the word.
Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud
heavy and dun.
Tossed though the speech towards the mist-
hidden sun,
The world heard.
Hell would have shrunk from you seeking
it fresh from the fray,
Grim with the dust of the battle, and gray
From the fight.
Heaven would have crowned you, with
crowns not of gold but of
bay,
Owning you fit for the light of her day,
Men of night.
Far through the cycle of years and of lives
that shall come,
There shall speak voices long muffled and
dumb,
Out of fear.
And through the noises of trade and the
turbulent hum,
Truth shall rise over the militant drum,
Loud and clear.
Then on the cheek of the honester nation
that grows,
All for their love of you, not for your
woes,
There shall lie
Tears ihat shall be to your souls as the dew
to the rose;
Afterwards thanks, that the present yet
knows
Not to ply I
ALEXANDER CRUMMELL—D SAD
Back to the breast of thy mother,
Child of the earth !
E'en her caress cannot smother
What thou hast done.
Follow the trail of the westering sun
Over the earth.
Thy light and his were as one —
Sun, in thy worth.
Unto a nation whose sky was as night,
Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light:
And the dawn came,
In it thy fame
Flashed up in a flame.
Back to the breast of thy mother—
To rest.
Long hast thou striven;
Dared where the hills by the lightning of
heaven were riven;
Go now, pure shriven.
Who shall come after thee, out of the clay —
Learned one and leader to show us the
way?
Who shall rise up when the world gives
the test ?
Think thou no more of this—
Rest!
WHEN ALL IS DONE
To any one who viewed the dead face
of Paul Laurence Dunbar, after the long,
hard race was done, there could but come
the memory of this poem, and one could
not but be grateful to him for having said
these so plainly and in such a simple way.
There was no trace of pain upon his
features, naught that could suggest any¬
thing but peace and deep content. Those
who loved him could not keep back the
tears because of their loss, but no one who
saw him at the last feared that he was oth¬
erwise than gloriously at rest! He had
indeed " greeted the dawn," though it was
near the hour of the setting of an earthly
winter's sun that he broke the last of his
prison bars, and freedom found at last.
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
When all is done, and my last word is said,
And ye who loved me murmur, " He is
dead,"
Let no one weep, for fear that I should
know,
And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.
When all is done and in the oozing clay,
Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away,
Pray not for me, for, after long despair,
The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.
For I have suffered loss and grievous pain,
The hurts of hatred and the world's dis¬
dain,
And wounds so deep that love, well-tried
and pure,
Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.
When all is done, say not my day is o'er,
And that thro' night I seek a dimmer
shore:
Say rather that my morn has just begun,—
I greet the dawn and not a setting sun,
When all is done.
THE POET AND THE BABY
This dainty bit of verse reflects the poet's
great love for children. What the inspira¬
tion of that particular poem may have been,
it may have referred to almost any of his
child friendships. One of these was espe¬
cially beautiful. A little baby boy of three,
with snow-white skin and golden curls,
loved Dunbar devotedly, and the people
who lived near the poet in Dayton, often
speak of how on bright days Mr. Dunbar
would sit on the front steps of his home
with little David Herr by his side. David
was only a baby, but he loved " Mr. Paul"
with an all-absorbing passion and always
sat as close as he could with one small arm
about the poet's waist. The sight was one
never to be forgotten—the black man and
the white poet, sitting for hours side by
side dumb in their mutual admiration.
When Mr. Dunbar lay dead, little David,
only half realizing the great change that
had come to his friend, came as usual with
a flower (he always brought a beautiful
flower to the poet), which strangely enough,
was a spotless white lily. A gentleman
who knew of the friendship existing be¬
tween the baby and the dead man, carried
David into the chamber of Death.
" I want to div him my f'ower," said
the little fellow, and the man stooped low
until the dimpled fingers placed the white
lily in the poet's hand.
How's a man to write a sonnet, can you
tell,—
How's he going to weave the dim, poetic
spell, —
When a-toddling on the floor
Is the muse he must adore,
And this muse he loves, not wisely, but
too well ?
Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,
One must always be as quiet as a mouse;
But to write one seems to me
Quite superfluous to be,
When you've got a little sonnet in the
house.
Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
That is full of love and life in every line,
Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
Altogether so complete
That I wonder what's the use of writing
mine.
DISTINCTION
" I am but clay," the sinner plead,
Who fed each vain desire.
" Not only clay," another said,
" But worse, for thou art mire."
THE SUM
A little dreaming by the way,
A little toiling day by day;
A little pain, a little strife,
A little joy,—and that is life.
A little short-lived summer's morn,
When joy seems all so newly born.
When one day's sky is blue above.
And one bird sings,—and that is xov&
218
THE LIFE AND WORKS
A little sickening of the years,
The tribute of a few hot tears,
Two folded hands, the failing breath,
And peace at last,—and that is death.
Just dreaming, loving, dying so,
The actors in the drama go —
A flitting picture on a wall,
Love, Death, the themes; but is that all ?
SONNET
ON AN OLD BOOK WITH UNCUT LEAVES
Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire,
No finger ever traced thy yellow page
Save Time's. Thou hast not wrought
to noble rage
The hearts thou wouldst have stirred.
Not any fire
Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre
Dost thou suggest. Nay,—impotent in
age,
Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the
stage
And ceasest even dumbly to aspire.
How different was the thought of him that
writ.
What promised he to love of ease and
wealth,
When men should read and kindle at his
wit.
But here decay eats up the book by
stealth,
Whi}e it, like some old maiden, solemnly,
Hugs its incongruous virginity!
A DEATH SONG
At the time of Mr. Dunbar's death,
many persons were of the opinion that
this poem was of very recent date. The
truth is that it was written as far back as
1898, while Mr. Dunbar was in Washing¬
ton, D. C., and appeared in the Con-
gregationalist in September or October of
that year. These stanzas were printed in
almost every newspaper in the country
when the poet passed away, and the re¬
quest embodied in the lines was followed,
as nearly as possible, in the selection of a
burial site.
Lay me down beneaf de willers in de
grass,
Whah de branch'll go a-singin' as it
pass.
An' w'en I's a-layin' low,
I kin hyeah it as it go
Singin', " Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at
las'."
Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little
pool,
An' de watah stan's so quiet lak an'
cool,
Whah de little birds in spring,
Ust to come an' drink an' sing,
An' de chillen waded on dey way to
school.
Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps
dey load
Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in as.
road;
Fu' I t'ink de las' long res'
.Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes'
Ef I's layin' 'mong de t'ings I's alius
knowed.
CHRISMUS IS A-COMIN'
Bones a-gittin' achy,
Back a-feelin' col',
Han's a-growin' shaky,
Jes' lak I was ol\
Fros' erpon de meddah
Lookin' mighty white;
Snowdraps lak a feddah
Slippin' down at night.
Jes' keep t'ings a-hummin'
Spite o' fros' an' showahs,
Chrismus is a-comin*
An' all de week is ouahs.
Little mas' a-axin',
" Who is Santy Claus ? "
Meks it kin' o' taxin'
Not to brek de laws.
Chillun's pow'ful tryin'
To a pusson's grace
We'n dey go a pryin'
Right on th'oo you' face
Beneaf de Willers
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
245
At de call fu' colo'ed soldiers, Sam en¬
listed 'mong de res'
Wid de blue o' Gawd's great ahmy wrapped
about his swellin' breas',
An' he laffed an' whistled loudah in his
youfful joy an' glee
Dat de govament would let him he'p to
mek his people free.
Daih was lots o' ties to bin' him, pappy,
mammy, an' his Dinah,—
Dinah, min' you, was his sweethea't, an'
dey wasn't nary finah;
But he lef 'em all, I tell you, lak a king
he ma'ched away,
Try'n' his level bes' to whistle, happy,
solemn, choky, gay:
m
To de front he went an' bravely fought de
foe an' kep' his sperrit,
An' his comerds said his whistle made 'em
strong when dey could hyeah it.
When a saber er a bullet cut some frien'
o' his'n down,
An' de time 'u'd come to trench him an'
de boys 'u'd gethah 'roun',
An' dey couldn't sta't a hymn-tune, mebbe
none o' dem 'u'd keer,
Sam 'u'd whistle " Sleep in Jesus," an' he
knowed de Mastah'd hyeah.
In de camp, all sad discouraged, he would
cheer de hea'ts of all,
When above de soun' of labor dey could
hyeah his whistle call:
When de cruel wah was ovah an' de boys
come ma'chin' back,
Dey was shouts an' cries an' blessin's all
erlong dey happy track,
An' de da'kies all was happy; souls an'
bodies bofe was freed.
Why, hit seemed lak de Redeemah mus'
'a' been on earf indeed.
Dey was gethahed all one evenin' jes' befo'
de cabin do',
When dey hyeahd somebody whistlin' kin'
o' sof* an' sweet an' low.
Dey couldn't see de whistlah, but de hymn
was cleah and ca'm,
An' dey all stood daih a-listenin' ontwell
Dinah shouted, " Sam! "
An' dey seed a little da'ky way off yandah
thoo de trees
Wid his face all in a puckah mekin' jes'
sich soun's ez dese:
i
m
HOW LUCY BACKSLID
De times is mighty stirrin' 'mong de people
up ouah way,
Dey 'sputin' an' dey argyin' an' fussin'
night an' day;
An' all dis monst'ous trouble dat hit meks
me tiahed to tell
Is 'bout dat Lucy Jackson dat was sich a
mighty belle.
She was de preachah's favored, an' he tol'
de chu'ch one night
Dat she traveled thoo de cloud o' sin
a-bearin' of a light;
But, now, I 'low he t'inkin' dat shd mus'
- 'a' los' huh lamp,
Case Lucy done backslided an' dey trouble
in de camp.
248
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Now every house is a hut or a hovel,
Come to the road:
Mankind and moles in the dark love to
grovel,
But to the road.
Throw off the loads that are bending you
double;
Love is for life, only labor is trouble;
Truce to the town, whose best gift is a
bubble:
Come to the road!
TWO LITTLE BOOTS
In reading this touching little poem, one
is constrained to compare it with Eugene
Field's " Little Boy Blue "—the same sen¬
timent, the same appeal to the world's
heart which loves a baby and mourns its
death—but there is a difference. Field
wrote of a white baby who played with a
little tin soldier and other toys—while
Dunbar's " two little boots " belonged to
some black woman's po' little lam'. Both
are universal, each has its own special ap¬
plication, and the stanzas add one more
argument to Dunbar's burden of proof that
the negro is " more human than African."
Two little boots all rough an' wo',
Two little boots!
Laws, I's kissed 'em times befo',
Dese little boots!
Seems de toes a-peepin' thoo
Dis hyeah hole an' sayin " Boo! "
Evah time dey looks at you —
Dese little boots.
Membah de time he put 'em on,
Dese little boots;
Riz an' called fu' 'em by dawn,
Dese little boots;
Den he tromped de livelong day,
Laffin' in his happy way,
Evaht'ing he had to say,
" My little boots! "
Kickin' de san' de whole day long,
Ddm little boots;
Good de cobblah made 'em strong,
Dem little boots!
Rocks was fu' dat baby's use,
I'on had to stan' abuse
W'en you tu'ned dese champeens loose,
Dese little boots !
Ust to make de ol' cat cry,
Dese little boots;
Den you walked it mighty high,
Proud little boots I
Ahms akimbo, stan'in' wide,
Eyes a-sayin' " Dis is pride ! "
Den de manny-baby stride!
You little boots.
Somehow, you don' seem so gay,
Po' little boots,
Sence yo' ownah went erway,
,Po' little boots!
Yo' bright tops don' look so red,
Dese brass tips is dull an' dead;
" Goo'-by," whut de baby said;
Deah little boots!
Ain't you kin' o' sad yo'se'f,
You little boots?
Dis is all his mammy's lef',
Two little boots.
Sence huh baby gone an' died,
Heav'n itse'f hit seem to hide
Des a little bit inside
Two little boots.
IN MAY
Oh, to have you in May,
To walk with you under the trees,
Dreaming throughout the day,
Drinking the wine-like breeze,
Oh, it were sweet to think
That May should be ours again,
Hoping it not, I shrink,
Out of the sight of men.
May brings the flowers to bloom,
It brings the green leaves to'the tree,
And the fatally sweet perfume,
Of what you once were to me.
Dese Little Boots
Come on Walkin' Wid Me, Lucy
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 251
A SPRING WOOING
Come on walkin' wid me, Lucy; 'tain't no
time to mope erroun'
W'en de sunshine's shoutin' glory in de
sky>
An' de little Johnny-Jump-Ups's jes'
a-springin' f'om de groun',
Den a-lookin' roun' to ax each othah w'y.
Don' you hyeah dem cows a-mooin' ?
Dat's dey howdy to de spring;
Ain' dey lookin' most oncommon satis¬
fied ?
Hit's enough to mek a body want to spread
dey mouf an' sing
Jes' to see de critters all so spa'klin'-
eyed.
W'y dat squir'l dat jes' run past us, ef I
didn' know his tricks,
I could swaih he'd got 'uligion jes' to¬
day;
An' dem liza'ds slippin' back an' fofe
ermong de stones an' sticks
Is a-wigglin' 'cause dey feel so awful gay.
Oh, I see yo' eyes a-shinin' dough you try
to mek me b'lieve
Dat you ain' so monst'ous happy 'cause
you come;
But I tell you dis hyeah weathah meks it
moughty ha'd to 'ceive
Ef a body's soul ain' blin' an' deef an'
dumb.
Robin whistlin' ovah yandah ez he buil'
his little nes';
Whut you reckon dat he sayin' to his
mate ?
He's a sayin' dat he love huh in de wo'ds
she know de bes',
An' she lookin' moughty pleased at whut
he state.
Now, Miss Lucy, dat ah robin sholy got
his sheer o' sense,
An' de hen-bird got huh mothah-wit fu'
true;
So I t'ink ef you'll ixcuse me, fu' I do'
mean no erfe'nce,
Dey's a lesson in dem birds fu' me an'
you.
I's a-buil'in' o' my cabin, an' I's vines
erbove de do'
Fu' to kin' o' gin it sheltah f'om de sun;
Gwine to have a little kitchen wid a reg'lar
wooden flo',
An' dey'll be a back verandy w'en hit's
done.
I's a-waitin' fu' you, Lucy, tek de 'zample
o' de birds,
Dat's a-lovin' an' a-matin' evahwhaih.
I cain' tell you dat I loves you in de robin's
music wo'ds,
But my cabin's talkin' fu' me ovah
thaih!
JOGGIN' ERLONG
De da'kest hour, dey alius say,
Is des' befo' de dawn,
But it's moughty ha'd a-waitin'
Were de night goes frownin' on;
An' it's moughty ha'd a-hopin'
W'en de clouds is big an' black,
An' all de t'ings you's waited fu'
Has failed, er gone to wrack —
But des' keep on a joggin' wid a little bit
o' song,
De mo'n is alius brightah w'en de night's
been long.
Dey's lots o' knocks you's got to tek
Befo' yo' journey's done,
An' dey's times w'en you'll be wishin'
Dat de weary race was run;
W'en you want to give up tryin'
An' des' float erpon de wave,
W'en you don't feel no mo' sorrer
Ez you t'ink erbout de grave —
Den, des' keep on a-joggin' wid a little
bit o' song,
De mo'n is alius brightah w'en de night's
been long.
De whup-lash sting a good deal mo'
De back hit's knowed befo',
An' de burden's alius heavies'
Whaih hits weights has made a so'}
Dey is times w'en tribulation
Seems to git de uppah han' .
An' to whip de weary trav'lah
254
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Go on, Spot, don' be so foolish; don' you
see de signs o' feet.
What you howlin' fu' ? Keep still, suh,
cose de col' is putty sweet;
But we goin' out on bus'ness, an' hit's
bus'ness o' de kin'
Dat mus' put a dog an' dahky in^. happy
frame o' min'.
Yes, you's col'; I know it, Spotty, but you
des stay close to me,
An' I'll mek you hot ez cotton w'en we
strikes de happy tree.
No, I don' lak wintah weathah, an' I'd
wush't uz alius June,
Et it wasn't fu' de trackin' o' de possum
an' de coon.
KEEP A SONG UP ON DE WAY
Mr. Dunbar was not one of those who
do not "practice what they preach."
Through all his troubles and trials,
through all his ill health and consequent
suffering he was always noted for his
cheerfulness, his love of fun, and his op¬
timism. Indeed his very presence de¬
noted that he was trying, at least, to
" Keep a Song Up on de Way."
Oh, de clouds is mighty heavy
An' de rain is mighty thick;
Keep a song up on de way.
An' de waters is a rumblin'
On de boulders in de crick,
Keep a song up on de way.
Fu' a bird ercross de road
Is a-singin' lak he knowed
Dat we people didn't daih
Fu' to try de rainy aih
Wid a song up on de way.
What's de use o' gittin' mopy,
Case de weather ain' de bes'!
Keep a song up on de way.
W'en de rain is fallin' ha'des',
Dey's de longes' time to res';
Keep a song up on de way.
Dough de plough's a-stan'in' still
Dey'll be watah fu' de mill,
Rain mus' come ez well ez sun
'Fo' de weathah's wo'k is done,
Keep a song up on de way.
W'y hit's nice to hyeah de showahs
Fallin' down ermong de trees:
Keep a song up on de way.
Ef de birds don' bothah 'bout it,
But go ^ingin' lak dey please,
Keep a song up on de way.
You don' s'pose I's gwine to see
Dem ah fowls do mo' dan me ?
No, suh, I'll des chase dis frown,
An' aldough de rain fall down,
Keep a song up on de way.
THE TURNING OF THE BABIES
IN THE BED
Woman's sho' a cur'ous critter, an' dey
ain't no doubtin' dat.
She's a mess o' funny capahs fom huh
slippahs to huh hat.
Ef you tries to un'erstan' huh, an' you fails,
des' up an' say:
" D' ain't a bit o' use to try to un'erstan' a
woman's way."
I don' mean to be complainin', but I's jes'
a-settin' down
Some o' my own obserwations, w'en I cas'
my eye eroun'.
, Ef you ax me fu' to prove it, I ken do it
mighty fine,
Fu' dey ain't no bettah 'zample den dis
ve'y wife o' mine.
In de ve'y hea't o' midnight, w'en I's
sleepin' good an' soun',
I kin hyeah a so't o' rustlin' an' somebody
movin' 'roun'.
An' I say, " Lize, whut you doin' ? " But
she frown an' shek htih haid,
" Heish yo' mouf, I's only tu'nin' of de
chillun in de bed.
" Don' you know a chile gits restless, layin'
all de night one way ?
An' you' got to kind o' 'range him sev'al
ti mes befo' de day ?
So de little necks won't worry, an' de little
backs won't break;
Don' you t'ink case chillun's chillun dey
hain't got no pain an' ache."
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 255
So she shakes 'em, an' she twists 'em, an'
she tu'ns 'em 'roun' erbout,
'Twell I don' see how de chillun evah
keeps fom hollahin' out.
Den she lif's 'em up head down'ards, so's
dey won't git livah-grown,
But dey snoozes des' ez peaceful ez a liza'd
on a stone.
W'en hit's mos' nigh time fu' wakin' on
de dawn o' jedgment day,
Seems lak I kin hyeah ol' Gab'iel lay his
trumpet down an' say,
" Who dat walkin' 'roun' so easy, down on
earf ermong de dead ? " —
'Twill be Lizy up a-tu'nin' of de chillun
in de bed.
THE DANCE
Heel and toe, heel and toe,
That is the song we sing;
Turn to your partner and curtsey low,
Balance and forward and swing.
Corners are draughty and meadows are
white,
This is the game for a winter's night.
Hands around, hands around,
Trip it, and not too slow;
Clear is the fiddle and sweet its sound,
Keep the girls' cheeks aglow.
Still let your movements be dainty and
light,
This is the game for a winter's night.
Back to back, back to back,
Turn to your place again;
Never let lightness nor nimbleness lack,
Either in maidens or men.
Time hasteth ever, beware of its flight,
Oh, what a game for a winter's night!
Slower now, slower now,
Softer the music sighs;
Look, there are beads on your partner's
brow
Though there be light in her eyes.
Lead her away and her grace requite,
So goes the game on a winter's night
SOLILOQUY OF A TURKEY
Dey's a so't o' threatenin' feelin' in de
blowin' of de breeze,
An' I's feelin' kin' o' squeamish in de
night;
I's a-walkin' 'roun' a-lookin' at de diffunt
style o' trees,
An' a-measurin' dey thickness an' dey
height.
Fu' dey's somep'n' mighty 'spicious in de
looks de da'kies give,
Ez dey pass me an' my fambly on de
groun',
So it 'curs to me dat lakly, ef I caihs to try
an' live,
It concehns me fu' to 'mence to look
erroun'.
Dey's a cu'ious kin' o' shivah runnin' up
an' down my back,
An' I feel my feddahs ruffiin' all de day,
An' my laigs commence to trimble evah
blessid step I mek;
W'en I sees a ax, I tu'ns my head away.
Folks is go'gin' me wid goodies, an' dey's
treatin' me wid caih,
An' I's fat in spite of all dat I kin do.
I's mistrus'ful of de kin'ness dat's erroun'
me evahwhaih,
Fu' it's jes' too good, an' frequent, to be
true.
Snow's a-fallin' on de medders, all erroun'
me now is white,
But I's still kep' on a-roostin' on de
fence;
Isham comes an' feels my breas'bone, an'
he hefted me las' night,
An' he's gone erroun' a-grinnin' evah
sence.
'Tain't de snow dat meks me shivah;
'tain't de col' dat meks me shake;
'Tain't de wintah-time itse'f dat's 'fectin'
me;
But I t'ink de time is comin', an' I'd bet-
tah mek a break,
Fu' to set wid Mistah Possum in his tree.
W'en you hyeah de da'kies singin', an' de
quahtahs all is gay
256
THE LIFE AND WORKS
'Tain't de time fu' birds lak me to be
erroun';
W'en de hick'ry chips is flyin', an' de log's
been ca'ied erway,
Den hit's dang'ous to be roostin' nigh de
groun'.
Grin on, Isham! Sing on, da'kies! But
I flop my wings an' go
Fu' de sheltah of de ve'y highest tree,
Fu' dey's too much close ertention—an'
dey's too much fallin' snow —
An' it's too nigh Chris'mus mo'nin' now
fu' me.
THE VALSE
When to sweet music my lady is dancing
My heart to mild frenzy her beauty
inspires.
Into my face are her brown eyes a-glanc-
ing,
And swift my whole frame thrills with
tremulous fires.
Dance, lady, dance, for the moments are
fleeting,
Pause not to place yon refractory curl;
Life is for love and the night is for sweet¬
ing;
Dreamily, joyously, circle and whirl.
Oh, how those viols are throbbing and
pleading;
A prayer is scarce needed in sound of
their strain.
Surely and lightly as round you are speed¬
ing,
You turn to confusion my heart and my
brain.
Dance, lady, dance to the viol's soft call¬
ing,
Skip it and trip it as light as the air;
Dance, for the moments like rose leaves
are falling,
Strikes, now, the clock from its place on
the stair.
Now sinks the melody lower and lower,
The weary musicians scarce seeming to
play.
Ah, love, your steps now are slower and
slower
The smile on your face is more sad and
less gay.
Dance, lady, dance to the brink of our
parting,
My heart and your step must not fail to
be light.
Dance! Just a turn—tho' the tear-drop be
starting.
Ah—now it is done—so—my lady, good¬
night !
A PLANTATION PORTRAIT
Hain't you see my Mandy Lou,
Is it true ?
Whaih you been f om day to day,
Whaih, I say ?
Dat you say you nevah seen
Dis hyeah queen
Walkin' roun' fom fiel' to street
Smilin' sweet?
Slendah ez a saplin' tree;
Seems to me
W'en de win' blow fom de bay
She jes' sway
Lak de reg'lar saplin' do
Ef hit's grew
Straight an' graceful, 'dout a limb,
Sweet an' slim.
Browner den de frush's wing,
An' she sing
Lak he mek his wa'ble ring
In de spring;
But she sholy beat de frush,
Hyeah me, hush:
W'en she sing, huh teef kin show
White ez snow.
Eyes ez big an' roun' an' bright
Ez de light
Whut de moon gives in de prime
Harvest time.
An' huh haih a woolly skein,
Black an' plain.
Hoi's you wid a natchul twis'
Close to bliss.
Tendah han's dat mek yo' own
Feel lak stone;
My Mandy Lou
Bring dat Basket, Nighah
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Easy steppin', blessid feet,
Small an' sweet.
Hain't you seen my Mandy Lou,
Is it true ?
Look at huh befo' she's gone,
Den pass on i
THE VISITOR
Little lady at de do',
W'y you stan' dey knockin'?
Nevah seen you ac' befo'
In er way so shockin'.
Don' you know de sin it is
Fu' to git my temper riz
W'en I's got de rheumatiz
An' my jints is lockin' ?
No, ol' Miss ain't sont you down,
Don' you tell no story;
I been seed you hangin' 'roun'
Dis hyeah te'itory.
You des come fu' me to tell
You a tale, an' I ain'—well—
Look hyeah, what is dat I smell ?
Steamin' victuals? Glory!
Come in, Missy, how you do ?
Come up by de fiah,
I was jokin', chile, wid you ;
Bring dat basket nighah.
Huh uh, ain' dat lak ol' Miss,
Sen'in' me a feas' lak dis ?
Rheumatiz cain't stop my bliss,
Case I's feelin' spryah.
Chicken meat an' gravy, too,
Hot an' still a-heatin';
Good ol' sweet pertater stew;
Missy b'lieves in treatin'.
Des set down, you blessed chile,
Daddy got to t'ink a while,
Den a story mek you smile
W'en he git thoo eatin'.
FISHING
W'en I git up in de mo'nin' an' de clouds
is big an' black,
Dey's a kin' o' wa'nin' shivah goes
a^scootin' down my back;
Den I says to my ol' ooman ez I watches
down de lane,
"Don't you so't o' reckon, Lizy, dat we
gwine to have some rain ? "
"Go on, man," my Lizy answah, "you
cain't fool me, not a bit,
I don't see no rain a-comin', ef you's
wishin' fu' it, quit;
Case de mo' you t'ink erbout it, an' de
mo* you pray an' wish,
W'y de rain stay 'way de longah, spechul
ef you wants to fish."
But I see huh pat de skillet, an' I cee huh
cas' huh eye
Wid a kin' o' anxious motion to'ds de
da'kness in de sky;
An' I knows whut she's a-t'inkin', dough
she tries so ha'd to hide.
She's a-sayin'," Wouldn't catfish now tas'e
monst'ous bully, fried ? "
Den de clouds git black an' blackah, an*
de thundah 'mence to roll,
An' de rain, it 'mence a-fallin'. Oh, I'»
happy, bless my soul!
Ez I look at dat ol' skillet, an' I 'magine I
kin see
Jes' a slew o' new-ketched catfish sizzlin'
daih fu' huh an' me.
'Tain't no use to go a-ploughin', fu' de
groun' '11 be too wet,
So I puts out fu' de big house at a moughty
pace, you bet,
An' ol' mastah say, " Well, Lishy, ef you
t'ink hit's gwine to rain,
Go on fishin', hit's de weathah, an' I 'low
we cain't complain."
Talk erbout a dahky walkin' wid his haid
up in de aih!
Have to feel mine evah minute to be sho'
I got it daih;
En* de win' is cuttin' capahs an' a-lashin'
thoo de trees,
But de rain keeps on a-singin' blessed
songs, lak " Tek yo' ease."
26o
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Wid my pole erpon my shouldah an' my
wo'm can in my han',
I kin feel de fish a-waitin' w'en I strikes
de rivah's san';
Nevah min', you ho'ny scoun'els, needn'
swim erroun' an' grin,
I'll be grinnin' in a minute w'en I 'mence
to haul you in.
W'en de fish begin to nibble, an' de co'k
begin to jump,
I's erfeahed dat dey'll quit bitin', case dey
hyeah my hea't go " thump,"
'Twell de co'k go way down undah, an' I
raise a awful shout,
Ez a big ol' yallah belly comes a galli-
vantin' out.
Needn't wriggle, Mistah Catfish, case I
got you jes' de same,
You been eatin', I'll be eatin', an^we
needah ain't to blame.
But you needn't feel so lonesome fu' I's
th'owin' out to see
Ef dey ain't some of yo' comrades fu' to
keep you company.
Spo't, dis fishin'! now you talkin', w'y dey
ain't no kin' to beat;
I don' keer ef I is soakin', laigs, an' back,
an' naik, an' feet,
It's de spo't I's lookin' aftah. Hit's de
pleasure an' de fun,
Dough I knows dat Lizy's waitin' wid de
skillet w'en I's done.
RESPONSE
When Phyllis sighs and from her eyes
The light dies out; my soul replies
With misery of deep-drawn breath,
E'en as it were at war with death.
When Phyllis smiles, her glance beguiles
My heart through love-lit woodland aisles,
And through the silence high and clear,
A wooing warbler's song I hear.
But if she frowh, despair comes down,
I put me on my sack-cloth gown;
So frown not, Phyllis, lest I die,
But look on me with smile or sigh.
A LITTLE CHRISTMAS BASKET
No one can read this poem without ob¬
serving that the author has little patience
with the " faith " that does not prove its
existence by " works." He knew as well,
if not better, than any poet that ever lived
the practical realization of Christmas with¬
out money or fuel, or food, and he knew
also, for he was a regular attendant at
Sunday-school and church in boyhood
days, that too many professing Christians
are prone to tell the poor that the " Lord
will provide " and then close their purses
with an unpickable lock.
He does not fail in this remarkably fine
little jingle to give " 'ligion " its due mead
of respect, but it is very human, and very
natural for him to add —
" But I t'ink that 'ligion's sweeter w'en it kind o*
mixes in
Wid a little Chrismus basket at de do'.'*
De win' is hollahin' " Daih you " to de
shuttahs an' de fiah,
De snow's a-sayin' " Got you" to de
groun',
Fu' de wintah weathah's come widout
-a-askin' ouah desiah,
An' he's laughin' in his sleeve at whut
he foun';
Fu' dey ain't nobody eady wid dey fuel er
dey food,
An' de money bag look timid lak, fu'
sho',
So we want ouah Chrismus sermon, but
we'd lak it ef you could
Leave a little Chrismus basket at de do'.
Wha's de use o' tellin' chillen 'bout a
Santy er a Nick,
An' de sto'ies dat a body alius tol' ?
When de harf is gray wid ashes an' you
hasn't got a stick
Fu' to warm dem when dey little toes is
col' ?
Wha's de use o' preachin' 'ligion to a man
dat's sta'ved to def,
An' a-tellin' him de Mastah will
pu'vide ?
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 261
Ef you want to tech his feelin's, save yo'
sermons an' yo' bref,
Tek a little Chrismus basket by yo'
side.
'Tain't de time to open Bibles an' to lock
yo' cellah do',
'Tain't de time, to talk o' bein' good to
men;
Ef you want to preach a sermon ez you
nevah preached befo',
Preach dat sermon wid a shoat er wid
er hen;
Bein' good is heap sight bettah den a-dal-
lyin' wid sin,
An' dey ain't nobody roun' dat knows it
mo',
Rut I t'ink dat 'ligion's sweeter w'en it kind
o' mixes in
Wid a little Chrismus basket at de do'.
MY SWEET BROWN GAL
W'en de clouds is hangin' heavy in de
sky,
An' de win's's a-taihin' moughty vig'rous
by. .
I don' go a-sighin' all erlong de way;
I des' wo'k a-waitin' fu' de close o' day.
Case I knows w'en evenin' draps huh
shadders down,
I won' care a smidgeon fu' de weathah's
frown ;
Let de rain go splashin', let de thundah
raih,
Dey's a happy sheltah, an' I's goin' daih.
Down in my ol' cabin wa'm ez mammy's
toas',
'Taters in de fiah layin' daih to roas';
No one daih to cross me, got no talkin'
pal,
But I's got de comp'ny o' my sweet brown
gal.
So I spen's my evenin' listenin' to huh
sing,
Lak a blessid angel; how huh voice do
ring I
Sweetah den a bluebird flutterin' erroun',
W'en he sees de steamin' o' de new
ploughed groun'.
Den I hugs huh closah, closah to my
breas'.
Needn't sing, my da'lin', tek you' hones'
res'.
Does I mean Malindy, Mandy, Lize er
Sal?
No, I means my fiddle—dat's my sweet
brown gal!
SPRING FEVER
Grass commence a-comin'
Thoo de thawin' groun',
Evah bird dat whistles
Keepin' noise erroun';
Cain't sleep in de mo'nin',
Case befo' it's light
Bluebird an' de robin
Done begun to fight.
Bluebird sass de robin,
Robin sass him back,
Den de bluebird scol' him
'Twell his face is black.
Would n' min' de quoilin'
All de mo'nin' long,
'Cept it wakes me early,
Case hit's done in song.
Anybody wo'kin'
Wants to sleep ez late
Ez de folks '11 'low him,
An' I wish to state
(Co'se dis ain't to scattah,
But 'twix' me an' you),
I could stan' de bedclothes,
Kin' o' latah, too.
'Tain't my natchul feelin',
Dis hyeah mopin' spell.
I Stan's early risin'
Mos'ly moughty well;
But de ve'y minute,
I feel Ap'il's heat,
Bless yo' soul, de bedclothes
Nevah seemed so sweet.
Mastah, he's a-scol'in',
Case de ban's is slow,
All de hosses balkin',
Jes' cain't mek 'em go.
262
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Don' know whut's de mattah,
Hit's a funny t'ing,
Less'n hit's de fevah
Dat you gits in spring.
TO A VIOLET FOUND ON ALL
SAINTS' DAY
This poem found its inspiration in the
actual finding of a late-blowing violet,
found by the poet, under his library win¬
dow at Washington. This was near the
time when Mr. Dunbar's domestic tragedy
occurred, and he said once in speaking of
the incident:
" You know they say
"' Flowers out of season,
Trouble without reason,'
and I really believe there is some truth in
the rhyme. I found that one little soli¬
tary violet on All Saints' Day after all its
sisters had long been dead, and "—with a
deep sigh and a quick tear: " I never
had much real happiness after that."
Belated wanderer of the ways of spring,
Lost in the chill of grim November
rain,
Would I could read the message that you
bring
And find in it the antidote for pain.
Does some sad spirit out beyond the day,
Far looking to the hours forever dead,
Send you a tender offering to lay
Upon the grave of us, the living dead ?
Or does some brighter spirit, unforlorn,
Send you, my little sister of the wood,
To say to some one on a cloudful morn,
" Life lives through deatn, my brother,
all is good " ?
With meditative hearts the others go
The memory of their dead to dress
anew.
But, sister mine, bide here that I may
know,
Life grows, through death, as beautiful
as you.
THE COLORED BAND
W'en de colo'ed ban' comes ma'chirf
down de street,
Don't you people stan' daih starin'; lif*
yo' feet!
Ain't dey playin' ? Hip, hooray!
Stir yo' stumps an' cleah de way,
Fu' de music dat dey mekin' can't be
beat.
Oh, de major man's a-swingin' of his
stick,
An' de pickaninnies crowdin' roun' him
thick;
In his go'geous uniform,
He's de lightnin' of de sto'm,
An' de little clouds erroun' look mighty
slick.
You kin hyeah a fine perfo'mance w'en de
white ban's serenade,
An' dey play dey high-toned music
mighty sweet,
But hit's Sousa played in rag-time, an'
hit's Rastus on Parade,
W'en de colo'ed ban' comes ma'chin'
down de street.
,W'en de colo'ed ban' comes ma'chin*
down de street
You kin hyeah de ladies all erroun' re¬
peat :
" Ain't dey handsome ? Ain't dey gran' ?
Ain't dey splendid ? Goodness, lan'!
W'y dey's pu'fect f om dey fo'heads to dey
feet!"
An' sich steppin' to de music down de
line,
'Tain't de music by itself dat meks it
fine,
Hit's de walkin', step by step,
An' de keepin' time wid " Hep,"
Dat it mek a common ditty soun' divine.
Oh, de white ban' play hits music, an'
hit's mighty good to hyeah,
An' it sometimes leaves a ticklin' in yo*
feet;
But de hea't goes into bus'ness fu' to he'p
erlong de eah,
W'en de colo'ed ban' goes ma'chin'
down de street.
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 265
WHEN DEY 'LISTED COLORED
SOLDIERS
Dey was talkin' in de cabin, dey was
talkin' in de ball;
But I listened kin' o' keerless, not
a-t'inkin' 'bout it all;
An' on Sunday, too, I noticed, dey was
whisp'rin' mighty much,
Stan'in' all erroun' de roadside w'en dey
let us out o' chu'ch.
But I didn't t'ink erbout it 'twell de mid¬
dle of de week,
An' my 'Lias come to see me, an' somehow
he couldn't speak.
Den I seed all in a minute whut he'd come
to see me for; —
Dey had 'listed colo'ed sojers, an' my 'Lias
gwine to wah.
Oh, I hugged him, an' I kissed him, an' I
baiged him not to go;
But he tol' me dat his conscience, hit was
callin' to him so,
An' he couldn't baih to lingah w'en he had
a chanst to fight
For de freedom dey had gin him an' de
glory of de right.
So he kissed me, an' he lef me, w'en I'd
p'omised to be true ;
An' dey put a knapsack on him, an' a coat
all colo'ed blue.
So I gin him pap's ol' Bible f'om de bottom
of de draw',—
W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my
'Lias went to wah.
But I t'ought of all de weary miles dat he
would have to tramp,
An' I couldn't be contented w'en dey tuk
him to de camp.
W'y my hea't nigh broke wid grievin'
'twell I seed him on de street;
Den I felt lak I could go an' th'ow my
body at his feet.
For his buttons was a-shinin', an' his face
was shinin', too,
An' he looked so strong an' mighty in his
coat o' sojer blue,
Dat I hollahed, " Step up, manny," dough
my th'oat was so' an' raw,—
W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an'my'Lias
went to wah.
01' Mis' cried w'en mastah lef huh, young
Miss mou'ned huh brothah Ned,
An' I didn't know dey feelin's is de ve'y
wo'ds dey said
W'en I tol' 'em I was so'y. Dey had done
gin up dey all;
But dey only seemed mo' proudah dat dey
men had hyeahd de call.
Bofe my mastahs went in gray suits, an' I
loved de Yankee blue,
But I t'ought dat I could sorrer for de losin'
of 'em too;
But I couldn't, for I didn't know de ha'f
o' whut I saw,
'Twell dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my
'Lias went to wah.
Mastah Jack come home all sickly; he was
broke for life, dey said;
An' dey let' my po' young mastah some'r's
on de roadside,—dead.
W'en de women cried an' mou'ned 'em, I
could feel it thoo an' thoo,
For I had a loved un fightin' in de way o'
dangah,too.
Den dey tol' me dey had laid him some'r's
way down souf to res',
Wid de flag dat he had fit for shinin' daih
acrost his breas'.
Well, I cried, but den I reckon dat's whut
Gawd had called him for,
W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias
went to wah.
INSPIRATION
At the golden gate of song
Stood I, knocking all day long,
But the Angel, calm and cold,
Still refused and bade me, " Hold."
Then a breath of soft perfume,
Then a light within the gloom;
Thou, Love, earnest to my side,
And the gates flew open wide.
Long I dwelt in this domain,
Knew no sorrow, grief, or pain;
Now you bid me forth and free,
Will you shut these gates on me ?
270
THE LIFE AND WORKS
WHIP-POOR-WILL AND KATY-DID
Slow de night's a-fallin',
An' I hyeah de callin'
Out erpon de lonesome hill;
Soun' is moughty dreary,
Sole'mn-lak an' skeery,
Sayin' fu' to " whip po' Will."
Now hit's moughty tryin',
Fu' to hyeah dis cryin',
'Deed hit's mo' den I kin stan';
Sho' wid all our slippin',
Dey's enough of whippin'
'Dout a bird a'visin' any man.
In de moons o' summah
Dey's anothah hummah
Sings anothah song instid;
An' his th'oat's a-swellin'
Wid de joy o' tellin',
But he says dat " Katy did."
Now I feels onsuhtain;
Won't you raise de cu'tain
Ovah all de ti'ngs dat's hid ?
W'y dat feathahed p'isen
Goes erbout a'visin'
Whippin' Will w'en Katy did ?
TO A CAPTIOUS CRITIC
Dear critic, who my lightness so deplores,
Would I might study to be prince of bores,
Right wisely would I rule that dull es¬
tate—
But, sir, I may not, till you abdicate.
'LONG TO'DS NIGHT
Daih's a moughty soothin' feelin'
Hits a dahky man,
'Long to'ds night.
W'en de row is mos' nigh ended,
Den he stops to fan,
'Long to'ds night.
De blue smoke Pom his cabin is a-callin'
to him, " Come; "
He smell de bacon cookin', an' he-hyeah
de fiah hum;
An' he 'mence to sing, 'dough wo'kin'
putty nigh done made him dumb,
'Long to'ds night.
Wid his hoe erpon his shouldah
Den he goes erlong,
'Long to'ds night.
An' he keepin' time a-steppin'
Wid a little song,
'Long to'ds night.
De restin'-time's a-comin', an' de time t6
drink an' eat;
A baby's toddlin' to'ds him on hits little
dusty feet,
An' a-goin' to'ds his cabin, an' his suppah's
moughty sweet,
'Long to'ds night.
Daih his Ca'line min' de kettle,
Rufus min' de chile,
'Long to'ds night;
An' de sweat roll down his forred,
Mixin' wid his smile,
'Long to'ds night.
He toss his piccaninny, an' he hum a little
chune;
De wo'kin' all is ovah, an' de suppah
comin' soon;
De wo'kin' time's Decembah, but de
restin' time is June,
'Long to'ds night.
Dey's a kin' o' doleful feelin',
Hits a tendah place,
'Long to'ds night;
Dey's a moughty glory in him
Shinin' thoo his face,
'Long to'ds night.
De cabin's lak de big house, an' de fiah's
lak de sun ;
His wife look moughty lakly, an' de chile
de puttiest one;
W'y, hit's blessid, jes' a-livin' w'en a body's
wo'k is done.
Long to'ds night
He Toss His Piccaninny
She de only Hoss fu' Me
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 273
DAT OL' MARE 0' MINE
In 1899, when the poet was compelled
to leave Washington, where his duties as
librarian had been too hard for him, he
and his wife and mother went to Denver.
Here they lived in a cottage near the city,
and Mr. Dunbar took long rides for his
health. For this purpose he purchased a
gray mare, and soon learned to love the
animal devotedly. Desiring to pay" a
tribute to his faithful dumb friend he
wrote the poem. He wrote to a friend
about this time, that he sold this poem for
a sum equal to half the price he had paid
for the mare !
Want to trade me, do you, mistah ? Oh,
well, now, I reckon not,
W'y you couldn't buy my Sukey fu' a
thousan' on de spot.
Dat ol' mare o' mine ?
Yes, huh coat ah long an' shaggy, an' she
ain't no shakes to see ;
Dat's a ring-bone, yes, you right, suh, an'
she got a on'ry knee,
But dey ain't no use in talkin', she de only
hoss fu' me,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Co'se, I knows dat Suke's contra'y, an'
she moughty ap' to vex;
But you got to mek erlowance fu' de na¬
ture of huh sex;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Ef you pull her on de lef' han'; she plum
'termined to go right,
A cannon couldn't skeer huh, but she
boun' to tek a fright
At a piece o' common paper, or anyt'ing
whut's white,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
W'en my eyes commence to fail me,
dough, I trus'es to huh sight,
An' she'll tote me safe an' hones' on de
ve'y da'kes' night,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Ef I whup huh, she jes' switch huh tail,
an' settle to a walk,
Ef I whup huh mo', she shek huh haid,
an' lak ez not, she balk.
But huh sense ain't no ways lackin', she
do evaht'ing but talk,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
But she gentle ez a lady w'en she know
huh beau kin see,
An' she sholy got mo' gumption any day
den you or me,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
She's a leetle slow a-goin', an' she moughty
ha'd to sta't,
But we's gittin' ol' togathah, an' she's
closah to my hea't,
An' I doesn't reckon, mistah, dat she'd
sca'cely keer to pa't;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
W'y I knows de time dat cidah's kin' o'
muddled up my haid,
Ef it hadn't been fu' Sukey hyeah, I
reckon I'd been daid ;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
But she got me in de middle o' de road
an' tuk me home,
An' she wouldn't let me wandah, ner she
wouldn't let me roam,
Dat's de kin' o' hoss to tie to w'en you's
seed de cidah's foam,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
You kin talk erbout yo' heaven, you kin
talk erbout yo' hell,
- Dey is people, dey is hosses, den dey's cat¬
tle, den dey's—well —
Dat ol' mare o' mine ;
She de beatenes' t'ing dat evah struck de
medders o' de town,
An' aldough huh haid ain't fittin' fu' to
waih no golden crown,
D' "ain't a blessed way fu' Petah fu' .to
tu'n my Sukey down,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
A GRIEVANCE
W'en de snow's a-fallin'
An' de win' is col'.
Mammy 'mence a-callin',
Den she 'mence to scol',
" Lucius Lishy Brackett,
Don't you go out do's,
282
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Come back, honey* case yo' country
home is bes'.
I know de moon is shinin' down erpon de
Eastern sho',
An' de bay's a-sayin' " Howdy " to de
lan';
An' de folks is all a-settin' out erroun' de
cabin do',
Wid dey feet a-restin' in de silvah san';
An' de ol' plantation's callin' to me,
Come, oh, come,
F'om de life dat's des' a-waihin' you
erway,
F'om de trouble an' de bustle, an' de
agernizin' hum
Dat de city keeps ergoin' all de day.
I's tiahed of de city, tek me back to Sandy
Side,
Whaih de po'est ones kin live an' play
an' eat;
Whaih we draws a simple livin' Tom de
fo'est an' de tide,
An' de days ah faih, an' evah night is
sweet.
Fu' de ol' plantation's callin' to me,
Come, oh, come.
An' the Chesapeake's a-sayin' " Dat's
de t'ing,"
W'ile my little cabin beckons, dough
his mouf is closed an' dumb,
I's a-comin', an' my hea't begins to
sing.
BALLADE
By Mystics' banks I held my dream.
(I held my fishing rod as well),
The vision was of dace and bream,
A fruitless vision, sooth to tell.
But round about the sylvan dell
Were other sweet Arcadian shrines,
Gone now, is all the rural spell,
Arcadia has trolley lines.
Oh, once loved, sluggish, darkling stream,
For ms no more, thy waters swell,
Thy musie now the engines' scream.
Thy fragrance now the factory's smell {
Too near for me the clanging bell;
A false light in the water shines
While Solitude lists to her knell,—
Arcadia has trolley lines.
Thy wooded lanes with shade and gleam
Where bloomed the fragrant asphodel,
Now bleak commercially teem
With signs " To Let," " To Buy," " To
Sell."
And Commerce holds them fierce and
fell;
With vulgar sport she now combines
Sweet Nature's piping voice to quell.
Arcadia has trolley lines.
l'envoi
Oh, awful Power whose works repel
The marvel of the earth's designs,—
I'll hie me otherwhere to dwell,
Arcadia has trolley lines.
NODDIN' BY DE FIRE
Some folks t'inks hit's right an' p'opah,
Soon ez bedtime come erroun',
Fu' to scramble to de kiver,
Lak dey'd hyeahed de trumpet soun'.
But dese people dey all misses
Whut I mos'ly does desiah;
Dat's de settin' roun' an' dozin',
An' a-noddin' by de fiah.
When you's tiahed out a-hoein',
Er a-followin' de plough,
Whut's de use of des a-fallin'
On yo' pallet lak a cow ?
W'y, de fun is all in wa)tin'
In de face of all de tiah,
An' a-dozin' an' a-drowsin'
By a good ol' hick'ry fiah.
Oh, you grunts an' groans an' mumbles
Case yo' bones is full o' col',
Dough you feels de joy a-tricklin'
Roun' de co'nahs of yo' soul.
An' you 'low anothah minute
'S sho to git you wa'm an' dryah,
W'en you set up pas' yo' bedtime,
Case you hates to leave de fiah.
Sam'l Took a Trip a-Sad'day
Don' Fiddle dat Chune no Mo'
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 297
But I know dis comin' Sad'day,
Dey'll be brighter days in life ;
An' I'll be ez glad ez Sam'l
W'en I go to see my wife.
ITCHING HEELS
Fu' de peace o' my eachin' heels, set
down;
Don' fiddle dat chune no mo'.
Don' you see how dat melody stuhs me up
An' baigs me to tek to de flo' ?
You knows I's a Christian, good an'
strong;
I wusship fom June to June;
My pra'. hs dey ah loud an' my hymns ah
long:
I baig you don' fiddle dat chune.
J's a crick in my back an' a misery hyeah
Whaih de j'ints's gittin' ol' an' stiff,
But hit seems lak you brings me de bref
o' my youf;
W'y, I's suttain I noticed a w'iff.
Don' fiddle dat chune no mo', my chile,
Don't fiddle dat chune no mo';
I'll git up an' taih up dis groun' fu' a mile,
An' den I'll be chu'ched fu' it, sho'.
Oh, fiddle dat chune some mo', I say,
An' fiddle it loud an' fas':
I's a youngstah ergin in de mi'st o' my sin;
De p'esent's gone back to de pas'.
I'll dance to dat chune, so des fiddle
erway;
I knows how de backslidah feels;
So fiddle it on 'twell de break o' de day
Fu' de sake o' my eachin' heels.
THE HAUNTED OAK
Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade
you throw,
Runs a shudder over me ?
My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
And sap ran free in my veins,
But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird
A guiltless victim's pains.
I bent me down to hear his sigh;
I shook with his gurgling moan,
And I trembled sore when they rode away,
And left him here alone.
They'd charged him with the old, old
crime,
And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
And why does the night wind wail ?
He prayed his prayer and he swore his
oath,
And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
And the steady tread drew nigh.
Who is it rides by night, by night,
Over the moonlit road ?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace.
What is the galling goad ?
And now they beat at the prison door,
" Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold
within,
And we fain would take him away
" From those who ride fast on our heels
With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
And the rope they bear is long."
They have fooled the jailer with lying
words,
They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
And the great door open flies.
Now they have taken him from the jail,
And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his
throat,
As they halt my trunk beside.
Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of blacK.
And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son.
Was curiously bedight.
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Oh, foolish man, why weep you now ?
'Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall
dread
The mem'ry of your face.
I feel the rope against my bark,
And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
The touch of my own last pain.
And never more shall leaves come forth
On a bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and
dead,
From the curse of a guiltless man.
And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
In the guise of a mortal fear.
And ever the man he rides me hard,
And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
On the trunk of a haunted tree.
WELTSCHMERTZ
The poet once told this author that he
wrote the poem " Weltschmertz " not long
before his great sorrow came into his life,
and in anticipated comradeship he could
"sympathize" with the falling leaf, the
bare tree, the bird leaving her wind-swept
nest, and with those who had lost friends.
His sorrow was to be greater than death,
a living grief, an ever-present remorse.
Foreknowing is one of the gifts of the
poetic mind, and a poet is no more phi¬
losopher than prophet or seer. Many times
a beautiful concept will take possession of
the mind only to be later verified in actual
happenings.
Every picture of Dunbar's Weltschmertz
was afterwards painted on the canvas of
Dunbar's own experience. Did not the
falling leaf and the bare tree anti-type his
deserted hearthstone ? the wind-swept nest
his home after the fires of anger had burned
out and the two human singers who had
sung there had flown to other climes?
Were not his " unbidden tears" at the
sight of a passing hearse, bearing a child
to the cemetery, forewarnings of the time
when he would come to feel as did his
brother poet Riley upon the death of a
friend's baby —
" Oh, how much sadder I
Who have no child to die ! "
And so one might follow the poem
through, and at the end decide that it
proved a flawless prophecy.
You ask why I am sad to-day,
I have no cares, no griefs, you say ?
Ah, yes, 'tis true, I have no grief—
But—is there not the falling leaf?
The bare tree there is mourning left
With all of autumn's gray bereft;
It is not what has happened me.
Think of the bare, dismantled tree.
The birds go South along the sky,
I hear their lingering, long good-bye.
Who goes reluctant from my breast ?
And yet—the lone and wind-swept nest.
The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes
by,
Why does a tear come to my eye ?
Is it the March rain blowing wild ?
I have no dead, I know no child.
I am no widow by the bier
Of him I held supremely dear.
I have not seen the choicest one
Sink down as sinks the westering sun.
Faith unto faith have I beheld,
For me, few solemn notes have swelled
Love beckoned me out to the dawn,
And happily I followed on.
And yet my heart goes out to theni
Whose sorrow is their diadem j
The falling leaf, the crying bird,
The voice to be, all lost* unheard —
302
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Sudden a vista peeps,
Out of the tangled deeps,
Only a point—the ray
But at the end is day.
Dark is the dawn and chill,
Daylight is on the hill,
Night is the flitting breath,
Day rides the hills of death.
NIGHT, DIM NIGHT
Night, dim night, and it rains, my love, it
rains,
(Art thou dreaming of me, I wonder)
The trees are sad, and the wind complains,
Outside the rolling of the thunder,
And the beat against the panes.
Heart, my heart, thou art mournful in the
rain,
(Are thy redolent lips a-quiver ?)
My soul seeks thine, doth it seek in vain ?
My love goes surging like a river,
Shall its tide bear naught save pain ?
LYRICS OF LOVE AND SORROW
These sonnets were all born of Mr. Dun¬
bar's own great love and his sorrow at the
loss of it. One can readily picture the
poet, bereft of the woman he loved so pas¬
sionately—the " Alice," of his youthful
poem, and the wife of earlier years, sitting
alone some " winter's midnight " with his
bruised heart—on " Heart-break Hill."
The world's sweetest music and its
greatest poems have been the aftermaths
of human heart-breaks, and these little
fragments, so perfect in metrical form, so
melodious and so masterly are no excep¬
tion to the rule. He wrote every word
with a mixture of life-blood and bitter
tears.
I
Love is the light of the world, my dear,
Heigho, but the world is gloomy ;
The light has failed and the lamp down
hurled,
Leaves only darkness to me.
Love is the light of the world, my dear,
Ah me, but the world is dreary;
The night is down, and my curtain furled
But I cannot sleep, though weary.
Love is the light of the world, my dear,
Alas for a hopeless hoping,
When the flame went out in the breeze
that swirled,
And a soul went blindly groping.
II
The light was on the golden sands,
A glimmer on the sea;
My soul spoke clearly to thy soul,
Thy spirit answered me.
Since then the light that gilds the sands.
And glimmers on the sea,
But vainly struggles to reflect
The radiant soul of thee.
III
The sea speaks to me of you
All the day long;
Still as I sit by its side
You are its song.
The sea sings to me of you
Loud on the reef;
Always it moans as it sings.
Voicing my grief.
IV
My dear love died last night;
Shall I clothe her in white ?
My passionate love is dead,
Shall I robe her in red ?
But nay, she was all untrue,
She shall not go drest in blue;
Still my desolate love was brave,
Unrobed let her go to her grave.
V
There are brilliant heights of sorrow
That only the few may know;
THE LIFE AND WORKS
In a place dat's all a bed o' thistles.
'Tain't no use a-goin' now, ez sho's you bo'n,
A-squeakin' of yo' whistle 'g'inst a gread
big ho'n.
Ef you ain't got but a teenchy bit o*
victuals on de table,
Whut's de use a-claimin' hit's a leas' ?
Fe' de folks is mighty 'spicious, an' dey's
ap' to come a-peerin',
Lookin' fe' de scraps you leP at leas'.
W'en de meal's a-hidin' fom de meal-bin's
top,
You needn't talk to hide it; ef you sta'ts,
des stop.
Ef yo' min' kin only carry half a pint o'
common idees,
Don' go roun' a-sayin' hit's a bar'l;
'Ca'se de people gwine to test you, an'
dey'll fin' out you's a-lyin',
Den dey'll twis' yo' sayin's in a snarl.
Wuss t'ing in de country dat I evah
hyahed —
A crow dot sat a-squawkin', " I's a
mockin'-bird."
A GOLDEN DAY
I found you and I lost you,
All on a gleaming day.
The day was filled with sunshine,
And the land was full of May.
A golden bird was singing
Its melody divine,
I found you and I loved you,
And all the world was mine.
I found you and I lost you,
All on a golden day,
But when I dream of you, dear,
It is always brimming May.
THE UNLUCKY APPLE
'Twas the apple that in Eden
Caused our father's primal fall;
And the Trojan War, remember —
'Twas an apple caused it all.
So for weeks I've hesitated,
You can guess the reason why,
For I want to tell my darling
She's the apple of my eye.
PUTTIN' THE BABY AWAY
Eight of 'em hyeah all tol' an' yet
Dese eyes o .nine is wringin' wet;
My haht's a-achin' ha'd an' so',
De way hit nevah ached befo';
My soul's a-pleadin', " Lawd give back
Dis little lonesome baby black,
Dis one, dis las' po' he'pless one
Whose little race was too soon run."
Po' Little Jim, des fo' yeahs' ol*
A-layin' down so still an' col'.
Somehow hit don' seem ha'dly faih,
To have my baby lyin' daih
Wi'dout a smile upon his face,
Wi'dout a look erbout de place;
He ust to be so full o' fun
Hit don' seem right dat all's done, done.
Des eight in all but I don' caih,
Dey wa'nt a single one to spaih;
De worl' was big, so was my haht,
An' dis hyeah baby owned hits paht;
De house was po', dey clothes was rough,
But daih was meat an' meal enough;
An' daih was room fu' little Jim;
Oh ! Lawd, what made you call fu' him I
It do seem monst'ous ha'd to-day,
To lay dis baby boy away;
I'd learned to love his teasin' smile,
He mought o' des been leP erwhile;
You wouldn't t'ought wid all de folks,
Dat's roun' hyeah mixin' teahs an' jokes,
De Lawd u'd had de time to see
Dis chile an' tek him 'way Pom me.
But let it go, I reckon Jim,
'11 des go right straight up to him
Dat took him Pom his mammy's nest
An' leP dis achin' in my breas',
An' lookin' in dat fathah's face
An' 'memberin' dis lone sorrerin' place,
He'll say, " Good Lawd, you ought to had
Do sumpin' fu' to comfo't dad! "
Dese Eyes o' Mine is Wringin' Wet
Dks Don' Pet Yo' Worries
OF PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 319
ADVICE
W'en you full o' worry
'Bout yo' wo'k an' sich,
W'en you kind o' bothered
Case you can't get rich,
An' yo' neighboh p'ospah
Past his jest desu'ts,
An' de sneer of comerds
Stuhes yo' heaht an' hu'ts,
Des don' pet yo' worries,
Lay 'em on de she'f,
Tek a little trouble
Brothah, wid yo'se'f.
Ef a frien' comes mou'nin'
'Bout his awful case,
You know you don' grieve him
Wid a gloomy face,
But you wrassle wid him,
Try to tek him in;
Dough hit cracks yo' features,
Law, you smile lak sin,
Ain't you good ez he is ?
Don' you pine to def;
Tek a little trouble
Brothah, wid yo'se'f.
Ef de chillun pestahs,
An' de baby's bad,
Ef yo' wife gits narvous,
An' you're gettin' mad,
Des you grab yo' boot-strops,
Hoi' yo' body down,
Stop a-t'inkin' cuss-w'rds,
Chase away de frown,
Knock de haid o' worry,
Twell dey ain' none lef;
Tek a little trouble,
Brothah, wid yo'se'f.
THE DISCOVERY
These are the days of elfs and fays:
Who says that with the dreams of myth,
These imps and elves disport themselves ?
Ah no, along the paths of song
Do all the tiny folk belong.
Round all our homes,
Kobolds and gnomes do daily cling,
Then nightly fling their lanterns out.
And shout on shout, they join the rout,
And sing, and sing, within the sweet en¬
chanted ring.
Where gleamed the guile of moonlight's
smile,
Once paused I, listening for a while,
And heard the lay, unknown by day,—
The fairies' dancing roundelay.
Queen Mab was there, her shimmering
hair
Each fairy prince's heart's despair.
She smiled to see their sparkling glee,
And once I ween, she smiled at me.
Since when, you may by night or day,
Dispute the sway of elf-folk gay;
But, hear me, stay!
I've learned the way to find Queen Mab
and elf and fay.
Where'er by streams, the moonlight gleams,
Or on meadow softly beams,
There, footing round on dew-lit ground,
The fairy folk may all be found.
MORNING
The mist has left the greening plain,
The dew-drops shine like fairy rain,
The coquette rose awakes again
1 Her lovely self adorning.
The Wind is hiding in the trees,
A sighing, soothing, laughing tease,
Until the rose says, " Kiss me, please,
'Tis morning, 'tis morning.
With staff in hand and careless-free,
The wanderer fares right jauntily,
For towns and houses are, thinks he,
For scorning, for scorning.
My soul is swift upon the wing,
And in its deeps a song I bring;
Come, Love, and we together sing,
" 'Tis morning, 'tis morning."
326
THE LIFE AND WORKS
Howe'er you should thorn me and
scorn me,
And wear you for life as the green of the
bower.
If 'twere fair to suppose
That that road was for vagrants,
That the wind and the rose,
Counted all in their fragrance;
Oh, my dear one,
My love, I should take you and make
you,
The green of my life from the scintillant
hour.
THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN
Cover him over with daisies white,
And eke with the pbppies red,
Sit with me here by his couch to-night,
For the First-Born, Love, is dead.
Poor little fellow, he seemed so fair
As he lay in my jealous arms;
Silent and cold he is lying there
Stripped of his darling charms.
Lusty and strong he had grown forsooth,
Sweet with an infinite grace,
Proud in the force of his conquering
youth, ,
Laughter alight in his face.
Oh, but the blast, it was cruel and keen,
And ah, but the chill it was rare;
The look of the winter-kissed flow'r you've
seen
When meadows and fields were bare.
Can you not wake from this white, cold
sleep
And speak to me once again ?
True that your slumber is deep, so deep,
But deeper by far is my pain.
Cover him over with daisies white,
And eke with the poppies red,
Sit with me here by his couch to-night,
For the First-Born, Love, is dead.
BEIN' BACK HOME
Wearying of his losing battle fo xealth,
assured that his days were numbe (?d, and
too weak to continue his literary labors,
poor Paul Dunbar went home to Dayton
to die.
Show me another, who, under such
heart-breaking conditions, could have
written such a poem as " Bein' Back
Home."
The old settee to which he refers in the
fourth stanza, actually exists, and was the
poet's favorite seat. His mother counts
it among the most precious relics of her
son.
Home agin, an' home to stay —
Yes, it's nice to be away.
Plenty things to do an' see,
But the old place seems to me
Jest about the proper thing.
Mebbe 'ts 'cause the mem'ries cling
Closer 'round yore place o' birth
'N ary other spot on earth.
W'y it's nice jest settin' here,
Lookin' out an' seem' clear,
'Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze
In these sweet October days.
What's as good as that there lane,
Kind o' browned from last night's rain ?
'Pears like home has got the start
When the goal's a feller's heart.
What's as good as that there jay
Screechin' up'ards towards the gray
Skies ? An' tell me, what's as fine
As that full-leafed pumpkin vine ?
Tow'rin' buildin's—yes, they're good;
But in sight o' field and wood,
Then a feller understan's
'Bout the house not made with han's.
Let the others rant an' roam
When they git away from home ;
Jest gi' me my old settee
An' my pipe beneath a tree;
Sight o' medders green an' still,
Now and then a gentle hill,
Apple orchards, full o' fruit,
Nigh a cider press to boot —
Old Aunt Doshy
Mandy Mason
PART III
The Best Stories of Paul Laurence
Dunbar
A FAMILY FEUD
I WISH I could tell you the story as I heard it from the
lips of the old black woman as she sat bobbing her tur-
baned head to and fro with the motion of her creaky little
rocking-chair, and droning the tale forth in the mellow
voice of her race. So much of the charm of the story
was in that voice, which even the cares of age had not
hardened.
It was a sunny afternoon in late November, one of those
days that come like a backward glance from a reluctantly
departing summer. I had taken advantage of the warmth
and brightness to go up and sit with old Aunt Doshy on
the little porch that fronted her cottage. The old woman
had been a trusted house-servant in one of the wealthiest
of the old Kentucky families, and a visit to her never
failed to elicit some reminiscence of the interesting past.
Aunt Doshy was inordinately proud of her family, as she
designated the Venables, and was never weary of detail¬
ing accounts of their grandeur and generosity. What if
some of the harshness of reality was softened by the dis¬
tance through which she looked back upon them ; what
339
34° THE LIFE AND WORKS
if the glamour of memory did put a halo round the heads
of some people who were never meant to be canonized ?
It was all plain fact to Aunt Doshy, and it was good to
hear her talk. That day she began : —
" I reckon I hain't never tol' you 'bout ole Mas' an*
young Mas' fallin' out, has I ? Hit's all over now, an'
things is done change so dat I reckon eben ef ole Mas'
was libin', he wouldn't keer ef I tol', an' I knows young
Mas' Tho'nton wouldn't. Dey ain't nuffin' to hide 'bout
it nohow, 'ca'se all quality families has de same kin' o'
'spectable fusses.
" Hit all happened 'long o' dem Jamiesons whut libed
jinin' places to our people, an' whut ole Mas' ain't spoke
to fu' nigh onto thutty years. Long while ago, when
Mas' Tom Jamieson an' Mas' Jack Venable was bofe
young mans, dey had a qua'l 'bout de young lady dey
bofe was a-cou'tin', an' by an' by dey had a du'l an' Mas'
Jamieson shot Mas' Jack in de shouldah, but Mas" Jack
ma'ied de lady, so dey was eben. Mas' Jamieson ma'ied
too, an' after so many years dey was bofe wid'ers, but
dey ain't fu'give one another yit. When Mas' Tho'nton
was big enough to run erroun', ole Mas' used to try to
press on him dat a Venable mus'n' never put his foot on
de Jamieson lan'; an' many a tongue-lashin' an' some¬
times wuss de han's on our place got fu' mixin' wif de
Jamieson servants. But, la! young Mas' Tho'nton was
wuss'n de niggers. Evah time he got a chance he was
out an' gone, over lots an' fiel's an' into de Jamieson ya'd
a-playin' wif little Miss Nellie, whut was Mas' Tom's little
gal. I never did see two chillun so 'tached to one an¬
other. Dey used to wander erroun', han' in han', lak
brother an' sister, an' dey'd cry lak dey little hea'ts
JIMSELLA
No one could ever have accused Mandy Mason of be¬
ing thrifty. For the first twenty years of her life condi¬
tions had not taught her the necessity for thrift. But that
was before she had come North with Jim. Down there
at home one either rented or owned a plot of ground with
a shanty set in the middle of it, and lived off the products
of one's own garden and coop. But here it was all very
different: one room in a' crowded tenement house, and
the necessity of grinding day after day to keep the wolf—
a very terrible and ravenous wolf—from the door. No
wonder that Mandy was discouraged and finally gave up
to more than her old shiftless ways.
Jim was no less disheartened. He had been so hopeful
when he first came, and had really worked hard. Bui he
could not go higher than his one stuffy room, and the
food was not so good as it had been at home. In this
state of mind, Mandy's shiftlessness irritated him. He
grew to look on her as the source of all his disappoint¬
ments. Then, as he walked Sixth or Seventh Avenue, he
saw other colored women who dressed gayer than
Mandy, looked smarter, and did not wear such great
shoes. These he contrasted with his wife, to her great
disadvantage.
" Mandy," he said to her one day, " why don't you fix
yo'se'f up an* look like people? You go 'roun' hyeah
lookin' like I dunno what."
355
356
THE LIFE AND WORKS
" Whyn't you git me somep'n' to fix myse'f up in ? "
came back the disconcerting answer.
" Ef you had any git up erbout you, you'd git somep'n'
fu' yo'se'f an' not wait on me to do evahthing."
" Well, ef I waits on you, you keeps me waitin', fu' I
ain' had nothin' fit to eat ner waih since I been up
hyeah."
" Nev' min'! You's mighty free wid yo' talk now, but
some o' dese days you won't be so free. You's gwine to
wake up some mo'nin' an' fin' dat I's lit out; dat's what
you will."
" Well, I 'low nobody ain't got no string to you."
Mandy took Jim's threat as an idle one, so she could
afford to be independent. But the next day had found
him gone. The deserted wife wept for a time, for she had
been fond of Jim, and then she set to work to struggle on
by herself. It was a dismal effort, and the people about her
were not kind to her. She was hardly of their class. She
was only a simple, honest countrywoman, who did not go
out with them to walk the avenue.
When a month or two afterwards the sheepish Jim
returned, ragged and dirty, she had forgiven him and
taken him back. But immunity from punishment spoiled
him, and hence of late his lapses had grown more frequent
and of longer duration.
He walked in one morning, after one of his absences,
with a more than usually forbidding face, for he had heard
the news in the neighborhood before he got in. During
his absence a baby had come to share the poverty of his
home. He thought with shame at himself, which turned
into anger, that the child must be three months old and
he had never seen it.
THE WALLS OF JERICHO
PARKER was sitting alone under the shade of a locust
tree at the edge of a field His head was bent and he
was deep in thought. Every now and then there floated
to him the sound of vociferous singing, and occasionally
above the music rose the cry of some shouting brother or
sister. But he remained in his attitude of meditation as
if the singing and the cries meant nothing to him.
They did, however, mean much, and, despite his out¬
ward impassiveness, his heart was in a tumult of wounded
pride and resentment. He had always been so faithful to
his flock, constant in attendance and careful of their wel¬
fare. Now it was very hard, at the first call of the stranger
to have them leave their old pastor and crowd to the new
exhorter.
It was nearly a week before that a free negro had got
permission to hold meetings in the wood adjoining the
Mordaunt estate. He had invited the negroes of the sur¬
rounding plantations to come and bring their baskets
with them that they might serve the body while they
saved the soul. By ones and twos Parker had seen his
congregation drop away from him until now, in the cabin
meeting house where he held forth, only a few retainers,
such as Mandy and Dinah and some of the older ones on
the plantation, were present to hear him. It grieved his
heart, for he had been with his flock in sickness and in
distress, in sorrow and in trouble, but now, at the first ap¬
proach of the rival they could and did desert him. He
361
364 THE LIFE AND WORKS
untarily broke into a song, either a stirring, marching
spiritual or some soft crooning melody that took strange
hold upon the hearts of even the most skeptical listeners.
As they approached and joined the crowd some one had
just swung into the undulating lilt of
" Some one buried in de graveyard,
Some one buried in de sea,
All come togethah in de mo'nin',
Go soun' de Jubilee."
Just the word " Jubilee " was enough to start the whole
throng into agitated life, and they moaned and shouted
and wailed until the forest became a pandemonium.
Johnson, the preacher, saw Parker approach with the
two young men and a sudden spirit of conquest took pos¬
session of him. He felt that he owed it to himself to
crystallize his triumph over the elder exhorter. So, with
a glance that begged for approbation, he called aloud:
"Open de baskets! Rise up, fu' de Jericho walls o' sin
is a-stan'in'. You 'member dey ma'ched roun' seven
times, an' at de sevent' time de walls a-begun to shake
an' shiver; de foundations a-begun to trimble; de chillen
a-hyeahed de rum'lin' lak a thundah f'om on high, an'
putty soon down come de walls a-fallin' an' a-crum lin'!
Oh, brothahs an' sistahs, let us a-ma'ch erroun' de walls o''
Jericho to-night seven times, an' a-eatin' o' de food dat
de Lawd has pervided us wid. Dey ain't no walls o'
brick an' stone a-stan'in' hyeah to-night, but by de eye o'
Christian faif I see a great big wall o' sin a-stan'in' strong
an' thick hyeah in ouah midst. Is we gwine to let it
stan' ? "
" Oh, no, no 1" moaned the people.
His Eyes Were Bright, and He Was Breathing
Quickly
HOW BROTHER PARKER FELL
FROM GRACE
It all happened so long ago that it has almost been
forgotten upon the plantation, and few save the older
heads know anything about it save from hearsay. It was
in Parker's younger days, but the tale was told on him
for a long time, until he was so old that every little dis¬
paragement cut him like a knife. Then the young scape¬
graces who had the story only from their mothers' lips
spared his dotage. Even to young eyes, the respect
which hedges about the form of eighty obscures many of
the imperfections that are apparent at twenty-eight, and
Parker was nearing eighty.
The truth of it is that Parker, armed with the authority
which his master thought the due of the plantation ex-
horter, was wont to use his power with rather too free a
rein. He was so earnest for the spiritual welfare of his
fellow servants that his watchful ministrations became a
nuisance and a bore.
Even Aunt Doshy, who was famous for her devotion to
all that pertained to the church, had been heard to state
that " Brothah Pahkah was a moughty powahful 'zortah,
but he sholy was monst'ous biggity." This from a mem¬
ber of his flock old enough to be his mother, quite
summed up the plantation's estimate of this black disciple.
There was many a time when it would have gone hard
with Brother Parker among the young bucks on the
Mordaunt plantation but. that there was scarcely one of
them but could remember a time when Parker had come
373
374 THE LIFE AND WORKS
to his cabin to console some sick one, help a seeker, comfort
the dying or close the eyes of one already dead, and it
clothed him about with a sacredness, which, however much
inclined, they dared not invade.
" Ain't it enough," Mandy's Jim used to say, " fu'
Brothah Pahkah to 'tend to his business down at meetin'
widout spookin' 'roun' all de cabins an' outhouses ? Seems
to me dey's enough dev'ment gwine on right undah his
nose widout him gwine 'roun' tryin' to smell out what's hid."
Every secret sinner on the place agreed with this
dictum, and it came to the preacher's ears. He smiled
broadly.
" Uh, huh," he remarked, " hit's de stuck pig dat
squeals. I reckon Jim's up to somep'n' right now, an' I
lay I'll fin' out what dat somep'n' is," Parker was a
subtle philosopher and Jim had by his remark unwittingly
disclosed his interest in the preacher's doings. It then
behooved his zealous disciple to find out the source of this
unusual interest and opposition.
On the Sunday following his sermon was strong, fiery
and convincing. His congregation gave themselves up
to the joy of the occasion and lost all consciousness of
time or place in their emotional ecstasy. But, although
he continued to move them with his eloquence, not for
one moment did Parker lose possession of himself. His
eyes roamed over the people before him and took in the
absence of several who had most loudly and heartily
agreed with Jim's dictum. Jim himself was not there.
" Uh, huh," said the minister to himself even in the
midst of his exhortations. "Uh, huh, erway on some
dev'ment, I be boun\" He could hardly wait to hurry
through his sermon. Then he seized his hat and almost
A SUPPER BY PROXY
There was an air of suppressed excitement about the
whole plantation. The big old house stared gravely out
as if it could tell great things if it would, and the cabins
in the quarters looked prophetic. The very dogs were on
the alert, and there was expectancy even in the eyes of the
piccaninnies who rolled in the dust. Something was go¬
ing to happen. There was no denying that. The wind
whispered it to the trees and the trees nodded.
Then there was a clatter of horses' hoofs, the crack of
a whip. The bays with the family carriage swept round
the drive and halted at the front porch. Julius was on the
box, resplendent in his holiday livery. This was the signal
for a general awakening. The old house leered an irri¬
tating " I told you so." The quarters looked complacent.
The dogs ran and barked, the piccaninnies laughed and
shouted, the servants gathered on the lawn and, in the
midst of it all, the master and mistress came down the
steps and got into the carriage. Another crack of the
whip, a shout from the servants, more antics from the
piccaninnies, the scurrying of the dogs—and the vehicle
rumbled out of sight behind a clump of maples. Immedi¬
ately the big house resumed its natural appearance and
the quarters settled back into whitewashed respectability.
Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt were off for a week's visit. The
boys were away at school, and here was the plantation
left in charge of the negroes themselves, except for the
presence of an overseer who did not live on the place.
391
THE FAITH CURE MAN
HOPE is tenacious. It goes on living and working
when science has dealt it what should be its death-blow.
In the close room at the top of the old tenement house
little Lucy lay wasting away with a relentless disease.
The doctor had said at the beginning of the winter,that
she could not live. Now he said that he could do no
more for her except to ease the few days that remained
for the child.
But Martha Benson would not believe him. She was
confident that doctors were not infallible. Anyhow, this
one wasn't, for she saw life and health ahead for her little
one.
Did not the preacher at the Mission Home say: " Ask,
and ye shall receive " ? and had she not asked and asked
again the life of her child, her last and only one, at the
hands of him whom she worshiped ?
No, Lucy was not going to die. What she needed was
country air and a place to run about in. She had been
housed up too much; these long Northern winters were
too severe for her, and that was what made her so pinched
and thin and weak. She must have air, and she should
have it.
" Po' little lammie," she said to the child, " mammy's
little gal boun' to git well. Mammy gwine sen' huh out
in de country when the spring comes, whaih she kin roll
in de grass an' pick flowers an' git good an' strong. Don'
baby want to go to de country ? Don' baby want to see
400
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SW05ZS
PAUL
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