The Use and Need of the Life of Carrie A. Nation [9]
found in any other race on earth. No one can
sing a child to sleep so soothingly as a negro nurse. After I left Texas
and went to Medicine Lodge, Kansas, when I had a headache or was
otherwise sick, I would wish for the attendance around my bed of one of
the old-fashioned colored women, who would rub me with their rough
plump hands and call me "Honey Chile," would bathe my feet and tuck
the cover around me and sit by me, holding my hand, waiting until I
fell asleep. I owe much to the colored people and never want to live
where there are none of the negro race. I would feel lonesome without
them. After I came to Medicine Lodge, I did not see any for some
time. One day, while looking out, I saw one walking up the street
toward the house. I ran to the kitchen, cut an apple pie, and ran out
and said: "Here, Uncle, is a piece of pie." He was gray-headed, one of
the old slaves. He seemed so glad to see my friendly face and took the
pie with a happy courtesy. I watched for his return, as he came in on
the train, and was going out. At last he came. I asked him in the
kitchen, fixed a meal for him, and waited on him myself. Before eating,
he folded his hands, closed his eyes, with his face toward heaven, thanked
God for the meal, as I had often seen them do in slave time. As a
race, the negroes have not the characteristics of treachery. They are
faithful and grateful.
In my hotel experience, I would often ask Fannie, my cook: "What
kind of a man is that?" Fannie would say: "Don't trust him too far
Mrs. Nation, he steps too light." When a child my playmates were a
lot of colored children. Betsy came to the table with the children and
ate with us. But the sweetest food was that left in the skillets, both
black and white children would go around the house, sit down and "sop"
the gravy with the biscuits the cooks would give us. I was fond of
hearing ghost stories and would, without the knowledge of my mother,
stay in the cabin late at night listening to the men and women telling
their "experiences." The men would be making ax handles and beating
the husk off of the corn in a large wooden hopper with a maul. The
women would be spinning with the little wheel, sewing, knitting and
combing their children's heads. I would listen until my teeth would
chatter with fright, and would shiver more and more, as they would tell
of the sights in grave-yards, and the spirits of tyrannical masters, walking
at night, with their chains clanking and the, sights of hell, where
some would be on gridirons, some hung up to baste and the
devil with his pitchfork would toss the poor creatures hither
and thither. They would say: "Carry, you must go to the house,"
and I would not go with one, but have two, one on each side of me. I
remember seeing the negro men laugh at me, but the women would shake
their heads and say: "You better quit skeering that chile." But there
was one pleasure above all the rest, it was to hear any one tell "tales."
When my mother would have a visitor, very frequently the lady would
bring a nurse to care for one child or children, she might bring with her.
Oh, how pleased the black and white children would be to see such visitors.
We would gather around and in every way made our pleasure
known. Would give them doll-rags, nuts, or apples, and in many ways
express our delight at having them come. As soon as they were made
comfortable, the next thing was: "Tell us a tale." And seating ourselves
around on the floor, or in a close group, we would be all attention.
Of course there would be some raw heads and bloody bones, but not so
much as the stories told at night in the cabins.
One of the prettiest stories I ever heard, and never tired of hearing,
that taught me a great moral, was about two girls the children of a
couple who were hard working people. One of the girls was named
Sarah, the other Mary. Sarah was a very pretty girl with curls. Mary
was rather ugly and had straight hair. Curls in my childhood days were
something very much sought for. Although Sarah was pretty in the
sing a child to sleep so soothingly as a negro nurse. After I left Texas
and went to Medicine Lodge, Kansas, when I had a headache or was
otherwise sick, I would wish for the attendance around my bed of one of
the old-fashioned colored women, who would rub me with their rough
plump hands and call me "Honey Chile," would bathe my feet and tuck
the cover around me and sit by me, holding my hand, waiting until I
fell asleep. I owe much to the colored people and never want to live
where there are none of the negro race. I would feel lonesome without
them. After I came to Medicine Lodge, I did not see any for some
time. One day, while looking out, I saw one walking up the street
toward the house. I ran to the kitchen, cut an apple pie, and ran out
and said: "Here, Uncle, is a piece of pie." He was gray-headed, one of
the old slaves. He seemed so glad to see my friendly face and took the
pie with a happy courtesy. I watched for his return, as he came in on
the train, and was going out. At last he came. I asked him in the
kitchen, fixed a meal for him, and waited on him myself. Before eating,
he folded his hands, closed his eyes, with his face toward heaven, thanked
God for the meal, as I had often seen them do in slave time. As a
race, the negroes have not the characteristics of treachery. They are
faithful and grateful.
In my hotel experience, I would often ask Fannie, my cook: "What
kind of a man is that?" Fannie would say: "Don't trust him too far
Mrs. Nation, he steps too light." When a child my playmates were a
lot of colored children. Betsy came to the table with the children and
ate with us. But the sweetest food was that left in the skillets, both
black and white children would go around the house, sit down and "sop"
the gravy with the biscuits the cooks would give us. I was fond of
hearing ghost stories and would, without the knowledge of my mother,
stay in the cabin late at night listening to the men and women telling
their "experiences." The men would be making ax handles and beating
the husk off of the corn in a large wooden hopper with a maul. The
women would be spinning with the little wheel, sewing, knitting and
combing their children's heads. I would listen until my teeth would
chatter with fright, and would shiver more and more, as they would tell
of the sights in grave-yards, and the spirits of tyrannical masters, walking
at night, with their chains clanking and the, sights of hell, where
some would be on gridirons, some hung up to baste and the
devil with his pitchfork would toss the poor creatures hither
and thither. They would say: "Carry, you must go to the house,"
and I would not go with one, but have two, one on each side of me. I
remember seeing the negro men laugh at me, but the women would shake
their heads and say: "You better quit skeering that chile." But there
was one pleasure above all the rest, it was to hear any one tell "tales."
When my mother would have a visitor, very frequently the lady would
bring a nurse to care for one child or children, she might bring with her.
Oh, how pleased the black and white children would be to see such visitors.
We would gather around and in every way made our pleasure
known. Would give them doll-rags, nuts, or apples, and in many ways
express our delight at having them come. As soon as they were made
comfortable, the next thing was: "Tell us a tale." And seating ourselves
around on the floor, or in a close group, we would be all attention.
Of course there would be some raw heads and bloody bones, but not so
much as the stories told at night in the cabins.
One of the prettiest stories I ever heard, and never tired of hearing,
that taught me a great moral, was about two girls the children of a
couple who were hard working people. One of the girls was named
Sarah, the other Mary. Sarah was a very pretty girl with curls. Mary
was rather ugly and had straight hair. Curls in my childhood days were
something very much sought for. Although Sarah was pretty in the