I had known Smith for years, and there were times when Smith was out of
his head for weeks. Two years ago I made an effort to have him put in an
asylum, but the white people were trying to fasten the murder of a young
colored girl upon him, and would not listen. For days before the murder
of the little Vance girl, Smith was out of his head and dangerous. He
had just undergone an attack of delirium tremens and was in no condition
to be allowed at large. He realized his condition, for I spoke with him
not three weeks ago, and in answer to my exhortations, he promised to
reform. The next time I saw him was on the day of his execution.

"Drink did it! drink did it," he sobbed. Then bowing his face in his
hands, he asked: "Is it true, did I kill her? Oh, my God, my God!" For a
moment he seemed to forget the awful fate that awaited him, and his body
swayed to and fro with grief. Some one seized me by the shoulder and
hurled me back, and Smith fell writhing to the ground in terror as four
men seized his arms to drag him to the float on which he was to be
exhibited before he was finally burned at the stake.

I followed the procession and wept aloud as I saw little children of my
own race follow the unfortunate man and taunt him with jeers. Even at
the stake, children of both sexes and colors gathered in groups, and
when the father of the murdered child raised the hissing iron with which
he was about to torture the helpless victim, the children became as
frantic as the grown people and struggled forward to obtain places of
advantage.

It was terrible. One little tot scarcely older than little Myrtle Vance
clapped her baby hands as her father held her on his shoulders above the
heads of the people.