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I know that in writing the following pages I am divulging the great secret of my life, the secret which for some years I have guarded far more carefully than any of my earthly possessions; and it is a curious study to me to analyze the motives which prompt me to do it. I feel that I am led by the same impulse which forces the un-found-out criminal to take somebody into his confidence, although he knows that the act is likely, even almost certain, to lead to his undoing. I know that I am playing with fire, and I feel the thrill which accompanies that most fascinating pastime; and, back of it all, I think I find a sort of savage and diabolical desire to gather up all the little tragedies of my life, and turn them into a practical joke on society.

I know that in the following pages I am revealing the great secret of my life. For some years, I have guarded this secret far more carefully than any of my worldly possessions. I find it curious to examine my reasons for revealing it. I feel driven by the same impulse that forces an undiscovered criminal to confide in someone. The criminal knows that doing so will likely, almost certainly, lead to his downfall. I know that I am playing with fire, and I feel the thrill that comes with that fascinating pastime. Behind it all, I think I find a kind of savage, devilish desire to gather up all the little tragedies of my life and turn them into a practical joke on society.

And, too, I suffer a vague feeling of unsatisfaction, of regret, of almost remorse, from which I am seeking relief, and of which I shall speak in the last paragraph of this account.

I also feel a vague dissatisfaction, a regret that is almost remorse. I am seeking relief from this feeling, which I will discuss in the last paragraph of this account.

I was born in a little town of Georgia a few years after the close of the Civil War. I shall not mention the name of the town, because there are people still living there who could be connected with this narrative. I have only a faint recollection of the place of my birth. At times I can close my eyes and call up in a dreamlike way things that seem to have happened ages ago in some other world. I can see in this half vision a little house—I am quite sure it was not a large one—I can remember that flowers grew in the front yard, and that around each bed of flowers was a hedge of vari-colored glass bottles stuck in the ground neck down. I remember that once, while playing around in the sand, I became curious to know whether or not the bottles grew as the flowers did, and I proceeded to dig them up to find out; the investigation brought me a terrific spanking, which indelibly fixed the incident in my mind. I can remember, too, that behind the house was a shed under which stood two or three wooden wash-tubs. These tubs were the earliest aversion of my life, for regularly on certain evenings I was plunged into one of them and scrubbed until my skin ached. I can remember to this day the pain caused by the strong, rank soap's getting into my eyes.

I was born in a small town in Georgia a few years after the Civil War ended. I will not name the town because people still live there who could be connected with this story. I have only faint memories of my birthplace. Sometimes I can close my eyes and dreamily recall things that seem to have happened ages ago in another world. In this half vision, I can see a small house. I am quite sure it was not a large one. I remember flowers growing in the front yard. Around each flower bed was a border of different-colored glass bottles, stuck neck down in the ground. Once, while playing in the sand, I became curious about whether the bottles grew as the flowers did. So I dug them up to find out. My investigation earned me a terrible spanking, which fixed the incident in my mind forever. I also remember a shed behind the house, with two or three wooden wash tubs under it. Those tubs were the first things I ever hated. On certain evenings, I was regularly plunged into one and scrubbed until my skin ached. To this day, I remember the pain when the strong, foul-smelling soap got in my eyes.

Back from the house a vegetable garden ran, perhaps seventy-five or one hundred feet; but to my childish fancy it was an endless territory. I can still recall the thrill of joy, excitement, and wonder it gave me to go on an exploring expedition through it, to find the blackberries, both ripe and green, that grew along the edge of the fence.

A vegetable garden stretched perhaps seventy-five or one hundred feet behind the house. But to my childish imagination, it was endless. I can still remember the joy, excitement, and wonder I felt exploring the garden. Along the fence, I found blackberries, both ripe and green.

I remember with what pleasure I used to arrive at, and stand before, a little enclosure in which stood a patient cow chewing her cud, how I would occasionally offer her through the bars a piece of my bread and molasses, and how I would jerk back my hand in half fright if she made any motion to accept my offer.

I remember how much I enjoyed visiting a small pen and standing before it. Inside, a patient cow stood chewing her cud. Sometimes I offered her a piece of my bread and molasses through the bars. If she moved to accept it, I would jerk my hand back, half afraid.

I have a dim recollection of several people who moved in and about this little house, but I have a distinct mental image of only two: one, my mother; and the other, a tall man with a small, dark mustache. I remember that his shoes or boots were always shiny, and that he wore a gold chain and a great gold watch with which he was always willing to let me play. My admiration was almost equally divided between the watch and chain and the shoes. He used to come to the house evenings, perhaps two or three times a week; and it became my appointed duty whenever he came to bring him a pair of slippers and to put the shiny shoes in a particular corner; he often gave me in return for this service a bright coin, which my mother taught me to promptly drop in a little tin bank. I remember distinctly the last time this tall man came to the little house in Georgia; that evening before I went to bed he took me up in his arms and squeezed me very tightly; my mother stood behind his chair wiping tears from her eyes. I remember how I sat upon his knee and watched him laboriously drill a hole through a ten-dollar gold piece, and then tie the coin around my neck with a string. I have worn that gold piece around my neck the greater part of my life, and still possess it, but more than once I have wished that some other way had been found of attaching it to me besides putting a hole through it.

I vaguely remember several people who came and went around this little house. But I have a clear mental picture of only two: my mother and a tall man with a small, dark mustache. I remember that his shoes or boots were always shiny. He wore a gold chain and a large gold watch, and he was always willing to let me play with them. I admired the watch and chain almost as much as the shoes. He used to come to the house in the evenings, perhaps two or three times a week. Whenever he came, it was my job to bring him slippers and put his shiny shoes in a particular corner. He often gave me a bright coin in return. My mother taught me to drop it promptly into a little tin bank. I clearly remember the last time this tall man came to the little house in Georgia. That evening, before I went to bed, he picked me up and squeezed me very tightly. My mother stood behind his chair, wiping tears from her eyes. I remember sitting on his knee and watching him work hard to drill a hole through a ten-dollar gold piece. Then he tied the coin around my neck with a string. I have worn that gold piece around my neck for most of my life, and I still have it. But more than once, I have wished that some other way had been found to attach it to me without putting a hole through it.

On the day after the coin was put around my neck my mother and I started on what seemed to me an endless journey. I knelt on the seat and watched through the train window the corn and cotton fields pass swiftly by until I fell asleep. When I fully awoke, we were being driven through the streets of a large city—Savannah. I sat up and blinked at the bright lights. At Savannah we boarded a steamer which finally landed us in New York. From New York we went to a town in Connecticut, which became the home of my boyhood.

The day after the coin was put around my neck, my mother and I set out on what seemed like an endless journey. I knelt on the train seat and watched the corn and cotton fields rush past the window until I fell asleep. When I woke up fully, we were being driven through the streets of Savannah, a large city. I sat up and blinked at the bright lights. In Savannah, we boarded a steamer that eventually brought us to New York. From New York, we went to a town in Connecticut, where I spent my boyhood.

My mother and I lived together in a little cottage which seemed to me to be fitted up almost luxuriously; there were horse-hair-covered chairs in the parlor, and a little square piano; there was a stairway with red carpet on it leading to a half second story; there were pictures on the walls, and a few books in a glass-doored case. My mother dressed me very neatly, and I developed that pride which well-dressed boys generally have. She was careful about my associates, and I myself was quite particular. As I look back now I can see that I was a perfect little aristocrat. My mother rarely went to anyone's house, but she did sewing, and there were a great many ladies coming to our cottage. If I was around they would generally call me, and ask me my name and age and tell my mother what a pretty boy I was. Some of them would pat me on the head and kiss me.

My mother and I lived together in a little cottage that seemed almost luxurious to me. The parlor had chairs covered in horsehair and a small square piano. A red-carpeted stairway led to a partial second story. Pictures hung on the walls, and a few books stood in a glass-fronted case. My mother dressed me very neatly, and I grew as proud as well-dressed boys generally do. She was careful about who I spent time with, and I was quite particular myself. Looking back, I can see that I was a perfect little aristocrat. My mother rarely visited anyone’s house, but she did sewing, and many ladies came to our cottage. If I was around, they would usually call me over and ask my name and age. They would tell my mother what a pretty boy I was. Some would pat me on the head and kiss me.

My mother was kept very busy with her sewing; sometimes she would have another woman helping her. I think she must have derived a fair income from her work. I know, too, that at least once each month she received a letter; I used to watch for the postman, get the letter, and run to her with it; whether she was busy or not, she would take it and instantly thrust it into her bosom. I never saw her read one of these letters. I knew later that they contained money and what was to her more than money. As busy as she generally was, she found time, however, to teach me my letters and figures and how to spell a number of easy words. Always on Sunday evenings she opened the little square piano and picked out hymns. I can recall now that whenever she played hymns from the book her tempo was always decidedly largo. Sometimes on other evenings, when she was not sewing, she would play simple accompaniments to some old Southern songs which she sang. In these songs she was freer, because she played them by ear. Those evenings on which she opened the little piano were the happiest hours of my childhood. Whenever she started toward the instrument, I used to follow her with all the interest and irrepressible joy that a pampered pet dog shows when a package is opened in which he knows there is a sweet bit for him. I used to stand by her side and often interrupt and annoy her by chiming in with strange harmonies which I found on either the high keys of the treble or the low keys of the bass. I remember that I had a particular fondness for the black keys. Always on such evenings, when the music was over, my mother would sit with me in her arms, often for a very long time. She would hold me close, softly crooning some old melody without words, all the while gently stroking her face against my head; many and many a night I thus fell asleep. I can see her now, her great dark eyes looking into the fire, to where? No one knew but her. The memory of that picture has more than once kept me from straying too far from the place of purity and safety in which her arms held me.

My mother was very busy with her sewing. Sometimes another woman helped her. I think she must have earned a fair income from her work. I also know that she received a letter at least once a month. I used to watch for the postman, get the letter, and run to her with it. Whether she was busy or not, she would take it and immediately tuck it into her bosom. I never saw her read one of these letters. Later, I learned that they contained money and something she valued more than money. Though she was usually busy, she found time to teach me my letters, numbers, and the spelling of simple words. Every Sunday evening, she opened the little square piano and picked out hymns. I remember that whenever she played hymns from the book, her tempo was always distinctly largo, or very slow. Sometimes, on other evenings when she was not sewing, she sang old Southern songs and played simple accompaniments. She played more freely with these songs because she played them by ear. The evenings when she opened the little piano were the happiest hours of my childhood. Whenever she went toward the piano, I followed her with eager interest and uncontainable joy. I was like a pampered pet dog watching someone open a package he knows contains a treat for him. I used to stand beside her and often interrupted and annoyed her. I would chime in with strange harmonies I found on the high treble keys or the low bass keys. I remember being especially fond of the black keys. On those evenings, when the music was over, my mother would sit with me in her arms, often for a long time. She held me close and softly hummed an old melody without words. All the while, she gently stroked her face against my head. Many nights I fell asleep that way. I can see her now, her great dark eyes looking into the fire. Where was she looking? No one knew but her. More than once, that memory has kept me from straying too far from the purity and safety of her arms.

At a very early age I began to thump on the piano alone, and it was not long before I was able to pick out a few tunes. When I was seven years old, I could play by ear all of the hymns and songs that my mother knew. I had also learned the names of the notes in both clefs, but I preferred not to be hampered by notes. About this time several ladies for whom my mother sewed heard me play and they persuaded her that I should at once be put under a teacher; so arrangements were made for me to study the piano with a lady who was a fairly good musician; at the same time arrangements were made for me to study my books with this lady's daughter. My music teacher had no small difficulty at first in pinning me down to the notes. If she played my lesson over for me, I invariably attempted to reproduce the required sounds without the slightest recourse to the written characters. Her daughter, my other teacher, also had her worries. She found that, in reading, whenever I came to words that were difficult or unfamiliar, I was prone to bring my imagination to the rescue and read from the picture. She has laughingly told me, since then, that I would sometimes substitute whole sentences and even paragraphs from what meaning I thought the illustrations conveyed. She said she not only was sometimes amused at the fresh treatment I would give an author's subject, but, when I gave some new and sudden turn to the plot of the story, often grew interested and even excited in listening to hear what kind of a denouement I would bring about. But I am sure this was not due to dullness, for I made rapid progress in both my music and my books.

At a very early age, I began playing around on the piano by myself. Before long, I could pick out a few tunes. By the time I was seven, I could play by ear all the hymns and songs my mother knew. I had also learned the names of the notes in both clefs, but I preferred not to be held back by them. Around this time, several ladies my mother sewed for heard me play. They persuaded her that I should start lessons right away. So I began studying piano with a lady who was a fairly good musician. At the same time, I began studying my schoolbooks with her daughter. At first, my music teacher had a great deal of trouble making me follow the notes. If she played my lesson for me, I always tried to reproduce the sounds without looking at the written music. Her daughter, my other teacher, had her worries too. When I came to difficult or unfamiliar words, I tended to use my imagination and read from the picture instead. She has since told me, laughing, that I sometimes made up whole sentences and even paragraphs based on what I thought the illustrations meant. She said she was sometimes amused by the fresh approach I gave an author's subject. When I gave the plot a new and sudden turn, she often became interested and even excited. She wanted to hear how I would bring the story to an end. But I am sure this was not because I was slow to learn, for I made rapid progress in both music and my schoolwork.

And so for a couple of years my life was divided between my music and my school books. Music took up the greater part of my time. I had no playmates, but amused myself with games—some of them my own invention—which could be played alone. I knew a few boys whom I had met at the church which I attended with my mother, but I had formed no close friendships with any of them. Then, when I was nine years old, my mother decided to enter me in the public school, so all at once I found myself thrown among a crowd of boys of all sizes and kinds; some of them seemed to me like savages. I shall never forget the bewilderment, the pain, the heart-sickness, of that first day at school. I seemed to be the only stranger in the place; every other boy seemed to know every other boy. I was fortunate enough, however, to be assigned to a teacher who knew me; my mother made her dresses. She was one of the ladies who used to pat me on the head and kiss me. She had the tact to address a few words directly to me; this gave me a certain sort of standing in the class and put me somewhat at ease.

For a couple of years, my life was divided between music and schoolwork. Music took up most of my time. I had no playmates, but I amused myself with games I could play alone. I invented some of them myself. I knew a few boys I had met at the church I attended with my mother, but I had formed no close friendships with them. Then, when I was nine years old, my mother decided to enroll me in public school. All at once, I found myself among a crowd of boys of all sizes and kinds. Some of them seemed like savages to me. I will never forget the confusion, pain, and heartache of that first day at school. I seemed to be the only stranger there. Every other boy seemed to know every other boy. Fortunately, I was assigned to a teacher who knew me. My mother made her dresses. She was one of the ladies who used to pat me on the head and kiss me. She had the tact to speak a few words directly to me. This gave me a certain standing in the class and made me feel somewhat more at ease.

Within a few days I had made one staunch friend and was on fairly good terms with most of the boys. I was shy of the girls, and remained so; even now a word or look from a pretty woman sets me all a-tremble. This friend I bound to me with hooks of steel in a very simple way. He was a big awkward boy with a face full of freckles and a head full of very red hair. He was perhaps fourteen years of age; that is, four or five years older than any other boy in the class. This seniority was due to the fact that he had spent twice the required amount of time in several of the preceding classes. I had not been at school many hours before I felt that "Red Head"—as I involuntarily called him—and I were to be friends. I do not doubt that this feeling was strengthened by the fact that I had been quick enough to see that a big, strong boy was a friend to be desired at a public school; and, perhaps, in spite of his dullness, "Red Head" had been able to discern that I could be of service to him. At any rate there was a simultaneous mutual attraction.

Within a few days, I had made one loyal friend and was on fairly good terms with most of the boys. I was shy around the girls, and I stayed that way. Even now, a word or look from a pretty woman makes me tremble. I won this friend's lasting loyalty in a very simple way. He was a big, awkward boy with a face full of freckles and very red hair. He was perhaps fourteen, four or five years older than any other boy in the class. He was older because he had spent twice the required time in several earlier classes. I had been at school only a few hours before I felt that "Red Head" and I would be friends. That was the name I found myself calling him. I am sure this feeling was strengthened by my quick realization that a big, strong boy was a valuable friend at a public school. Perhaps, despite his slowness, "Red Head" had also seen that I could be useful to him. In any case, we were drawn to each other at the same time.

The teacher had strung the class promiscuously around the walls of the room for a sort of trial heat for places of rank; when the line was straightened out, I found that by skillful maneuvering I had placed myself third and had piloted "Red Head" to the place next to me. The teacher began by giving us to spell the words corresponding to our order in the line. "Spell first." "Spell second." "Spell third." I rattled off: "T-h-i-r-d, third," in a way which said: "Why don't you give us something hard?" As the words went down the line, I could see how lucky I had been to get a good place together with an easy word. As young as I was, I felt impressed with the unfairness of the whole proceeding when I saw the tailenders going down before twelfth and twentieth, and I felt sorry for those who had to spell such words in order to hold a low position. "Spell fourth." "Red Head," with his hands clutched tightly behind his back, began bravely: "F-o-r-t-h." Like a flash a score of hands went up, and the teacher began saying: "No snapping of fingers, no snapping of fingers." This was the first word missed, and it seemed to me that some of the scholars were about to lose their senses; some were dancing up and down on one foot with a hand above their heads, the fingers working furiously, and joy beaming all over their faces; others stood still, their hands raised not so high, their fingers working less rapidly, and their faces expressing not quite so much happiness; there were still others who did not move or raise their hands, but stood with great wrinkles on their foreheads, looking very thoughtful.

The teacher had arranged the class randomly around the walls for a sort of trial to determine our ranks. Once the line was straightened out, I found that I had cleverly managed to place myself third. I had also guided "Red Head" into the place next to me. The teacher began by asking us to spell the words for our positions in line. "Spell first." "Spell second." "Spell third." I rattled off: "T-h-i-r-d, third," as if to say: "Why don't you give us something hard?" As the words went down the line, I could see how lucky I was to have a good position and an easy word. Even at my age, I was struck by how unfair the whole process was. I watched the children at the end of the line fail on twelfth and twentieth. I felt sorry for those who had to spell such words just to keep a low position. "Spell fourth." "Red Head," with his hands clutched tightly behind his back, began bravely: "F-o-r-t-h." In a flash, twenty hands went up, and the teacher began saying: "No snapping of fingers, no snapping of fingers." This was the first word anyone had missed, and some of the students seemed about to lose their senses. Some were dancing up and down on one foot, with a hand above their heads. Their fingers were snapping furiously, and their faces were beaming with joy. Others stood still, holding their hands not quite so high and snapping their fingers less rapidly. Their faces showed a little less happiness. Still others did not move or raise their hands. They stood looking very thoughtful, with deep wrinkles on their foreheads.

The whole thing was new to me, and I did not raise my hand, but slyly whispered the letter "u" to "Red Head" several times. "Second chance," said the teacher. The hands went down and the class became quiet. "Red Head," his face now red, after looking beseechingly at the ceiling, then pitiably at the floor, began very haltingly: "F-u—" Immediately an impulse to raise hands went through the class, but the teacher checked it, and poor "Red Head," though he knew that each letter he added only took him farther out of the way, went doggedly on and finished: "—r-t-h." The hand-raising was now repeated with more hubbub and excitement than at first. Those who before had not moved a finger were now waving their hands above their heads. "Red Head" felt that he was lost. He looked very big and foolish, and some of the scholars began to snicker. His helpless condition went straight to my heart, and gripped my sympathies. I felt that if he failed, it would in some way be my failure. I raised my hand, and, under cover of the excitement and the teacher's attempts to regain order, I hurriedly shot up into his ear twice, quite distinctly: "F-o-u-r-t-h, f-o-u-r-t-h." The teacher tapped on her desk and said: "Third and last chance." The hands came down, the silence became oppressive. "Red Head" began: "F—" Since that day I have waited anxiously for many a turn of the wheel of fortune, but never under greater tension than when I watched for the order in which those letters would fall from "Red's" lips—"o-u-r-t-h." A sigh of relief and disappointment went up from the class. Afterwards, through all our school days, "Red Head" shared my wit and quickness and I benefited by his strength and dogged faithfulness.

The whole thing was new to me, and I did not raise my hand. But I secretly whispered the letter "u" to "Red Head" several times. "Second chance," said the teacher. The hands went down, and the class grew quiet. "Red Head," his face now red, looked pleadingly at the ceiling, then pitifully at the floor. He began very hesitantly: "F-u." Hands immediately started to go up throughout the class, but the teacher stopped them. Poor "Red Head" knew that each letter he added only took him farther from the answer. Still, he stubbornly went on and finished: "r-t-h." Hands went up again, with more noise and excitement than before. Those who had not moved a finger before were now waving their hands above their heads. "Red Head" felt that he was lost. He looked very big and foolish, and some of the students began to snicker. His helplessness went straight to my heart and filled me with sympathy. I felt that if he failed, it would somehow be my failure too. I raised my hand. Amid the excitement and the teacher's attempts to restore order, I quickly whispered in his ear twice, quite clearly: "F-o-u-r-t-h, f-o-u-r-t-h." The teacher tapped on her desk and said: "Third and last chance." The hands came down, and the silence became oppressive. "Red Head" began: "F." Since that day, I have anxiously waited for many a turn of the wheel of fortune. But I have never felt more tense than I did then. I watched to see what order the letters would come from "Red's" lips: "o-u-r-t-h." A sigh of relief and disappointment rose from the class. Afterward, throughout our school days, "Red Head" shared in my wit and quickness. I benefited from his strength and steadfast loyalty.

There were some black and brown boys and girls in the school, and several of them were in my class. One of the boys strongly attracted my attention from the first day I saw him. His face was as black as night, but shone as though it were polished; he had sparkling eyes, and when he opened his mouth, he displayed glistening white teeth. It struck me at once as appropriate to call him "Shiny Face," or "Shiny Eyes," or "Shiny Teeth," and I spoke of him often by one of these names to the other boys. These terms were finally merged into "Shiny," and to that name he answered good-naturedly during the balance of his public school days.

There were some black and brown boys and girls in the school, and several were in my class. One boy caught my attention from the first day I saw him. His face was as black as night, but it shone as if it were polished. His eyes sparkled, and when he opened his mouth, he showed glistening white teeth. It seemed right to call him "Shiny Face," or "Shiny Eyes," or "Shiny Teeth." I often called him by one of these names when talking to the other boys. These names eventually became "Shiny," and he answered to that name good-naturedly for the rest of his public school days.

"Shiny" was considered without question to be the best speller, the best reader, the best penman—in a word, the best scholar, in the class. He was very quick to catch anything, but, nevertheless, studied hard; thus he possessed two powers very rarely combined in one boy. I saw him year after year, on up into the high school, win the majority of the prizes for punctuality, deportment, essay writing, and declamation. Yet it did not take me long to discover that, in spite of his standing as a scholar, he was in some way looked down upon.

"Shiny" was without question the best speller, reader, and writer in the class. In short, he was the best student. He learned things quickly, but he also studied hard. So he had two strengths that were rarely found together in one boy. Year after year, through high school, I saw him win most of the prizes for punctuality, behavior, essay writing, and public speaking. Yet I soon discovered that, despite his standing as a student, he was somehow looked down upon.

The other black boys and girls were still more looked down upon. Some of the boys often spoke of them as "niggers." Sometimes on the way home from school a crowd would walk behind them repeating:

The other black boys and girls were looked down on even more. Some of the boys often called them "niggers." Sometimes, on the way home from school, a crowd would walk behind them, repeating:

"Nigger, nigger, never die, Black face and shiny eye."

"Nigger, nigger, never die, Black face and shiny eye."

On one such afternoon one of the black boys turned suddenly on his tormentors and hurled a slate; it struck one of the white boys in the mouth, cutting a slight gash in his lip. At sight of the blood the boy who had thrown the slate ran, and his companions quickly followed. We ran after them pelting them with stones until they separated in several directions. I was very much wrought up over the affair, and went home and told my mother how one of the "niggers" had struck a boy with a slate. I shall never forget how she turned on me. "Don't you ever use that word again," she said, "and don't you ever bother the colored children at school. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." I did hang my head in shame, not because she had convinced me that I had done wrong, but because I was hurt by the first sharp word she had ever given me.

One afternoon like that, one of the black boys suddenly turned on the boys tormenting him and threw a slate. It hit one of the white boys in the mouth, making a small cut on his lip. When the boy who had thrown the slate saw the blood, he ran, and his companions quickly followed. We chased them, throwing stones at them until they split up and ran in different directions. I was very upset about what had happened. I went home and told my mother how one of the "niggers" had hit a boy with a slate. I will never forget how she turned on me. "Don't you ever use that word again," she said, "and don't you ever bother the colored children at school. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." I did hang my head in shame. It was not because she had convinced me I had done wrong, but because her sharp words hurt me. She had never spoken to me like that before.

My school days ran along very pleasantly. I stood well in my studies, not always so well with regard to my behavior. I was never guilty of any serious misconduct, but my love of fun sometimes got me into trouble. I remember, however, that my sense of humor was so sly that most of the trouble usually fell on the head of the other fellow. My ability to play on the piano at school exercises was looked upon as little short of marvelous in a boy of my age. I was not chummy with many of my mates, but, on the whole, was about as popular as it is good for a boy to be.

My school days passed very pleasantly. I did well in my studies, though not always as well in my behavior. I never did anything seriously wrong, but my love of fun sometimes got me into trouble. Still, I remember that my sense of humor was so sly that most of the trouble usually fell on the other fellow. People thought my piano playing at school events was almost marvelous for a boy my age. I wasn't close friends with many of my classmates. But overall, I was about as popular as it is good for a boy to be.

One day near the end of my second term at school the principal came into our room and, after talking to the teacher, for some reason said: "I wish all of the white scholars to stand for a moment." I rose with the others. The teacher looked at me and, calling my name, said: "You sit down for the present, and rise with the others." I did not quite understand her, and questioned: "Ma'm?" She repeated, with a softer tone in her voice: "You sit down now, and rise with the others." I sat down dazed. I saw and heard nothing. When the others were asked to rise, I did not know it. When school was dismissed, I went out in a kind of stupor. A few of the white boys jeered me, saying: "Oh, you're a nigger too." I heard some black children say: "We knew he was colored." "Shiny" said to them: "Come along, don't tease him," and thereby won my undying gratitude. I hurried on as fast as I could, and had gone some distance before I perceived that "Red Head" was walking by my side. After a while he said to me: "Le' me carry your books." I gave him my strap without being able to answer. When we got to my gate, he said as he handed me my books: "Say, you know my big red agate? I can't shoot with it any more. I'm going to bring it to school for you tomorrow." I took my books and ran into the house. As I passed through the hallway, I saw that my mother was busy with one of her customers; I rushed up into my own little room, shut the door, and went quickly to where my looking-glass hung on the wall. For an instant I was afraid to look, but when I did, I looked long and earnestly. I had often heard people say to my mother: "What a pretty boy you have!" I was accustomed to hear remarks about my beauty; but now, for the first time, I became conscious of it and recognized it. I noticed the ivory whiteness of my skin, the beauty of my mouth, the size and liquid darkness of my eyes, and how the long, black lashes that fringed and shaded them produced an effect that was strangely fascinating even to me. I noticed the softness and glossiness of my dark hair that fell in waves over my temples, making my forehead appear whiter than it really was. How long I stood there gazing at my image I do not know. When I came out and reached the head of the stairs, I heard the lady who had been with my mother going out. I ran downstairs and rushed to where my mother was sitting, with a piece of work in her hands. I buried my head in her lap and blurted out: "Mother, mother, tell me, am I a nigger?" I could not see her face, but I knew the piece of work dropped to the floor and I felt her hands on my head. I looked up into her face and repeated: "Tell me, mother, am I a nigger?" There were tears in her eyes and I could see that she was suffering for me. And then it was that I looked at her critically for the first time. I had thought of her in a childish way only as the most beautiful woman in the world; now I looked at her searching for defects. I could see that her skin was almost brown, that her hair was not so soft as mine, and that she did differ in some way from the other ladies who came to the house; yet, even so, I could see that she was very beautiful, more beautiful than any of them. She must have felt that I was examining her, for she hid her face in my hair and said with difficulty: "No, my darling, you are not a nigger." She went on: "You are as good as anybody; if anyone calls you a nigger, don't notice them." But the more she talked, the less was I reassured, and I stopped her by asking: "Well, mother, am I white? Are you white?" She answered tremblingly: "No, I am not white, but you—your father is one of the greatest men in the country—the best blood of the South is in you—" This suddenly opened up in my heart a fresh chasm of misgiving and fear, and I almost fiercely demanded: "Who is my father? Where is he?" She stroked my hair and said: "I'll tell you about him some day." I sobbed: "I want to know now." She answered: "No, not now."

One day, near the end of my second term at school, the principal came into our classroom. After talking to the teacher, he said, for some reason: "I want all the white students to stand for a moment." I stood up with the others. The teacher looked at me, called my name, and said: "Sit down for now, and stand with the others." I did not quite understand her, so I asked: "Ma'am?" She repeated in a softer voice: "Sit down now, and stand with the others." I sat down, dazed. I saw and heard nothing. When the others were asked to stand, I did not know it. When school was dismissed, I went out in a kind of stupor. A few of the white boys jeered at me, saying: "Oh, you're a nigger too." I heard some black children say: "We knew he was colored." "Shiny" said to them: "Come along, don't tease him." He won my lasting gratitude by saying that. I hurried on as fast as I could. I had gone some distance before I noticed that "Red Head" was walking beside me. After a while he said to me: "Let me carry your books." I gave him my strap, unable to answer. When we reached my gate, he handed me my books and said: "Say, you know my big red agate? I can't shoot with it any more. I'm going to bring it to school for you tomorrow." I took my books and ran into the house. As I passed through the hallway, I saw that my mother was busy with one of her customers. I rushed up to my little room, shut the door, and hurried to the mirror on the wall. For an instant I was afraid to look, but when I did, I looked long and closely. I had often heard people say to my mother: "What a pretty boy you have!" I was used to hearing people talk about my beauty. But now, for the first time, I became aware of it and recognized it. I noticed the ivory whiteness of my skin, the beauty of my mouth, and my large, dark, liquid eyes. The long, black lashes around my eyes shaded them, creating an effect that fascinated even me. I noticed how soft and glossy my dark hair was. It fell in waves over my temples, making my forehead look whiter than it really was. I do not know how long I stood there looking at my reflection. When I came out and reached the top of the stairs, I heard the lady leaving. I ran downstairs and rushed to where my mother sat with a piece of work in her hands. I buried my head in her lap and blurted out: "Mother, mother, tell me, am I a nigger?" I could not see her face, but I knew the piece of work had fallen to the floor. I felt her hands on my head. I looked up at her face and repeated: "Tell me, mother, am I a nigger?" There were tears in her eyes, and I could see that she was suffering for me. Then, for the first time, I looked at her critically. I had thought of her in a childish way, only as the most beautiful woman in the world. Now I looked for flaws. I could see that her skin was almost brown and that her hair was not as soft as mine. I could also see that she was different in some way from the other ladies who came to the house. Yet even so, I could see that she was very beautiful, more beautiful than any of them. She must have felt me examining her, because she hid her face in my hair. With difficulty, she said: "No, my darling, you are not a nigger." She went on: "You are as good as anybody. If anyone calls you a nigger, don't pay attention to them." But the more she talked, the less reassured I felt. I stopped her and asked: "Well, mother, am I white? Are you white?" She answered, trembling: "No, I am not white, but you. Your father is one of the greatest men in the country. The best blood of the South is in you." This suddenly opened a fresh chasm of doubt and fear in my heart. I demanded, almost fiercely: "Who is my father? Where is he?" She stroked my hair and said: "I'll tell you about him some day." I sobbed: "I want to know now." She answered: "No, not now."

Perhaps it had to be done, but I have never forgiven the woman who did it so cruelly. It may be that she never knew that she gave me a sword-thrust that day in school which was years in healing.

Perhaps it had to be done, but I have never forgiven the woman who did it so cruelly. She may never have known that what she did that day at school felt like a sword thrust. It took years to heal.