the property of your whiter brother. You black his shoes, tend upon
him at table, and sleep on the floor in his room, to give him water
if he is thirsty in the night. You see him learning to read, and you
hear your father read wonderful things from the newspapers. Very
naturally, you want to read, too. You ask your brother to teach you
the letters. He gives you a kick, calls you a "damned nig," and
informs his father, who orders you to be flogged for insolence.
Alone on the hard floor at night, still smarting from your blows,
you ponder over the great mystery of knowledge and wonder why it
would do _you_ any more harm than it does your brother. Henceforth,
all scraps of newspapers you can find are carefully laid by.
Helplessly you pore over them, at stolen moments, as if you expected
some miracle would reveal the meaning of those printed signs.
Cunning comes to your aid. It is the only weapon of the weak against
the strong. When you see white boys playing in the street, you trace
a letter in the sand, and say, "My young master calls that B." "That
ain't B, you dammed nigger. That's A"! they shout. Now you know what
shape is A; and diligently you hunt it out wherever it is to be
found on your scraps of newspaper. By slow degrees you toil on, in
similar ways, through all the alphabet. No student of Greek or
Hebrew ever deserved so much praise for ingenuity and diligence. But
the years pass on, and still you cannot read. Your master-brother
now and then gives you a copper. You hoard them, and buy a primer;
screening yourself from suspicion, by telling the bookseller that
your master wants it for his sister's little boy. You find the
picture of a cat, with three letters by its side; and now you know
how cat is spelt. Elated with your wonderful discovery, you are
eager to catch a minute to study your primer. Too eager, alas! for
your mistress catches you absorbed in it, and your little book is
promptly burned. You are sent to be flogged, and your lacerated back