returning from a walk, and saw him at a little brook that ran behind
my house, washing his face and hands vehemently, and rubbing them
very hard. I then remembered that I had often seen him there doing
the same thing. "It seems to me, Harry," I said, "that your face and
hands are clean now; why do you rub your face so violently?" "I am
trying," he said, "to wash away this color. I can never be happy
till I get rid of this color. If I wash me a great deal, will it not
come off at last! The boys will not play with me; they do not love
me because I am of this color; they are all white. Why, if God is
good, did he not make me white?" And he wept bitterly. "Poor dear
little boy!" I said, and took him in my arms and pressed him to my
heart! "God is good; it is man that is cruel." The little fellow was
soothed and strengthened by my sympathy, and the counsel I gave him.

Not long after this, it was May-day, and all the children of the
village went out into the fields to gather flowers, to dress
themselves for a little dance they were to have in the evening.
Every boy and girl in the village, except Harry, was of the party.
They set off early in the morning, and they ran gayly over hills and
meadows, and hunted busily for flowers; but the spring had been
cold, and they could not find many. They were returning home,
wearied, and rather chilled and disheartened, when they saw Harry
coming out of the woods with a large bunch of flowers in his hand.
One of the boys called out to him, "Well, nigger, where did you get
all your flowers?" Harry went on and made no answer. "Come, stop,
darky," said the hard-hearted boy, "stop, and let's have your
flowers; here's three cents for them." "I don't wish to sell them,"
said Harry; "they are all for my mother." "A nigger carry flowers to
his mother! that's a good one! Come, boys, let's take them from him;
they are as much our flowers as his; he has gathered more than his