The Failure
of Cunningham
By Isabella M. Andrew's
J*
Reprinted fr' i The Youth's Companion by permission
gran'ed to the Hamp'in Institute.
J*
also
THE STORY OF GOOD BIRD AND
BAD CAT
An Indian boy's first composition after
arrival at the-Ha^-' .1 Institute, Hampton, Va.
Printed for Circulation by
THE ARMS'; RONG ASSOCIATION of Philadelphia
THIS STORY
Reprinted through the courtesy of its author and the Youth's Com¬
panion for the friends of Hampton's work, based upon actual fact in
the lives of Hampton students, is given as a representative of the many
that might be told of failures grown to beautiful successes through
earnest steadfastness of purpose.
Many of those who go out from the School with so little that even
their best friends feel that they are not by any means prepared for the
great struggle before them, do, through the grace of God and the love
of their fellows, form little centres of light and influence in some of
the darkest corners—corners into which less rude and ignorant and
simple workers could hardly penetrate. Thus Hampton's "failures"
may prove God's successes.
The pailure of Qunningham
Cunningham did not mean to be funny. One look at the solemnity of
his coal-black face and the imperturbable dignity of his carriage
would have assured you that; but when Cunningham heard diet the
government paid the expenses of the Indians at Hampton Institute,
where the colored students had to work their own way, and came with a
bow and arrow over his shoulder, asking if Indians were not admitted
free, we looked at his unmistakably African personality, and lis tened to
his unmirukably African speech, and thought Cunningham very funny
indeed.
Cunningham stayed : but he put his bow and arrow away, and
apparently forgot that he had ever been an Indian. At the same time
he gave up his longings for luxurious ease, and chose the blacksmith's
trade. All ony long he worked at it, and when he presented himself at
half-past seven o'clock in the night-school, there was no other such
spotless young person in the building.
For two years he worked in the night-school. At the end of that
period it became necessary to 'ell him, for the fifth time, that it would
be impossible to promote him this time. Cunningham sighed,
"I ain't nevah ben p'omoted sence I come to clis yeah school,
miss." he said plaintively, "But cf yo* say it's bes' I reckon it must
be. When does yo' think I kin begin toe instruc* othahs r I feel t^e
spirit ob desire possessin' me toe go out an' uplif my own people."
It was hard to know what to say to Cunningham just then. To
share in the work of elevating his own people had become his one
ambition : but could we send out the blind to lead the blind ? We were
beginning to consider him one of the hopeless cases. He was perfectly
faithful, patient and eager to learn, but apparently unable to grasp
anything more complicated than the first four principles in arithmetic
and the simplest reading and writing. It was hard to tell him that it
was best for him to take up again the old struggle with long division,
and trust his career as a teacher to the future.
He went back into the beginning class with pathetic patience.
The development of a worthy purpose had greatly changed him since
the time when he first came to Hampton with the idea of being taken
care of by the government. There was no shirk in Cunningham now.
At the close of the next term, when we were deliberating whether
we could stretch a point, and promote him, a letter came to the night-
school principal, saying that his father had died, and his mother, with
her children, was destitute. Cunningham must come home and take
care of them.
It was a cruel blow to the boy. Education had come to mean to
him everything worth striving for. Must he put it aside, and take up
again the wretched life he had outgrown ?
He turned his back on Hampton with a heavy heart, and went
home. I knew the place, and many others like it through the South.
It was just a cluster of tumble-down Negro cabins a few miles back
from the railroad. The men were too lazy to work the little farms that
would have amply repaid the scantiest care ; the women too shiftless
to do anything but smoke and gossip ; the children too numerous to
count, growing up in absolute ignorance and squalor. Poor Cun¬
ningham !
Once he wrote to say that he could probably never come back, and
to ask for a few books to work with by himself. The books were sent,
6
and then among the cares that every day and hour brought we lost
sight of him for a time.
I think it was a year after that I received this letter from him :
Baptist Hill, N. C., February 15, 1887.
Dear Miss Burt: I hope You has not forgot me. I am very well
an' hope You is the same. I rite You to say that I am getting along
verry well and hope you is too. I gets jobs at my trade over to the
Four Corners an all time I kin I teaches the Pepel here, ef You has eny
books to spare or enything at tall plese rimember Me. When 1 lef
Hampton I felt verry bad but I foun I could da something atter all.
The Lord is ben with Me and my People and show Me how to help
them rispecs to all frens. Yours truly.
Chas. F. Cunningham.
In his large slow handwriting it covered three pages of the coarse,
blue-ruled sheet. With what infinite pains it had been composed and
copied I could well guess. Had I not seen Cunningham, with his big
frame bent close to the desk and his forehead beaded with perspiration,
toil all through the half-hour's writing period to make one row of letters
on his copy paper ? So finished a production as this, made while he
was at Hampton, would have created a sensation among his teachers.
Needless to say that I answered at once with encouraging words,
and the more substantial aid of a box of books, magazines, papers, and
such tools of the trade as I could collect and Hampton could spare.
For it had many such calls. And again Cunningham was out of our
minds for a time.
In the middle of June I was obliged to take a railway journey
farther south. On my return, when within a day's ride of Hampton, I
missed a connection, and found myself stranded at a desolate junction,
with no possibility of getting away until the next day. Fortunately, I
remembered that the junction was the nearest station,to Cunningham's
home. After engaging the least objectional room in the squalid hotel
7
over the railroad station, and eating the most objectionable dinner I
ever tasted, I began to look about for n. conveyance to take me to Baptist
Hill.
The outlook was not promising. The station, painted a hideous
orange color with white trimmings, stood alone in the stubby pine
woods where hardly a squirrel track was visible. The few loungers that
always mysteriously appear t ■ watch an incoming train had disappeared
as mysteriously. No one remained about the place except the telegraph
operator, who was also ticket-agent, baggage-master and horel-keeper,
his wife, a colored maid-of-all-work, two shepherd cl a gray cat and
myself.
After two hours c.i this agreeable society, the sight of ?. steer-cart
plodding through the woods was a most welcome o:>e. I hurrie .i out to
see if the colored driver would take me to Baptist Hill.
"Ya-as" he said, meditatively, " ef yo' kin ha^.g on. I'segwl
thar."
The cart consisted of a pair of wheels with a single plank from one
hub to the other, whereon the prqprietor sat and swung his feet in dan¬
gerous neighborhood, as I thought, to the heels of his vicious-looking
steer. As there were no accommodations for freight of any kind, I
inferred that this simple vehicle was intended for pleasure-driving only.
With an inward shudder I gathered my skirts in my hand, and mounted
the narrow seat.
There with the wheel on one side and my charioteer on the other,
I could only swing my feet, clutch the plar>lc firmly with both hands,
and give my whole mind to "hanging on," art't i!ng but slightly to my
talkaih e driver.
I have a dim conviction that the road, after v.e left the woods was
lined with holly trees, which even in summer had a peculiar witchery
for me, snd that these were ailame with the sturdy trumpet-flower
clambering over them at random I saw here and there a stately mag-
8
nolia in belated glory. But for the most part that four-mile drive is a
blank as regards what I saw or heard. Like all things good and bad,
however, it had an end.
" Heah yo is," said my friend.
To my inquiries for his name he had grinned broadly and said,
" Dey mos'ly calls me Puhsimmons, miss." And with the na: Per¬
simmons I contented myself, Rowing to the difficulty of carrying on
conversation.
" Dat young Cunningham, he made right smart ob a change roun'
heah, miss. Dis yeah am de place."
We had driven into a bit of a settlement that looked as little as
possible like rny notion of what Baptist Hill was. The road appeared
to have been raked with a garden rake, so clean it was. Every poor
little hut, hanging like a bird's nest to its big outside chimney, was
gleaming with whitewash, and surrounded by a rude whitewashed
vence.
The "store" had, of course, its group of loungers, but I could ses
a man hoeing behind one of the cabins, another mending a plow a ear
by, and best of all, half-a-dozen women, smoking to be sure, but wf-sh-
?ngar>d hangiftg.out clothes in the yard of the largest cabin. One of
them answered my inquiry for Cunningham.
" Reckon he's right ober yander in de schoolbouse, miss," she
s?id, grandly, " oniess he's ben sen' fch toe Fo' Co'ners. But d; t ?.\ri
likely, cos dey ain' no chillunroun'
I had hot noticed anyS.uilding that seemed to be a schooihouse ;
but following the woman's gesture, I saw one of the whitewashed cabin-.-
distirigairfbed from the rest by a bench holding a tin basin on rae side
of the door, while on the other side hung an immense brown tow::'.
This was a good beginning,
I stepped across the road, and stood at the window, an unseen
listener. The pathetic little room went to my heart. There was not a
o
sign of furniture in it, save a.row of upturned boxes and pails for seats.
Even these had given out, and ware supplemented with a huge log
rolled in from the woods, whereon wereuncomfortabljP perched between
fifteen and twenty colored children from six to sixteen years old.
Every eye was solemnly fixed on the teacher, and the teacher was
Cunningham.
He llad tacked upon the wall a large sheet of brown paper, and
with a piece of charcoal in his hand, was equipped as with blackboard
and chalk.
" Thomas Jefferson," he said. " how much am five and three ?"
Thomas Jefferson rose and began to count with something in his
hands. Then I saw that each child was counting, and using for counters
—what but pine needles ! Thomas finished his calculations.
"Seben," he said gravely.
There were shocked faces all around at Thomas' s failure, and eager
hands went up to correct him.
" Calliny Johnson," said Cunningham, in precisely Miss Thur-
man's schoolroom manner.
" Eight," answered Calliny, in an agony of delight at being chosen.
"Toe be sho," said Cunningham.
He set down 5-1-3=8 on his paper, and turning to the abashed
Thomas, said encouragingly :
"Now coun' 'em out agin, Thomas Jefferson, an' then come an'
put it on de boa'd, an' yo' won't forgit nex' time."
I entered the doorway just then.
" How do you do, Cunningham ?" I said.
Cunningham looked as if he saw a ghost, and Call'ny began to
cry.
" My Lawd a massy, Miss Burt !" said Cunningham, the big tears
beginning to roll down his cheeks. "How evah did yo' get yeah?
My but I 'es pow'ful glad to see yo' ! Whar's—"
10
There he broke down, dropped his face into his hands, and cried
aloud. Joy at the sight of a face that was associated with the best
days of his life, a new pang for the old sacrifice, all the disappoint¬
ments and discouragements of the last two years were cried out then
and there.
The children cried because they didn't understand, and I cried
because I did. But we all pulled through, and came to clear weather
again. Cunningham dismissed his school, and I heard from him the
story of his life since he had left us, how he had built and whitewashed
his own cabin, and kept it spotlessly clean as he had been taught to
keep his room at Hampton ; how he had begun his school with only his
own four brothers and sisters, "For yo' knows, miss, I nevah thought I
could do anything, an' I doan reckon anybody did." How the little
leaven had worked I did not need to be told.
After this visit with Cunningham, I stayed to visit the school when
his bell called it together again. I heard the first class add, Ynultiply,
subtract and divide with figures below twenty, and read in words of one
syllable. I saw the second class perform written addition and subtrac¬
tion with their own brown paper and charcoal, and heard them read in
the first series of the "Nature Readers" I had sent. I saw the pupils,
with the same rude material, write from a copy painfully made by
Cunningham, and tacked to the wall, and I saw them make their
orderly exit, singing as they marched, "Dere were ten virgins when de
bridegroom come."
School over, I went home with Cunningham, and shared the supper
of corn-meal mush and molasses which his fond old mother put before
us. I even attended the evening prayer-meeting he.conducted in open
air, to which every one in the neighborhood seemed to have come.
The people gathered around to hear Cunningham's teacher talk and to
talk themselves in praise of him.
"He jus' done mek us white," said one old turbaned mammy.
11
Then Cunningham borrowed the old Irojcse in the place from one
neighbor, and i,r:r h^r a cart, which, if not luxurious, was a great
improvement upon my conveyance of the morning. Leaving |he meet¬
ing in progress we drove away in lhe-fas£ falling'twilight—-for I could
not miss my early morning train.
Cunningham slept at the "hotel" also, in order to say good-by in
the morning ; but when I came down ready to leave, I found that during
the night a sick man back in the woods had sent for- him in urgent
haste, and he had gone, leaving the farewell unsaid. So ended my
visit.
And this was our failure—our hopeless case ! It was all poor and
plain and mean and sordid. But I went back to Hampton and told my
story in humbleness of heart. I did not need to point the moral there.
Perhaps I need not here. »
Isabella M. Andrews.
An
Indian Boy's First Qomposition
So many friends of the Hampton Institute-have been amused and
n'erested by the uxicunscioys huSlior and the illustration: of the practical
Ion of ir^ny sr: Lidian jo his white neighbors, of the following that
printed .h aso fining pendant-to the prece^dlpg.jiarrathe :
jf Good Bird and Bad Cat."
uay, a little bird happy and stood on a aid
san*, a1- dav lon^||!3"®^bird doesn' t know anything about cat. She
think? nobodyjs5iear to het. But behind the near log one sly oiu cat
is w_Aching. She want to eat for supper, and she thinks about stealing
all the time. 1?he okLcat came very slow, and by and by she go after
the little bir<l, #ut sKe does not see him and sang loud again, S'>e
sang just like this,''/I am always try to do what is right; v-^en I ever
die I go to hsayfejS^.'J|uit bird said these all words, and I shall not target
the little bird what it said, and these all words it said and after uvo or
three minutes go.' died \ the cat jumped and catch and kill, eat ail up
except little things from bird, wings, ,leg§, of skin, and that bird is glad
to tiie because she is very good bird. The little bird has last time sang
and very happy was the little bird after'that. I think the old cat have
good dinner and happy j just ame as the bird was at first, time.
*3
THE
HAMPTON INSTITUTE
Was established by General Armstrong in 1868 for the freedmen of the
South. Ten years later it opened its doors to the Indian.
Now it teaches yearly 500 Negro students—each of whom earns
his board, 140 Indians, and a primary school of 350 colored children.
It gives its boys and girls over twenty different trades and indus¬
tries, preparing them for self-support and better living.
Its normal department has 800 graduates, 90 per cent, of whom
have taught.
Its Indian department has returned to the West 400 students, not
all graduates, 87 per cent, of whom have done well in schools, missions,
shops, or on their own farms.
To keep up this worlr#75,©oo must be raised each year outside the
regular sources of supply.
Any sum, no matter how small, is welcome, and may be sent to
the Principal, Hampton Institute, Hampton, Va.
The school will gladly send circulars on special facts, to any who
may desire them, and subscription cards to any who may like their aid
in raising small sums for the school.
14
The School publishes a Monthly Paper
the
"Southern Workman and Hampton
School Record"
Subscription, $1.00. Sample copies sent free upon request.
&
The Indians publish a small
Monthly called
"Talks and Thoughts"
This is entirely by themselves. Subscription, 25 cents.
THE HAMPTON INSTITUTE
$100,000 will endow the library.
500,000 will endow an industrial shop.
10,000 will yield the salary of a teacher.
5,000 will endow an alcove in the library.
1,500 will endow a scholarship.
1,000 will endow a forge or a lathe, or a carpenter' s bench.
500 will pay the salary of a teacher for one year.
70 will educate a student for one year.
30 will give a student one year's industrial training.
1.5