The Meaning of Progress

Once upon a time I taught school in the hills of Tennessee, where the broad dark vale of the Mississippi begins to roll and crumple to greet the Alleghanies. I was a Fisk student then, and all Fisk men thought that Tennessee—beyond the Veil—was theirs alone, and in vacation time they sallied forth in lusty bands to meet the county school-commissioners. Young and happy, I too went, and I shall not soon forget that summer, seventeen years ago.

Once upon a time, I taught school in the hills of Tennessee. There, the broad, dark valley of the Mississippi begins to rise and fold toward the Alleghanies. I was a Fisk student then. All Fisk men thought that Tennessee beyond the Veil belonged to them alone. During vacations, they went out in lively groups to meet the county school commissioners. Young and happy, I went too. I will not soon forget that summer, seventeen years ago.

First, there was a Teachers’ Institute at the county-seat; and there distinguished guests of the superintendent taught the teachers fractions and spelling and other mysteries,—white teachers in the morning, Negroes at night. A picnic now and then, and a supper, and the rough world was softened by laughter and song. I remember how— But I wander.

First, there was a Teachers’ Institute at the county seat. There, the superintendent’s distinguished guests taught the teachers fractions, spelling, and other mysteries. White teachers attended in the morning, Black teachers at night. There was a picnic now and then, and a supper, and laughter and song softened the harsh world. I remember how... But I’m wandering.

There came a day when all the teachers left the Institute and began the hunt for schools. I learn from hearsay (for my mother was mortally afraid of firearms) that the hunting of ducks and bears and men is wonderfully interesting, but I am sure that the man who has never hunted a country school has something to learn of the pleasures of the chase. I see now the white, hot roads lazily rise and fall and wind before me under the burning July sun; I feel the deep weariness of heart and limb as ten, eight, six miles stretch relentlessly ahead; I feel my heart sink heavily as I hear again and again, “Got a teacher? Yes.” So I walked on and on—horses were too expensive—until I had wandered beyond railways, beyond stage lines, to a land of “varmints” and rattlesnakes, where the coming of a stranger was an event, and men lived and died in the shadow of one blue hill.

One day, all the teachers left the Institute and began hunting for schools. I have heard that hunting ducks, bears, and men is wonderfully exciting. I know only by hearsay because my mother was deathly afraid of firearms. But I am sure anyone who has never hunted for a country school has something to learn about the chase. Even now, I see the white-hot roads gently rising, falling, and winding before me under the burning July sun. I feel the deep exhaustion in my heart and limbs as ten, eight, six miles stretch relentlessly ahead. I feel my heart sink as I hear again and again, “Got a teacher? Yes.” So I walked on and on, because horses were too expensive. I wandered beyond railways and stagecoach routes, into a land of “varmints” and rattlesnakes. There, a stranger’s arrival was an event, and men lived and died in the shadow of one blue hill.

Sprinkled over hill and dale lay cabins and farmhouses, shut out from the world by the forests and the rolling hills toward the east. There I found at last a little school. Josie told me of it; she was a thin, homely girl of twenty, with a dark-brown face and thick, hard hair. I had crossed the stream at Watertown, and rested under the great willows; then I had gone to the little cabin in the lot where Josie was resting on her way to town. The gaunt farmer made me welcome, and Josie, hearing my errand, told me anxiously that they wanted a school over the hill; that but once since the war had a teacher been there; that she herself longed to learn,—and thus she ran on, talking fast and loud, with much earnestness and energy.

Cabins and farmhouses dotted the hills and valleys, cut off from the world by forests and rolling hills to the east. There I finally found a little school. Josie told me about it. She was a thin, plain-looking girl of twenty, with a dark-brown face and thick, coarse hair. I had crossed the stream at Watertown and rested under the great willows. Then I had gone to the little cabin in the lot where Josie was resting on her way to town. The thin, bony farmer welcomed me. When Josie heard why I had come, she eagerly told me that people wanted a school over the hill. Only once since the war had a teacher been there. She herself longed to learn. And so she went on, talking quickly and loudly, with great earnestness and energy.

Next morning I crossed the tall round hill, lingered to look at the blue and yellow mountains stretching toward the Carolinas, then plunged into the wood, and came out at Josie’s home. It was a dull frame cottage with four rooms, perched just below the brow of the hill, amid peach-trees. The father was a quiet, simple soul, calmly ignorant, with no touch of vulgarity. The mother was different,—strong, bustling, and energetic, with a quick, restless tongue, and an ambition to live “like folks.” There was a crowd of children. Two boys had gone away. There remained two growing girls; a shy midget of eight; John, tall, awkward, and eighteen; Jim, younger, quicker, and better looking; and two babies of indefinite age. Then there was Josie herself. She seemed to be the centre of the family: always busy at service, or at home, or berry-picking; a little nervous and inclined to scold, like her mother, yet faithful, too, like her father. She had about her a certain fineness, the shadow of an unconscious moral heroism that would willingly give all of life to make life broader, deeper, and fuller for her and hers. I saw much of this family afterwards, and grew to love them for their honest efforts to be decent and comfortable, and for their knowledge of their own ignorance. There was with them no affectation. The mother would scold the father for being so “easy”; Josie would roundly berate the boys for carelessness; and all knew that it was a hard thing to dig a living out of a rocky side-hill.

The next morning I crossed the tall, rounded hill. I paused to look at the blue and yellow mountains stretching toward the Carolinas. Then I plunged into the woods and came out at Josie’s home. It was a drab wooden cottage with four rooms, perched just below the hilltop among peach trees. The father was a quiet, simple soul, untroubled by his ignorance, without a trace of coarseness. The mother was different. She was strong, busy, and energetic, with a quick, restless tongue and an ambition to live “like folks.” There were many children. Two boys had gone away. Still at home were two growing girls and a tiny, shy eight-year-old. There were also John, tall, awkward, and eighteen, and Jim, younger, quicker, and better looking. There were two babies whose ages were hard to tell. Then there was Josie herself. She seemed to be the center of the family. She was always busy working as a servant, working at home, or picking berries. She was a little nervous and inclined to scold, like her mother, yet faithful, too, like her father. There was a certain nobility about her, a hint of moral heroism she did not recognize in herself. She would willingly devote her whole life to making life broader, deeper, and fuller for herself and her family. I saw much of this family afterward. I grew to love them for their honest efforts to live decently and comfortably, and for recognizing their own ignorance. There was no pretense in them. The mother would scold the father for being so “easy.” Josie would sternly scold the boys for their carelessness. And everyone knew how hard it was to scrape a living from a rocky hillside.

I secured the school. I remember the day I rode horseback out to the commissioner’s house with a pleasant young white fellow who wanted the white school. The road ran down the bed of a stream; the sun laughed and the water jingled, and we rode on. “Come in,” said the commissioner,—“come in. Have a seat. Yes, that certificate will do. Stay to dinner. What do you want a month?” “Oh,” thought I, “this is lucky”; but even then fell the awful shadow of the Veil, for they ate first, then I—alone.

I got the teaching job. I remember riding out to the commissioner’s house on horseback that day. With me was a pleasant young white man who wanted to teach at the white school. The road followed a streambed. The sun laughed and the water jingled as we rode on. “Come in,” said the commissioner. “Come in. Have a seat. Yes, that certificate will do. Stay for dinner. How much do you want per month?” “Oh,” I thought, “this is lucky.” But even then, the awful shadow of the Veil fell over me. They ate first, and then I ate alone.

The schoolhouse was a log hut, where Colonel Wheeler used to shelter his corn. It sat in a lot behind a rail fence and thorn bushes, near the sweetest of springs. There was an entrance where a door once was, and within, a massive rickety fireplace; great chinks between the logs served as windows. Furniture was scarce. A pale blackboard crouched in the corner. My desk was made of three boards, reinforced at critical points, and my chair, borrowed from the landlady, had to be returned every night. Seats for the children—these puzzled me much. I was haunted by a New England vision of neat little desks and chairs, but, alas! the reality was rough plank benches without backs, and at times without legs. They had the one virtue of making naps dangerous,—possibly fatal, for the floor was not to be trusted.

The schoolhouse was a log hut where Colonel Wheeler used to store his corn. It stood on a lot behind a rail fence and thorn bushes, near a spring with wonderfully sweet water. There was an opening where a door had once been, and inside stood a huge, shaky fireplace. Wide gaps between the logs served as windows. There was little furniture. A faded blackboard crouched in the corner. My desk was made of three boards, reinforced at key points. My chair was borrowed from the landlady and had to be returned every night. Finding seats for the children puzzled me greatly. I was haunted by a New England vision of neat little desks and chairs. But alas, the reality was rough plank benches without backs, and sometimes without legs. The benches had one virtue: they made naps dangerous, possibly fatal, since the floor could not be trusted.

It was a hot morning late in July when the school opened. I trembled when I heard the patter of little feet down the dusty road, and saw the growing row of dark solemn faces and bright eager eyes facing me. First came Josie and her brothers and sisters. The longing to know, to be a student in the great school at Nashville, hovered like a star above this child-woman amid her work and worry, and she studied doggedly. There were the Dowells from their farm over toward Alexandria,—Fanny, with her smooth black face and wondering eyes; Martha, brown and dull; the pretty girl-wife of a brother, and the younger brood.

The school opened on a hot morning late in July. I trembled as I heard little feet pattering down the dusty road. A growing row of dark, solemn faces and bright, eager eyes faced me. Josie and her brothers and sisters came first. Amid her work and worries, this girl on the edge of womanhood longed to learn. Her dream of studying at the great school in Nashville hovered above her like a star, and she studied doggedly. Then came the Dowells from their farm over toward Alexandria. There was Fanny, with her smooth black face and wondering eyes, and Martha, brown and dull. There were also their brother’s pretty young wife and the younger children.

There were the Burkes,—two brown and yellow lads, and a tiny haughty-eyed girl. Fat Reuben’s little chubby girl came, with golden face and old-gold hair, faithful and solemn. ’Thenie was on hand early,—a jolly, ugly, good-hearted girl, who slyly dipped snuff and looked after her little bow-legged brother. When her mother could spare her, ’Tildy came,—a midnight beauty, with starry eyes and tapering limbs; and her brother, correspondingly homely. And then the big boys,—the hulking Lawrences; the lazy Neills, unfathered sons of mother and daughter; Hickman, with a stoop in his shoulders; and the rest.

There were the Burkes, two boys with brown and yellow skin, and a tiny girl with proud eyes. Fat Reuben’s little chubby girl came, with her golden face and hair the color of old gold, faithful and solemn. ’Thenie arrived early, a cheerful, ugly, good-hearted girl who secretly used snuff and looked after her little bow-legged brother. When her mother could spare her, ’Tildy came, a dark-skinned beauty with starry eyes and slender limbs. Her brother was as plain as she was beautiful. And then came the big boys: the hulking Lawrences, and the lazy Neills, fatherless sons of a mother and daughter. There was Hickman, with his stooped shoulders, and the rest.

There they sat, nearly thirty of them, on the rough benches, their faces shading from a pale cream to a deep brown, the little feet bare and swinging, the eyes full of expectation, with here and there a twinkle of mischief, and the hands grasping Webster’s blue-black spelling-book. I loved my school, and the fine faith the children had in the wisdom of their teacher was truly marvellous. We read and spelled together, wrote a little, picked flowers, sang, and listened to stories of the world beyond the hill. At times the school would dwindle away, and I would start out. I would visit Mun Eddings, who lived in two very dirty rooms, and ask why little Lugene, whose flaming face seemed ever ablaze with the dark-red hair uncombed, was absent all last week, or why I missed so often the inimitable rags of Mack and Ed. Then the father, who worked Colonel Wheeler’s farm on shares, would tell me how the crops needed the boys; and the thin, slovenly mother, whose face was pretty when washed, assured me that Lugene must mind the baby. “But we’ll start them again next week.” When the Lawrences stopped, I knew that the doubts of the old folks about book-learning had conquered again, and so, toiling up the hill, and getting as far into the cabin as possible, I put Cicero “pro Archia Poeta” into the simplest English with local applications, and usually convinced them—for a week or so.

Nearly thirty children sat there on rough benches, their faces ranging from pale cream to deep brown. Their little feet were bare and swinging. Their eyes were full of expectation, with a mischievous twinkle here and there. Their hands held Webster’s blue-black spelling-book. I loved my school, and the children’s deep faith in their teacher’s wisdom was truly wonderful. We read and spelled together, wrote a little, picked flowers, sang, and listened to stories about the world beyond the hill. Sometimes attendance would dwindle, and I would set out to visit the children’s homes. I would visit Mun Eddings, who lived in two very dirty rooms. I would ask why little Lugene had been absent all last week. Her fiery face always seemed ablaze beneath her uncombed dark-red hair. Or I would ask why I so often missed Mack and Ed in their unmistakable rags. Then their father, who farmed Colonel Wheeler’s land for a share of the crops, would explain that the crops needed the boys. Their thin, untidy mother, whose face was pretty when washed, assured me that Lugene had to watch the baby. “But we’ll start them again next week.” When the Lawrence children stopped coming, I knew their elders’ doubts about book learning had won out again. So I struggled up the hill and went as far into their cabin as possible. I put Cicero’s “pro Archia Poeta” into the simplest English, with examples drawn from local life. I usually convinced them, for a week or so.

On Friday nights I often went home with some of the children,—sometimes to Doc Burke’s farm. He was a great, loud, thin Black, ever working, and trying to buy the seventy-five acres of hill and dale where he lived; but people said that he would surely fail, and the “white folks would get it all.” His wife was a magnificent Amazon, with saffron face and shining hair, uncorseted and barefooted, and the children were strong and beautiful. They lived in a one-and-a-half-room cabin in the hollow of the farm, near the spring. The front room was full of great fat white beds, scrupulously neat; and there were bad chromos on the walls, and a tired centre-table. In the tiny back kitchen I was often invited to “take out and help” myself to fried chicken and wheat biscuit, “meat” and corn pone, string-beans and berries. At first I used to be a little alarmed at the approach of bedtime in the one lone bedroom, but embarrassment was very deftly avoided. First, all the children nodded and slept, and were stowed away in one great pile of goose feathers; next, the mother and the father discreetly slipped away to the kitchen while I went to bed; then, blowing out the dim light, they retired in the dark. In the morning all were up and away before I thought of awaking. Across the road, where fat Reuben lived, they all went outdoors while the teacher retired, because they did not boast the luxury of a kitchen.

On Friday nights I often went home with some of the children, sometimes to Doc Burke’s farm. He was a tall, loud, thin Black man who was always working. He was trying to buy the seventy-five acres of hills and valleys where he lived. But people said he would surely fail, and the “white folks would get it all.” His wife was a magnificent, powerfully built woman, with a saffron-colored face and shining hair. She wore neither a corset nor shoes, and the children were strong and beautiful. They lived in a cabin with one full-sized room and a smaller room, in a hollow near the farm’s spring. The front room was filled with big, plump beds with spotless white bedding. Cheap color prints hung on the walls, and a worn table stood in the center. In the tiny back kitchen, I was often invited to “take out and help” myself to the food. There was fried chicken and wheat biscuits, “meat” and corn pone, green beans and berries. At first, I felt a little alarmed as bedtime approached, with only one bedroom for everyone. But the family skillfully avoided any embarrassment. First, all the children grew drowsy and fell asleep, and were tucked together into one great goose-feather bed. Next, the mother and father discreetly slipped into the kitchen while I went to bed. Then they blew out the dim light and went to bed in the dark. In the morning, everyone was up and gone before I even thought of waking. Across the road, where fat Reuben lived, everyone went outdoors while the teacher went to bed. They did not have the luxury of a kitchen.

I liked to stay with the Dowells, for they had four rooms and plenty of good country fare. Uncle Bird had a small, rough farm, all woods and hills, miles from the big road; but he was full of tales,—he preached now and then,—and with his children, berries, horses, and wheat he was happy and prosperous. Often, to keep the peace, I must go where life was less lovely; for instance, ’Tildy’s mother was incorrigibly dirty, Reuben’s larder was limited seriously, and herds of untamed insects wandered over the Eddingses’ beds. Best of all I loved to go to Josie’s, and sit on the porch, eating peaches, while the mother bustled and talked: how Josie had bought the sewing-machine; how Josie worked at service in winter, but that four dollars a month was “mighty little” wages; how Josie longed to go away to school, but that it “looked like” they never could get far enough ahead to let her; how the crops failed and the well was yet unfinished; and, finally, how “mean” some of the white folks were.

I liked staying with the Dowells because they had four rooms and plenty of good country food. Uncle Bird had a small, rough farm, all woods and hills, miles from the main road. But he was full of stories and preached now and then. With his children, berries, horses, and wheat, he was happy and prosperous. Often, to keep the peace, I had to stay where life was less pleasant. For instance, ’Tildy’s mother was hopelessly dirty, Reuben’s food supplies were seriously limited, and swarms of wild insects roamed the Eddingses’ beds. Most of all, I loved visiting Josie’s and sitting on the porch, eating peaches, while her mother bustled about and talked. She told me how Josie had bought the sewing machine. Josie worked as a domestic servant in winter, but four dollars a month was “mighty little” pay. Josie longed to go away to school, but it “looked like” the family could never save enough to let her. Her mother talked about how the crops failed and the well was still unfinished. Finally, she talked about how “mean” some of the white people were.

For two summers I lived in this little world; it was dull and humdrum. The girls looked at the hill in wistful longing, and the boys fretted and haunted Alexandria. Alexandria was “town,”—a straggling, lazy village of houses, churches, and shops, and an aristocracy of Toms, Dicks, and Captains. Cuddled on the hill to the north was the village of the colored folks, who lived in three- or four-room unpainted cottages, some neat and homelike, and some dirty. The dwellings were scattered rather aimlessly, but they centred about the twin temples of the hamlet, the Methodist, and the Hard-Shell Baptist churches. These, in turn, leaned gingerly on a sad-colored schoolhouse. Hither my little world wended its crooked way on Sunday to meet other worlds, and gossip, and wonder, and make the weekly sacrifice with frenzied priest at the altar of the “old-time religion.” Then the soft melody and mighty cadences of Negro song fluttered and thundered.

For two summers I lived in this little world. Life was dull and monotonous. The girls gazed at the hill with wistful longing, and the boys grew restless and spent their time in Alexandria. Alexandria was “town,” a sprawling, sleepy village of houses, churches, and shops, with an aristocracy of Toms, Dicks, and Captains. Nestled on the hill to the north was the Black village. Its people lived in unpainted cottages with three or four rooms, some neat and homey, and some dirty. The homes were scattered almost at random, but clustered around the village’s twin temples, the Methodist and Hard-Shell Baptist churches. These churches, in turn, leaned cautiously against a schoolhouse painted a gloomy color. On Sundays, my little world followed its winding path here to meet other worlds, gossip, and wonder. Here, too, they made their weekly sacrifice with a frenzied preacher at the altar of the “old-time religion.” Then the gentle melodies and powerful rhythms of Black song fluttered and thundered.

I have called my tiny community a world, and so its isolation made it; and yet there was among us but a half-awakened common consciousness, sprung from common joy and grief, at burial, birth, or wedding; from a common hardship in poverty, poor land, and low wages; and, above all, from the sight of the Veil that hung between us and Opportunity. All this caused us to think some thoughts together; but these, when ripe for speech, were spoken in various languages. Those whose eyes twenty-five and more years before had seen “the glory of the coming of the Lord,” saw in every present hindrance or help a dark fatalism bound to bring all things right in His own good time. The mass of those to whom slavery was a dim recollection of childhood found the world a puzzling thing: it asked little of them, and they answered with little, and yet it ridiculed their offering. Such a paradox they could not understand, and therefore sank into listless indifference, or shiftlessness, or reckless bravado. There were, however, some—such as Josie, Jim, and Ben—to whom War, Hell, and Slavery were but childhood tales, whose young appetites had been whetted to an edge by school and story and half-awakened thought. Ill could they be content, born without and beyond the World. And their weak wings beat against their barriers,—barriers of caste, of youth, of life; at last, in dangerous moments, against everything that opposed even a whim.

I have called my tiny community a world, and its isolation made it one. Yet we shared only a half-awakened sense of belonging together. This feeling grew from shared joy and grief at burials, births, and weddings. It grew from our shared hardships of poverty, poor land, and low wages. Above all, it grew from seeing the Veil that hung between us and Opportunity. All these experiences led us to think some thoughts together. But when those thoughts were ready to be spoken, we expressed them in different languages. Some had seen “the glory of the coming of the Lord” twenty-five or more years earlier. They saw every present obstacle or helping hand through a dark belief in fate. Everything was bound to come right in God's own good time. Most people who remembered slavery only dimly from childhood found the world puzzling. The world asked little of them, and they gave little in return. Yet the world mocked what they offered. They could not understand this contradiction. So they sank into dull indifference, aimlessness, or reckless displays of courage. But there were some, such as Josie, Jim, and Ben, who knew War, Hell, and Slavery only through childhood tales. School, stories, and half-awakened thought had sharpened their youthful hunger. Born outside and beyond the World, they could hardly be content. Their weak wings beat against the barriers that held them back: barriers of caste, youth, and life. Finally, in dangerous moments, they beat against anything that stood in the way of even a passing wish.

The ten years that follow youth, the years when first the realization comes that life is leading somewhere,—these were the years that passed after I left my little school. When they were past, I came by chance once more to the walls of Fisk University, to the halls of the chapel of melody. As I lingered there in the joy and pain of meeting old school-friends, there swept over me a sudden longing to pass again beyond the blue hill, and to see the homes and the school of other days, and to learn how life had gone with my school-children; and I went.

The ten years after youth are when we first realize that life is leading somewhere. Those were the years that passed after I left my little school. When those years were over, I happened to return to Fisk University, to the halls of its music-filled chapel. I lingered there, feeling the joy and pain of meeting old school friends. Suddenly, I longed to go beyond the blue hill again and see the homes and school I once knew. I wanted to learn how life had gone for my former pupils. And I went.

Josie was dead, and the gray-haired mother said simply, “We’ve had a heap of trouble since you’ve been away.” I had feared for Jim. With a cultured parentage and a social caste to uphold him, he might have made a venturesome merchant or a West Point cadet. But here he was, angry with life and reckless; and when Fanner Durham charged him with stealing wheat, the old man had to ride fast to escape the stones which the furious fool hurled after him. They told Jim to run away; but he would not run, and the constable came that afternoon. It grieved Josie, and great awkward John walked nine miles every day to see his little brother through the bars of Lebanon jail. At last the two came back together in the dark night. The mother cooked supper, and Josie emptied her purse, and the boys stole away. Josie grew thin and silent, yet worked the more. The hill became steep for the quiet old father, and with the boys away there was little to do in the valley. Josie helped them to sell the old farm, and they moved nearer town. Brother Dennis, the carpenter, built a new house with six rooms; Josie toiled a year in Nashville, and brought back ninety dollars to furnish the house and change it to a home.

Josie was dead, and her gray-haired mother said simply, “We’ve had a lot of trouble since you’ve been away.” I had feared for Jim. With educated, cultured parents and a social class to support him, he might have become an adventurous merchant. Or he might have become a West Point cadet. But here he was, angry at life and reckless. When Fanner Durham accused him of stealing wheat, the old man had to ride away fast. The furious fool threw stones after him. They told Jim to run away, but he refused, and the constable came that afternoon. Jim’s arrest grieved Josie. Big, awkward John walked nine miles every day to see his little brother through the bars of Lebanon jail. At last, the two brothers came back together in the dark of night. Their mother cooked supper, Josie emptied her purse, and the boys slipped away. Josie grew thin and quiet, yet worked even harder. The hill grew too steep for her quiet old father, and with the boys away, there was little to do in the valley. Josie helped her parents sell the old farm, and they moved closer to town. Brother Dennis, the carpenter, built a new house with six rooms. Josie worked hard for a year in Nashville. She brought back ninety dollars to furnish the house and turn it into a home.

When the spring came, and the birds twittered, and the stream ran proud and full, little sister Lizzie, bold and thoughtless, flushed with the passion of youth, bestowed herself on the tempter, and brought home a nameless child. Josie shivered and worked on, with the vision of schooldays all fled, with a face wan and tired,—worked until, on a summer’s day, some one married another; then Josie crept to her mother like a hurt child, and slept—and sleeps.

Spring came, the birds chirped, and the stream ran high and full. Little sister Lizzie was bold and thoughtless, swept up in the passion of youth. She gave herself to the man who tempted her and brought home a child without a father’s name. Josie shivered and kept working, all her dreams of schooldays gone, her face pale and tired. She worked until, one summer day, someone married someone else. Then Josie crept to her mother like a hurt child and fell asleep. She sleeps still.

I paused to scent the breeze as I entered the valley. The Lawrences have gone,—father and son forever,—and the other son lazily digs in the earth to live. A new young widow rents out their cabin to fat Reuben. Reuben is a Baptist preacher now, but I fear as lazy as ever, though his cabin has three rooms; and little Ella has grown into a bouncing woman, and is ploughing corn on the hot hillside. There are babies a-plenty, and one half-witted girl. Across the valley is a house I did not know before, and there I found, rocking one baby and expecting another, one of my schoolgirls, a daughter of Uncle Bird Dowell. She looked somewhat worried with her new duties, but soon bristled into pride over her neat cabin and the tale of her thrifty husband, and the horse and cow, and the farm they were planning to buy.

I paused to smell the breeze as I entered the valley. The Lawrences are gone, father and son forever, and the other son lazily works the soil for a living. A young woman, newly widowed, rents out their cabin to fat Reuben. Reuben is a Baptist preacher now, but I fear he is as lazy as ever, though his cabin has three rooms. And little Ella has grown into a lively, strong woman and is plowing corn on the hot hillside. There are plenty of babies and one girl with an intellectual disability. Across the valley stands a house I had not seen before. There I found one of my former schoolgirls, a daughter of Uncle Bird Dowell, rocking one baby and expecting another. She looked somewhat worried by her new duties. But she soon swelled with pride over her neat cabin and her account of her hardworking, careful husband. She also spoke proudly of their horse and cow, and the farm they were planning to buy.

My log schoolhouse was gone. In its place stood Progress; and Progress, I understand, is necessarily ugly. The crazy foundation stones still marked the former site of my poor little cabin, and not far away, on six weary boulders, perched a jaunty board house, perhaps twenty by thirty feet, with three windows and a door that locked. Some of the window-glass was broken, and part of an old iron stove lay mournfully under the house. I peeped through the window half reverently, and found things that were more familiar. The blackboard had grown by about two feet, and the seats were still without backs. The county owns the lot now, I hear, and every year there is a session of school. As I sat by the spring and looked on the Old and the New I felt glad, very glad, and yet—

My log schoolhouse was gone. In its place stood Progress. And Progress, as I understand it, is necessarily ugly. The crooked foundation stones still marked the spot where my poor little cabin had stood. Not far away, a jaunty wooden building sat perched on six weary boulders. The building was perhaps twenty by thirty feet, with three windows and a door that locked. Some of the window glass was broken. Part of an old iron stove lay mournfully beneath the building. I peeked through the window, almost reverently, and found more familiar things inside. The blackboard had grown by about two feet, and the seats still had no backs. The county owns the land now, I hear, and school is held every year. As I sat by the spring and looked at the Old and the New, I felt glad, very glad. And yet...

After two long drinks I started on. There was the great double log-house on the corner. I remembered the broken, blighted family that used to live there. The strong, hard face of the mother, with its wilderness of hair, rose before me. She had driven her husband away, and while I taught school a strange man lived there, big and jovial, and people talked. I felt sure that Ben and ’Tildy would come to naught from such a home. But this is an odd world; for Ben is a busy farmer in Smith County, “doing well, too,” they say, and he had cared for little ’Tildy until last spring, when a lover married her. A hard life the lad had led, toiling for meat, and laughed at because he was homely and crooked. There was Sam Carlon, an impudent old skinflint, who had definite notions about “niggers,” and hired Ben a summer and would not pay him. Then the hungry boy gathered his sacks together, and in broad daylight went into Carlon’s corn; and when the hard-fisted farmer set upon him, the angry boy flew at him like a beast. Doc Burke saved a murder and a lynching that day.

After two long drinks, I went on. There was the large double log house on the corner. I remembered the broken, troubled family who used to live there. I pictured the mother’s strong, hard face and wild mass of hair. She had driven her husband away. While I taught school, an unfamiliar man lived there, big and cheerful, and people gossiped. I felt sure Ben and ’Tildy would come to nothing growing up in such a home. But the world is strange. Ben is now a busy farmer in Smith County, “doing well, too,” people say. He had cared for little ’Tildy until last spring, when a man who loved her married her. The boy had led a hard life, working for food and mocked for being ugly and crooked. There was Sam Carlon, a rude old miser who had firm opinions about “niggers.” He hired Ben for a summer and would not pay him. Then the hungry boy gathered his sacks and went into Carlon’s cornfield in broad daylight. When the hard-fisted farmer attacked him, the angry boy lunged at him like a wild animal. Doc Burke prevented a murder and a lynching that day.

The story reminded me again of the Burkes, and an impatience seized me to know who won in the battle, Doc or the seventy-five acres. For it is a hard thing to make a farm out of nothing, even in fifteen years. So I hurried on, thinking of the Burkes. They used to have a certain magnificent barbarism about them that I liked. They were never vulgar, never immoral, but rather rough and primitive, with an unconventionality that spent itself in loud guffaws, slaps on the back, and naps in the corner. I hurried by the cottage of the misborn Neill boys. It was empty, and they were grown into fat, lazy farm-hands. I saw the home of the Hickmans, but Albert, with his stooping shoulders, had passed from the world. Then I came to the Burkes’ gate and peered through; the enclosure looked rough and untrimmed, and yet there were the same fences around the old farm save to the left, where lay twenty-five other acres. And lo! the cabin in the hollow had climbed the hill and swollen to a half-finished six-room cottage.

The story reminded me again of the Burkes. I grew impatient to know who had won the battle, Doc or the seventy-five acres. For making a farm out of nothing is hard, even in fifteen years. So I hurried on, thinking of the Burkes. They used to have a certain magnificent wildness about them that I liked. They were never vulgar or immoral, but rather rough and primitive. Their disregard for convention showed itself in loud laughter, slaps on the back, and naps in the corner. I hurried past the cottage of the misborn Neill boys. The cottage was empty, and the boys had grown into fat, lazy farmhands. I saw the Hickmans’ home, but Albert, with his stooping shoulders, had died. Then I came to the Burkes’ gate and peered through. The yard looked rough and overgrown. Yet the same fences still surrounded the old farm, except on the left, where another twenty-five acres lay. And look! The cabin in the hollow had climbed the hill and grown into a half-finished six-room cottage.

The Burkes held a hundred acres, but they were still in debt. Indeed, the gaunt father who toiled night and day would scarcely be happy out of debt, being so used to it. Some day he must stop, for his massive frame is showing decline. The mother wore shoes, but the lion-like physique of other days was broken. The children had grown up. Rob, the image of his father, was loud and rough with laughter. Birdie, my school baby of six, had grown to a picture of maiden beauty, tall and tawny. “Edgar is gone,” said the mother, with head half bowed,—“gone to work in Nashville; he and his father couldn’t agree.”

The Burkes owned a hundred acres, but they were still in debt. In fact, the thin, worn father worked night and day and was so used to debt he would hardly be happy without it. Someday he would have to stop, because his massive body was beginning to weaken. The mother wore shoes, but her once powerful, lion-like body had broken down. The children had grown up. Rob looked just like his father and laughed loudly and roughly. Birdie, my little six-year-old pupil, had grown into a beautiful young woman, tall and golden-brown. “Edgar is gone,” said the mother, her head partly bowed. “Gone to work in Nashville. He and his father couldn’t agree.”

Little Doc, the boy born since the time of my school, took me horseback down the creek next morning toward Farmer Dowell’s. The road and the stream were battling for mastery, and the stream had the better of it. We splashed and waded, and the merry boy, perched behind me, chattered and laughed. He showed me where Simon Thompson had bought a bit of ground and a home; but his daughter Lana, a plump, brown, slow girl, was not there. She had married a man and a farm twenty miles away. We wound on down the stream till we came to a gate that I did not recognize, but the boy insisted that it was “Uncle Bird’s.” The farm was fat with the growing crop. In that little valley was a strange stillness as I rode up; for death and marriage had stolen youth and left age and childhood there. We sat and talked that night after the chores were done. Uncle Bird was grayer, and his eyes did not see so well, but he was still jovial. We talked of the acres bought,—one hundred and twenty-five,—of the new guest-chamber added, of Martha’s marrying. Then we talked of death: Fanny and Fred were gone; a shadow hung over the other daughter, and when it lifted she was to go to Nashville to school. At last we spoke of the neighbors, and as night fell, Uncle Bird told me how, on a night like that, ’Thenie came wandering back to her home over yonder, to escape the blows of her husband. And next morning she died in the home that her little bow-legged brother, working and saving, had bought for their widowed mother.

Little Doc, who was born after my time teaching at the school, took me riding the next morning. We followed the creek toward Farmer Dowell’s. The road and the stream were fighting for control, and the stream was winning. We splashed and waded along, and the cheerful boy, perched behind me, chattered and laughed. He showed me where Simon Thompson had bought a small plot of land and a home. But Simon’s daughter Lana, a plump, brown, slow girl, was not there. She had married a man with a farm twenty miles away. We followed the winding stream until we reached a gate I did not recognize. But the boy insisted that the place was “Uncle Bird’s.” The farm was rich with growing crops. A strange stillness filled the little valley as I rode up. Death and marriage had taken away the young people, leaving only the old and the children. We sat and talked that night after the chores were done. Uncle Bird was grayer, and his eyesight was worse, but he was still cheerful. We talked about the 125 acres he had bought, the new guest room he had added, and Martha’s marriage. Then we talked about death. Fanny and Fred were gone. A shadow hung over the other daughter, and when the shadow lifted, she would go to school in Nashville. At last we spoke of the neighbors. As night fell, Uncle Bird told me how ’Thenie had wandered back to her home nearby on a night like that. She had come to escape her husband’s blows. The next morning she died in the home her little bow-legged brother had bought for their widowed mother. He had worked and saved to buy the home.

My journey was done, and behind me lay hill and dale, and Life and Death. How shall man measure Progress there where the dark-faced Josie lies? How many heartfuls of sorrow shall balance a bushel of wheat? How hard a thing is life to the lowly, and yet how human and real! And all this life and love and strife and failure,—is it the twilight of nightfall or the flush of some faint-dawning day?

My journey was over. Behind me lay hills and valleys, and Life and Death. How can anyone measure Progress where dark-skinned Josie lies? How many hearts full of sorrow can balance a bushel of wheat? How hard life is for the poor, and yet how human and real! And all this life and love and struggle and failure, is it the twilight of nightfall? Or is it the glow of some faintly dawning day?

Thus sadly musing, I rode to Nashville in the Jim Crow car.

Lost in these sad thoughts, I rode to Nashville in the segregated Jim Crow train car.