 The Cavalcade of America, starring Wano Hernandez, presented by the DuPont Company, makers of better things for better living through chemistry. Cavalcade's play tonight, The Burning Bush, is the story of a Negro who rose from a slave cabin to America's Hall of Fame, Booker T. Washington. Our drama is adapted from his autobiography Up from Slavery. Our star is Wano Hernandez, who has just scored a personal success in the Broadway production, Set My People Free. Now, The Burning Bush on the DuPont Cavalcade of America, starring Wano Hernandez as Booker T. Washington. I was born a slave, and I believe my childhood was like that of most slaves. I don't remember being cruelly treated, nor do I remember ever having time for play. I worked, cleaning the yard, taking water to the men in the field, carrying corn to the mill to be ground. But there was one task I enjoyed. Sometimes I was sent to the schoolhouse with young Missy to carry her books. Boy, what you doing hanging around that schoolhouse door? Just looking. Look at what? I wish I could go to school. You hush your mouth, boy. Schoolhouse learning ain't for you, hush your mouth. So I learned to hush my mouth. But I listened, and I can remember a great deal of talk about a war going on, and the grown-up slaves used to whisper that they were fighting about us. Then, early one morning, Booker, Booker Child, wake up. Yeah? We'll get some breakfast by and by. We're gonna leave this place on a right path, son of. What? All the time, askin' why. Talkin' and askin' how come? We got work to do, Child. If we run away, they'll catch us more. We're gonna catch nobody, no more, Child. Soldier man come last night and say, colored folks are free now. Old Mrs. K, make her stay here no more. My mother was telling the truth. She didn't know why she was going away, or where. She had no understanding of her freedom, nor did most of us. I knew no one of my race, then, who could read or write. And yet, all these people, my people, were called upon now to assume all the responsibilities of the modern world. But let no one get the notion that the slaves didn't walk freedom. I never saw one who wouldn't give his life to be free. The place we went to was a little town in West Virginia called Maldon. I lived there for several years, working in the mines. And then, one day, I applied for work at the home of Mrs. Ruffner, a Yankee lady. Well, boy, you're certainly a sight, I must say. I don't suppose it's your fault. You've been working in the coal mines, haven't you? Yes, and the soft furnace. You're working with the easy here. There'll be the cleaning to help with, and the yard, and coal for the grapes, and the cows. Oh, uh... What's the matter, boy? I thought, ma'am, maybe I could get some time to school. Well, did I say you wouldn't? If I hire you, that is. You get your work done and do it well, and always be honest with me and tell the truth, and we'll see about school. What's your name, boy? Booker, ma'am. Booker? That's an odd name. Booker what? You'll need two names, Booker, if you're going to school. A Christian name and a family name. My name? What was my name? Or rather, what was my other name? Free people needed two names, it seems. But colored people in the South had been known simply as Tom, or Betsy, or Booker. Sometimes a colored man would take the name of his white owner, and he'd be Tom Hatcher, or maybe Hatcher's Tom. But that didn't seem right now. I had to choose a name for myself. I thought desperately as I stood there before Mrs. Ruffner, and suddenly I said, Booker? Washington, ma'am. Booker T. Washington. I learned a lot of things from Mrs. Ruffner besides my name, to work with my hands to dress neatly and to use a toothbrush. But in the infrequent hours of school, the nights of study in my attic room, I learned not much. So in the fall of 1872, I made my way somehow over the 500 or so miles from Malden to Hampton, Virginia, and presented myself at the Hampton Institute, a newly founded school for Negroes. Hello there. My name is Ernest Weston. Hello, I'm Booker Washington. Are you enrolling here this fall? Well, I don't know. I'm waiting to see General Armstrong. I haven't seen him myself yet, but I'm sure it's going to be all right for me. I had my tuition money plus a certain amount in excess for extra books and clothing, and I already have something of a foundation in Latin and Greek. I'm finding Latin very enjoyable, aren't you? Well, I haven't studied it. Haven't you? Oh, well, a Greek alarm. I'm Ms. Calorium. What? That's Latin. I'm taking it, and you will be taking it up next year. I'm very interested in mathematics, too. I had quite a lot of tutoring in it. A gentleman from Baltimore. Booker Washington. Yes, ma'am? General Armstrong is ready to see you now. Hampton Institute was headed by General Samuel C. Armstrong, the noblest, rarest human being it's ever been my privilege to meet. Booker T. Washington. Yes, sir? Sit down. Thank you. Washington, you bear one of the greatest, perhaps the greatest name our country has known. What do you want to do with it? What do you want to do with your life? Well, I want to learn, sir. Learn what? Well, what do you want to learn, Booker? Well, sir, I thought, well, I'm not sure. But, well, Latin, Greek, and algebra, and calculus, and astronomy, and medicine, and jurisprudence. Isn't that so? Well, is it wrong to want to learn those things, sir? Not wrong, Washington. But I'm wondering if Hampton is the place for you. I don't know. Oh, please, sir, please, sir. I've worked, and I saved my money. And my mother worked, too. And my brother is helping me out with what he makes in the coal mine. And the day before, I left almost every one of my friends. They came around to help me as much as they could with a nickel or a quarter or a handkerchief because they wanted to be proud of me. I thought about it, and I've dreamed about it for three years now, Mr. General Armstrong. And now you tell me, now you say you don't want me. No, Booker. That's not what I'd say. General Armstrong, I can't find a- oh, I beg your pardon. All right, Miss Mackie. What is it? I hate to bother you, but will you see classes are scheduled to begin this afternoon, and the recitation rooms are filthy? There's so much to do, and I can't find anyone to help clean them. I'm very sorry to bother you, but- All right, Miss Mackie. I expect we'll handle the situation somehow. I'll be good. Thank you, sir. General Armstrong, I'll do the sweeping for you. I worked for a lady back in Maldon, sir. I can sweep fine. You didn't work hard and come all this way to Hampton just to take a broom in your hands again, did you? No, sir. Well, then why did you make your offer? You think for one minute that you'll curry favor with me? Oh, no, no, no, no, sir. I figure if I want to learn and study in these classrooms, I should be willing to help keep them clean. That's a good answer, Booker. I think that's the only good answer. I want to help my people, sir. That's what I want more than anything else. But before I help anybody else, I have to learn and help myself. Isn't that right? That's right, Booker. I guess you'll do to enter this institution. You were listening to the burning bush, starring Wano Hernandez as Booker T. Washington on the cavalcade of America, sponsored by the DuPont Company, makers of better things for better living through chemistry. Booker T. Washington, the great Negro educator, telling us the story of his life. For the next nine years, Hampton Institute was very much a part of my life. I graduated, and after an interval of teaching at Maldon, General Armstrong took me on his staff. And then, one morning in 1881, the general called me into his office. Booker, I received a letter from some gentleman in Alabama who want to start a normal school for colored people in Tuskegee. They've asked me to recommend someone to take charge. Do you think you could fill the position? Aye, sir. That's right. Well, won't they want a white man, sir? I think they'll accept my recommendation. Do you think you can fill the place? Well, I'd like very much to try, sir. Had I known what faced me at Tuskegee, I should hardly have been so confident. The state legislature had granted a small appropriation for teacher salaries. But there was no provision whatsoever for securing land, buildings, or books. To build a whole school, we had only the few hundred dollars which had been raised by the citizens' committee of Tuskegee. Good morning, friend. Morning. I wonder if you could tell me how to get to the old plantation house. They said it was somewhere on this road. There's a little road leads right down there. Oh, it's so choked up. Can't hardly see it. Well, maybe you would show it to me. Yes, sir. You'd teach a man from time? Yes. I've heard there's a chance we might be able to get the place for our school. I walked out to take a look at it. No, no. That old place is far too north to India. Grandpa? Is that teacher man from town, Carrie? You act him if he'd like to eat too. Oh, good morning, Mr. Washington's the name, Miss. Carrie Samson, Mr. Washington. And this is my grandpa. Why'd be mighty glad to have you with us on this nothing but old-side meeting black-eyed bees. Well, there's nothing I'd like better, Carrie, if you're sure there's enough to spare. I'll get you some water, Mr. Washington. Oh, Grandpa, what you doing now? I'm fixing my clock. Isn't this a pretty clock, Mr. Washington? Yes, it's beautiful. But it don't run. And if it did, he wouldn't know how to tell time. You shut up. I won't shut up. A man sells in that clock for $62, Mr. Washington. All the money we had in this whirling, it won't run even for one day. It's pretty. I ain't never had a gold clock before. Gold? Hmm. Man, tell him it was gold. They say colored folks got it right to all they want. If I want a gold clock, I'm going to have it. Why you have it, don't you? But we don't have a knife and fork for Mr. Washington to eat his food with. Oh, what you fussing about? Oh, Mr. Washington, I get tired of all this talk about what we're going to get and what we're going to have. Colored folks are going to be all these fine things they're saying, ride up the road in carriages and never wear nothing but silk. But all we got is this old cabin. Where I was born and where I'll die to. See if I don't. Well, I was born in a cabin, Carrie. The cabin that would make this one look like a palace. You, Mr. Washington? That's the trouble with us all, Carrie. We want to ride in carriages, but we don't want to learn how to make the carriages, or the harness, or the clothes to wear when they ride in it. Oh, I never had a chance to learn nothing, Mr. Washington. All I ever done was pick cotton and fetched water and split wood and mistened all this big talk about what's going to happen and never does. Have you ever been to school, Carrie? No, just once. I've been thinking, I'd like to come into your school in town. Only, there's nobody to care, Grandpa. Ain't nobody need care for me. Well, maybe we'll have the school out here, Carrie. So you could go to it and tend to things here too. A school out here? I hope so. That's why I came out today to look at the old plantation house. There's a chance we can buy it. Oh, I've been over there a lot of times, Mr. Washington. When we was little, we used to play over there and make believe there was ghosts in the house. It's got three full houses, an old stable, and a hen house. Only, there's all dirty and fallen down. Well, I'd like to see it, Carrie. Would you take me there? Oh, sure, Mr. Washington. We can go right now. All right, fine. You'd be good now, Grandpa, and don't eat nothing more. I don't want nothing more. But if I work so well and mourn this old clock, I'll get it to ruin. A little later, at that same plantation house, I addressed the first assembly of the students in Tuskegee Institute. Students and friends. We've all heard the old saying, you've made your bed, now you can lie in it. Pardon me. But here at the new Tuskegee Institute, we have to make a change in that saying. We have to build our beds before we can lie in them. We have here today nothing but these few old, tumbled-down buildings, a little food on credit allowed us by our good friends in town, a little money given to us by other friends, both here and in the north, and our own will to succeed. So I'm going to ask something of you, something more than is usually a good thing. Something of you, something more than is usually ask of men and women who are seeking knowledge. I am going to ask you not only to study and learn in your school, I'm asking you to help in the building of your school. I'm asking you to dig the ground and cut the timbers, and yes, even to dig clay and make bricks. If we want a school, we must build it for ourselves with our own bone and sinew and the strength of our heart and soul. Come in. What can I do for you? Mr. Washington, we've... Mr. Washington, the new students have appointed us as a committee to bring certain grievances to your attention. I see. How many of the students do you represent? Well, we... Most all of Mr. Washington, all the new ones have complaints to make. And we thought it was only fair to tell you about them right away now, Mr. Washington. Yes, that was the right thing to do. Mr. Washington, I... I didn't... We didn't come to this school to work like field hands and day laborers. And I didn't come into milk cows and ham tea towels. I want to be a school teacher. And you don't think that a teacher could ever be called on to milk a cow or a hematow? Well, I... Or do you know how to do all those things already? That's not why my parents worked and sacrificed to send me to school. No, my family neither. I came here to learn something, not to make hog pens and sweep floors. What we mean is... Well, Mr. Washington, my daddy came out from town yesterday and wanted to see my books. He wanted to know why I didn't have more books. How many books I had read through. And when he got here, I was out there on my knees, digging sweet potatoes. Your father is not an educated man, is he, Sam? No, Mr. Washington, he's not. He can't read, no sign is named. Then, like so many people, perhaps he puts too much importance in the reading of a book. The mere reading of one means nothing, unless it helps us in some way. Unless... How are gonna know, Mr. Washington, if I spend all my time digging sweet potatoes and sweeping floors? I don't think you will. You'll find we haven't arranged here, so there's a time for everything. We'll try to send you out of this school as educated men and women. But you'll also be men and women who can take care of yourselves, who can do whatever is needed to fit yourselves into the life of the community and the country. Now, suppose you go out into the world prepared to teach Greek and Latin. The community you go into may not feel the need for Greek and Latin. Maybe it needs bricks and houses and wagons. If you can supply them, then maybe later there'll be a need for Greek and Latin. The man who is prepared to do something the world wants done at the right moment. That man will make his way, regardless of his race. What are you doing, Mr. Washington? Well, I think it's time for you all to get to your classes, and if you'll excuse me, this office looks a little untidy. I think I'd better do some sweeping. Foreign is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restored my soul. Mr. Washington. Well, hello, Carrie. What is it? Oh, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've been going over the books like you asked me to, and well, I just don't know how we're going to get through the rest of this year. Is that bad? We only made $17 from this month's vegetables and only $55 from the bricks we sold in town, and we still can't meet our bill by almost $200. Well, Carrie, don't worry about it. I think sometimes maybe it's not worth one little bit of all this work in trouble. Well, Carrie, don't say that. You're a fine smart man, and you ought to just think about yourself. Forget all about us. The school's gonna fail anyway. It's gonna fail. That will do, Carrie. I don't want to hear any more of that kind of talk. Now, please, Carrie, are you... Yes, sir. I'm sorry. Mr. Washington. Oh, come in, come in. It's all right. I, um... What's your name? I ain't got no real name, Mr. Washington. Just Hattie, just old Hattie. A homeless name I ever had. Well, sit down, Hattie. You're tired, aren't you? No, sir, I was all right. I'll come to bring you something, Mr. Washington. To bring me something? Yes, sir. I hear it tells how this school is having a hard time. I thought maybe these boys and girls ain't getting enough to eat. Oh, Hattie, it's not as bad as that. What I hear tells is, and I know what you're trying to do, Mr. Washington, I know you're trying to make better men and women for the colored race. Well, Hattie... I ain't got no money to give, but I got these eggs here. I've been saving up from my hands. They've been laying real good and I want you to take them. You take them. Oh, you, Mr. Washington. Hattie, do you remember the story of Moses in the burning bush? How, in a time of sorrow and pain, the Lord God appeared to Moses in the burning bush and said to him, I have seen the affliction of my people and I will deliver them into a good land. Well, Hattie, these are not really eggs. They are burning bush. There are rainbows in the sky, the lightning in the clouds, and the sign that says it's it's all been all right. It's been worth all the sweat and the toil and the struggle. Certainly, I'll take them, Hattie. They're the finest eggs I've ever seen. Booker T. Washington was right about those eggs. They were the sign. They symbolized the people's faith in the work he was trying to do. Under Booker T. Washington's presidency, Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute developed into the nation's leading exponent of industrial education for the Negro race. Today, at Booker T. Washington's birthplace in Franklin County, Virginia, his ideals and teachings are being perpetuated in the Booker T. Washington memorial. And as the inscription at the base of his statue at Tuskegee reads, he lifted the veil of ignorance from his people and pointed the way to progress through education and industry. Booker T. Washington. Tonight's cavalcade play, The Burning Bush, was written by Frank Gabrielson and directed by Jack Zoller. It's composed by Arden Cornwell and conducted by Donald Brian. This is Ted Pearson speaking. Cavalcade of America comes to you each week from the stage of the Longacre Theater on Broadway and is presented by the DuPont Company of Wilmington, Delaware. This is NBC, the national broadcasting company.