 MY ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY by FREDRIK DUGLUS MY ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY by FREDRIK DUGLUS from the collected articles of FREDRIK DUGLUS, a slave. In the first narrative of my experience in slavery, written nearly forty years ago, and in various writings since, I have given the public what I considered very good reasons for withholding the manner of my escape. In substance these reasons were, first, that such publication at any time during the existence of slavery might be used by the master against the slave, and prevent the future escape of any who might adopt the same means that I did. The second reason was, if possible, still more binding to silence. The publication of details would certainly have put in peril the persons and property of those who assisted. Murder itself was not more sternly and certainly punished in the State of Maryland than that of aiding and abetting the escape of a slave. Many colored men, for no other crime than that of giving aid to a fugitive slave, have, like Charles T. Tory, perished in prison. The evolution of slavery in my native state and throughout the country, and the lapse of time, render the caution hitherto observed no longer necessary. But even since the evolution of slavery, I have sometimes thought it well enough to baffle curiosity by saying that while slavery existed, there were good reasons for not telling the manner of my escape. And since slavery had ceased to exist, there was no reason for telling it. I shall now, however, cease to avail myself of this formula and, as far as I can, endeavour to satisfy this very natural curiosity. I should, perhaps, have yielded to that feeling sooner, had there been anything very heroic or thrilling in the incidents connected with my escape. For, I am sorry to say, I have nothing of that sort to tell. And yet the courage that could risk betrayal and the bravery which was ready to encounter death, if need be, in pursuit of freedom, were essential features in the undertaking. My success was due to address, rather than courage, to good luck, rather than bravery. My means of escape were provided for me by the very men who were making laws to hold and bind me more securely in slavery. It was the custom in the state of Maryland to require the free colored people to have what were called free papers. These instruments, they were required to renew very often, and, by charging a fee for this writing, considerable sums from time to time were collected by the state. In these papers the name, age, color, height, and form of the freemen were described, together with any scars or other marks upon his person which could assist in his identification. This device, in some measure, defeated itself, since more than one man could be found to answer the same general description. Hence many slaves could escape by personating the owner of one set of papers, and this was often done as follows. A slave, nearly or sufficiently answering the description set forth in the papers, would borrow or hire them till by means of them he could escape to a free state, and then by mail or otherwise would return them to the owner. The operation was a hazardous one for the lender as well as the borrower. A failure on the part of the fugitive to send back the papers would imperil his benefactor, and the discovery of the papers in possession of the wrong man would imperil both the fugitive and his friend. It was, therefore, an act of supreme trust on the part of a freeman of color, thus to put in jeopardy his own liberty that another might be free. It was, however, not unfrequently, bravely done, and was seldom discovered. I was not so fortunate as to resemble any of my free acquaintances sufficiently to answer the description of their papers. But I had a friend, a sailor, who owned a sailor's protection, which answered somewhat the purpose of free papers, describing his person and certifying to the fact that he was a free American sailor. The instrument had, at its head, the American eagle, which gave it the appearance at once of an authorized document. This protection, when in my hands, did not describe its bearer very accurately. Indeed, it called for a man much darker than myself, and close examination of it would have caused my arrest at the start. In order to avoid this fatal scrutiny of the part of railroad officials, I arranged with Isaac Rolls, a Baltimore hack-man, to bring my baggage to the Philadelphia train just on the moment of starting, and jumped upon the car myself when the train was in motion. Had I gone into the station and offered to purchase a ticket, I should have been instantly and carefully examined, and undoubtedly arrested. In choosing this plan, I considered the jostle of the train and the natural haste of the conductor in a train crowded with passengers, and relied upon my skill and address in playing the sailor, as described in my protection, to do the rest. One element in my favor was the kind feeling which prevailed in Baltimore and other seaports at the time toward those who go down to the sea in ships. Free trade and sailor's rights just then expressed the sentiment of the country. In my clothing I was rigged out in sailor style. I had on a red shirt and a tarpaulin hat, and the black cravat tied in sailor fashion carelessly and loosely about my neck. My knowledge of ships and sailor's talk came much to my assistance, for I knew a ship from stem to stern, and from keelson to cross-trees, and could talk sailor-talk like an old salt. I was well on the way to Havre de Grace before the conductor came into the Negro car to collect tickets and examine the papers of his black passengers. This was a critical moment in the drama. My whole future depended upon the decision of this conductor. Agitated though I was while this ceremony was proceeding, still, externally at least, I was apparently calm and self-possessed. He went on with his duty, examining several colored passengers before reaching me. He was somewhat harsh in tone and preemptory in manner, until he reached me, when, strange enough, and to my surprise and relief, his whole manner changed. Seeing that I did not readily produce my free papers as the other colored persons in the car had done, he said to me, in friendly contrast with his bearing towards the others, I suppose you have your free papers, to which I answered, No, sir, I never carry my free papers to see with me. But you have something to show that you are a free man, haven't you? Yes, sir, I answered. I have a paper with the American eagle on it, and that will carry me around the world. With this I drew from my deep sailor's pocket my seamen's protection, as before described. The merest glance at the paper satisfied him, and he took my fare and went on about his business. This moment of time was one of the most anxious I ever experienced. Had the conductor looked closely at the paper he could not have failed to discover that it called for a very different looking person from myself, and in that case it would have been his duty to arrest me on the instant and send me back to Baltimore from the first station. When he left me with the assurance that I was all right, though much relieved I realized that I was still in great danger. I was still in Maryland, and subject to arrest at any moment. I saw on the train several persons who would have known me in any other clothes, and I feared they might recognize me, even in my sailor rig, and report me to the conductor, who would then subject me to a closer examination, which I knew well would be fatal to me. Though I was not a murderer fleeing from justice, I felt perhaps quite as miserable as such a criminal. The train was moving at a very high rate of speed to that epic of railroad travel, but to my anxious mind it was moving far too slowly. Minutes were hours, and hours were days during this part of my flight. After Maryland I was to pass through Delaware, another slave state, where slave-catchers generally awaited their prey, for it was not in the interior of the state, but on its borders, that these human hounds were most vigilant and active. The border lines between slavery and freedom were the dangerous ones for the fugitives. The heart of no fox or deer with hungry hounds on his trail in full chase could have beaten more anxiously or noisily, than did mine from the time I left Baltimore till I reached Philadelphia. The passage of the Susquehanna River at Harvard Grace was at that time made by ferry-boat, on board of which I met a young colored man by the name of Nichols, who came very nearer betraying me. He was a hand on the boat, but instead of minding his business he insisted upon knowing me and asking me dangerous questions as to where I was going, when I was coming back, etc. I got away from my old and inconvenient acquaintance as soon as I could decently do so, and went to another part of the boat. Once across the river I encountered a new danger. Only a few days before I had been at work on a revenue cutter in Mr. Price's shipyard in Baltimore under the care of Captain McGowan. On the meeting at this point of the two trains, the one going south stopped on the track just opposite to the one going north, and it so happened that this Captain McGowan sat at a window where he could see me very distinctly, and would certainly have recognized me had he looked at me but for a second. Fortunately, in the hurry of the moment, he did not see me, and the trains soon passed each other on their respective ways, but this was not my only hair-breath escape. Chairman Blacksmith, whom I knew well, was on the train with me, and looked at me very intently as if he thought he had seen me somewhere before in his travels. I really believe he knew me, but had no heart to betray me. At any rate he saw me escaping, and held his peace. The last point of imminent danger, and the one I dreaded most, was Wilmington. We left the train, and took the steamboat for Philadelphia. In making the change here, I again apprehended a rest, but no one disturbed me, and I was soon on the broad and beautiful Delaware, speeding away to the Quaker City. On reaching Philadelphia in the afternoon, I inquired of a colored man how I could get on to New York. He directed me to the William Street depot, and thither I went, taking the train that night. I reached New York Tuesday morning, having completed the journey in less than twenty-four hours. My free life began on the 3rd of September, 1838. On the morning of the 4th of that month, after an anxious and most perilous but safe journey, I found myself in the big city of New York, a free man. One more added to the mighty throng, which, like the confused waves of the troubled sea, surged to and fro between the lofty walls of Broadway. Though dazzled with the wonders which met me on every hand, my thoughts could not be much withdrawn from my strange situation. For the moment the dreams of my youth and the hopes of my manhood were completely fulfilled. The bonds that held me to old master were broken. No man now had a right to call me his slave or assert mastery over me. I was in the rough and tumble of an outdoor world to take my chance with the rest of its busy number. I have often been asked how I felt, when first I found myself on free soil. There is scarcely anything in my experience about which I could not give a more satisfactory answer. A new world had opened upon me. If life is more than breath and the quick round of blood, I lived more in that one day than in a year of my slave life. In the time of joyous excitement, which words can but tamely describe. In a letter written to a friend soon after reaching New York, I said, I felt as one might feel upon escape from a den of hungry lions. Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be depicted, but gladness and joy, like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen or pencil. During ten or fifteen years I had been, as it were, dragging a heavy chain which no strength of mine could break. I was not only a slave, but a slave for life. I might become a husband, a father, an agent man, but through all, from birth to death, from the cradle to the grave, I had felt myself doomed. All efforts I had previously made to secure my freedom had not only failed, but had seemed only to rivet my fetters the more firmly and to render my escape more difficult. Baffled, entangled, and discouraged, I had at times asked myself the question, may not my condition, after all, be God's work and ordered for a wise purpose, and if so, is not submission my duty. A contest had in fact been going on in my mind for a long time between the clear consciousness of right and the plausible makeshifts of theology and superstition. The one held me an abject slave, a prisoner for life, punished for some transgression in which I had no lot nor part, and the other counseled me to manly endeavor to secure my freedom. This contest was now ended, my chains were broken, and the victory brought me unspeakable joy. But my gladness was short-lived, for I was not yet out of the reach and power of the slave-holders. I soon found that New York was not quite so free or so safe a refuge as I had supposed, and a sense of loneliness and insecurity again oppressed me most sadly. I chanced to meet on the street a few hours after my landing, a fugitive slave whom I had once known well in slavery. The information received from him alarmed me. The fugitive in question was known in Baltimore as Allender's Jake, but in New York he wore the more respectable name of William Dixon. Jake, in law, was the property of Dr. Allender, and Tony Allender, the son of the doctor, had once made an effort to recapture Mr. Dixon, but had failed for want of evidence to support his claim. Jake told me the circumstances of his attempt, and how narrowly he escaped being sent back to slavery and torture. He told me that New York was then full of Southerners returning from the northern watering-places, that the colored people of New York were not to be trusted, that there were hired men of my own color who would betray me for a few dollars, that there were hired men ever on the lookout for fugitives, that I must trust no man with my secret, that I must not think of going either upon the wharves or into any colored boarding-house for such places were closely watched, that he was himself unable to help me, and in fact he seemed, while speaking to me, to fear lest I myself might be a spy and a betrayer. Under this apprehension, as I suppose, he showed signs of wishing to be rid of me, and with whitewash brushing hand, in search of work, he soon disappeared. This picture, given by poor Jake of New York, was a damper to my enthusiasm. My little store of money would soon be exhausted, and since it would be unsafe for me to go on the wharves for work, and I had no introductions elsewhere, the prospect for me was far from cheerful. I saw the wisdom of keeping away from the shipyards, for, if pursued, as I felt certain I should be, Mr. Alt, my master, would naturally seek me there among the cockers. Every door seemed closed against me. I was in the midst of an ocean of my fellow men, and yet a perfect stranger to everyone. I was without home, without acquaintance, without money, without credit, without work, and without any definite knowledge as to what course to take, and where to look for succor. In such an extremity a man had something besides his newborn freedom to think of. While wandering about the streets of New York, and lodging at least one night among the barrels on one of the wharves, I was indeed free from slavery, but free from food and shelter as well. I kept my secret to myself as long as I could, but I was compelled at last to seek someone who would befriend me without taking advantage of my destitution to betray me. As such a person I found in a sailor named Stuart, a warm-hearted and generous fellow who, from his humble home on Centre Street, saw me standing on the opposite sidewalk near the tomb's prison. As he approached me, I ventured a remark to him which at once enlisted his interest in me. He took me to his home to spend the night, and then the morning went with me to Mr. David Ruggles, the Secretary of the New York Vigilance Committee, a co-worker with Isaac T. Hopper, Lewis and Arthur Tappin, Theodore S. Wright, Samuel Cornish, Thomas Downing, Philip A. Bell, and the other true men of their time. All these, except Mr. Bell, who still lives and is editor and publisher of a paper called The Elevator in San Francisco, have finished their work on earth. Once in the hands of these brave and wise men I felt comparatively safe. With Mr. Ruggles, on the corner of Lisbonard and Church Streets, I was hidden several days, during which time my intended wife came from Baltimore at my call to share the burdens of life with me. She was a free woman, and came at once on getting the good news of my safety. We were married by Reverend J. W. C. Pennington, then a well-known and respected Presbyterian minister. I had no money with which to pay the marriage fee, but he seemed well pleased with our thanks. Mr. Ruggles was the first officer on the Underground Railroad whom I met after coming north, and was indeed the only one with whom I had anything to do till I became such an officer myself. Learning that my trade was that of a cocker, he promptly decided that the best place for me was in New Bedford, Massachusetts. He told me that many ships for whaling voyages were fitted out there, and that I might there find work at my trade and make a good living. So, on the day of the marriage ceremony, we took our little luggage to the steamer John W. Richmond, which at that time was one of the lines running between New York and Newport, Rhode Island. Forty-three years ago, colored travelers were not permitted in the cabin, nor allowed to bath the paddle-wheels of a steam-vessel. They were compelled, whatever the weather might be, whether cold or hot, wet or dry, to spend the night on deck. Unjust as this regulation was, it did not trouble us much. We had fared much harder before. We arrived at Newport the next morning, and soon after an old-fashioned stage-coach with New Bedford and large yellow letters on its side came down to the wharf. I had not money enough to pay our fare, and stood hesitating what to do. Fortunately for us there were two Quaker gentlemen who were about to take passage on the stage—friends William C. Tabor and Joseph Rickinson—who at once discerned our true situation and, in a peculiarly quiet way, addressing me, Mr. Tabor said, the get in. I never obeyed an order with more alacrity, and we were soon on our way to our new home. When we reached Stone Bridge, the passengers alighted for breakfast, and paid their fares to the driver. We took no breakfast, and when asked for our fares, I told the driver I would make it right with him when we reached New Bedford. I expected some objection to this on his part, but he made none. When, however, we reached New Bedford, he took our baggage, including three music books, two of them collections by Dyer and one by Shaw, and held them until I was able to redeem them by paying to him the amount due for our rides. This was soon done, for Mr. Nathan Johnson not only received me kindly and hospitably, but, on being informed about our baggage, at once loaned me the two dollars, with which two square accounts with the stage driver. Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Johnson reached a good old age, and now rest from their labours. I am under many grateful obligations to them. They not only took me in when a stranger and fed me when hungry, but taught me how to make an honest living. Thus, in a fortnight after my flight from Maryland, I was safe in New Bedford, a citizen of the grand old Commonwealth of Massachusetts, once initiated into my new life of freedom, and assured by Mr. Johnson that I need not fear recapture in that city. A comparatively unimportant question arose as to the name by which I should be known thereafter in my new relation as a free man. The name given me by my dear mother was no less pretentious and long than Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey. I had, however, while living in Maryland, dispensed with the Augustus Washington and retained only Frederick Bailey. Between Baltimore and New Bedford, the better to conceal myself from the slave hunters, I had parted with Bailey and called myself Johnson. But in New Bedford I found that the Johnson family was already so numerous as to cause some confusion in distinguishing them. Hence, a change in this name seemed desirable. Nathan Johnson, my host, placed great emphasis upon this necessity, and wished me to allow him to select a name for me. I consented, and he called me by my present name, the one by which I had been known for three and forty years, Frederick Douglas. Mr. Johnson had been reading the Lady of the Lake, and so pleased was he, with its great character, that he wished me to bear his name. Since reading that charming poem myself, I have often thought that, considering the noble hospitality and manly character of Nathan Johnson, black man though he was, he, far more than I, illustrated the virtues of the Douglas of Scotland. Sure am I that, if any slave catcher had entered his domicile with a view to my recapture, Johnson would have shown himself, like him, of the stalwart hand. The reader may be surprised at the impressions I had in some way conceived of the social and material condition of the people at the North. I had no proper idea of the wealth, refinement, enterprise, and high civilisation of this section of the country. My Colombian orator, almost my only book, had done nothing to enlighten me concerning Northern society. I had been taught that slavery was the bottom fact of all wealth. With this foundation idea, I came naturally to the conclusion that poverty must be the general condition of the people of the free states. In the country from which I came, a white man holding no slaves was usually an ignorant and poverty stricken man, and men of this class were contemptuously called poor white trash. Hence, I suppose that, since the non-slave holders at the south were ignorant, poor, and degraded as a class, the non-slave holders at the north must be in a similar condition. I could have landed in no part of the United States where I should have found a more striking and gratifying contrast, not only to life generally in the south, but in the condition of the coloured people there, than in New Bedford. I was amazed when Mr. Johnson told me that there was nothing in the laws or constitution of Massachusetts that would prevent a coloured man from being governor of the state, if the people should see fit to elect him. There, too, the black man's children attended the public schools with the white man's children, and apparently without objection from any quarter. To impress me with my security from recapture and return to slavery, Mr. Johnson assured me that no slave holder could take a slave out of New Bedford, that there were men there who would lay down their lives to save me from such a fate. The fifth day after my arrival I put on the clothes of a common labourer, and went upon the wharves in search of work. On my way down Union Street I saw a large pile of coal in front of the house of Reverend Ephraim Peabody, the Unitarian minister. I went to the kitchen door and asked the privilege of bringing in and putting away this coal. What will you charge, said the lady? I will leave that to you, madam. You may put it away, she said. I was not long in accomplishing this job. When the dear lady put into my hand two silver half-dollars to understand the emotion which filled my heart as I clasped this money. Realizing that I had no master who could take it from me, that it was mine, that my hands were my own, and could earn more of this precious coin one must have been in some sense himself a slave. My next job was stowing a sloop at Uncle Gideon Howland's wharf with a cargo of oil for New York. I was not only a free man, but a free working man, and no master stood ready at the end of the week to seize my hard earnings. The season was growing late, and work was plenty. Ships were being fitted out for whaling, and much wood was used in storing them. The sawing this wood was considered a good job. With the help of old friend Johnson, blessings on his memory, I got a saw and buck and went at it. When I went into a store to buy a cord with which to brace up my saw in the frame, I asked for a Fipsworth of cord. The man behind the counter looked rather sharply at me, and said with equal sharpness, you don't belong about here. I was alarmed, and thought I had betrayed myself. A Fip in Maryland was six and a quarter cents, called Forpence in Massachusetts, but no harm came from my five-penny blunder. And I confidently and cheerfully went to work with my saw and buck. It was new business to me, but I never did better work, or more of it, in the same space of time, on the plantation for Covey, the Negro-breaker, than I did for myself in these earliest years of my freedom. Notwithstanding the just and humane sentiment of New Bedford three and forty years ago, the place was not entirely free from race and color prejudice. The good influence of the roaches, rodman's, Arnold's, Grinnell's, and Robeson's did not pervade all classes of its people. The test of the real civilization of the community came when I applied for work at my trade, and then my repulse was emphatic and decisive. It so happened that Mr. Rodney French, a wealthy and enterprising citizen, distinguished as an anti-slavery man, was fitting out a vessel for a whaling voyage upon which there was a heavy job of caulking and coppering to be done. I had some skill in both branches and applied to Mr. French for work. He, generous man that he was, told me he would employ me, and I might go at once to the vessel. I obeyed him, but upon reaching the float stage, where other cockers were at work, I was told that every white man would leave the ship in her unfinished condition if I struck a blow at my trade upon her. This uncivil, inhuman, and selfish treatment was not so shocking and scandalous in my eyes at the time as it now appears to me. Slavery had inured me to hardships that made ordinary troubles sit lightly upon me. Could I have worked at my trade I could have earned two dollars a day, but as a common laborer I received but one dollar. The difference was of great importance to me, but if I could not get two dollars I was glad to get one, and so I went to work for Mr. French as a common laborer. The consciousness that I was free, no longer a slave, kept me cheerful under this and many similar prescriptions, which I was destined to meet in New Bedford and elsewhere on the free soil of Massachusetts. For instance, though colored children attended the schools and were treated kindly by their teachers, the New Bedford Lyceum refused, till several years after my residence in that city, to allow any colored person to attend the lectures delivered in its hall. Not until such men as Charles Sumner, Theodore Parker, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Horace Mann refused to lecture in their course while there was such a restriction, was it abandoned. Becoming satisfied that I could not rely on my trade in New Bedford to give me a living, I prepared myself to do any kind of work that came to hand. I sawed wood, shoveled coal, dug cellars, moved rubbish from backyards, worked on the wharves, loaded and unloaded vessels, and scoured their cabins. I afterward got steady work at the brass foundry owned by Mr. Richmond. My duty there was to blow the bellows, swing the crane, and empty the flasts in which castings were made, and at times this was hot and heavy work. The articles produced here were mostly for ship work, and in the busy season the foundry was in operation night and day. I have often worked two nights and every working day of the week. My foreman, Mr. Cobb, was a good man, and more than once protected me from abuse that one or more of the hands was disposed to throw upon me. While in this situation I had little time for mental improvement, hard work night and day over a furnace hot enough to keep the metal running like water was more favourable to action than thought. Yet here I often nailed a newspaper to the post near my bellows and read while I was performing the up and down motion of the heavy beam by which the bellows was inflated and discharged. It was the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, and I look back to it now, after so many years, with some complacency and a little wonder that I could have been so earnest and persevering in any pursuit other than for my daily bread. I certainly saw nothing in the conduct of those around to inspire me with such interest. They were all devoted exclusively to what their hands found to do. I am glad to be able to say that, during my engagement in this foundry, no complaint was ever made against me that I did not do my work and do it well. The bellows which I worked by main strength was, after I left, moved by a steam engine, end of My Escape from Slavery by Frederick Douglas, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox, in February 2007, Black History Month. The Feet of Judas by George Marion McClellan, edited by James Weldon Johnson from the Book of American Negro Poetry. Read for LibriVox.org by Laverne Henderson from Maryland. Christ washed the feet of Judas, the dark and evil passions of his soul, his secret plot and sordidness complete, his hate, his purposing. Christ knew the whole, and still in love he stooped and washed his feet. Christ washed the feet of Judas, yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, his bargain with the priest, and more than this, an Olivet beneath the moonlight dim, a forehand new and felt his treacherous kiss. Christ washed the feet of Judas, and so ineffable his love twas meet, that pity filled his great forgiving heart and tenderly to wash the traitor's feet, who in his Lord had basely sold his part. Christ washed the feet of Judas, and thus a girded servant, self-abased, taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven was ever too great to wholly be afaced, and though unasked, in spirit be forgiven. And so, if we have ever felt the wrong of trampled rites, of cased, it matters not. What ere the soul has felt or suffered long, oh heart, this one thing should not be forgot. Christ washed the feet of Judas. End of The Feet of Judas. This recording is in the public domain. I Want to Die While You Love Me by Georgia Douglas Johnson. Read for LibriVox.org by Laverne Henderson. I Want to Die While You Love Me while yet you hold me fair, while laughter lies upon my lips and lights are in my hair. I Want to Die While You Love Me and bear to that still bed, your kiss is turbulent, unspent, to warm me when I'm dead. I Want to Die While You Love Me, oh, who would care to live till love has nothing more to ask and nothing more to give. I Want to Die While You Love Me and never, never see the glory of this perfect day grow dim or cease to be. End of I Want to Die While You Love Me. This recording is in the public domain. I Want to Die While You Love Me by Georgia Douglas Johnson. Read for LibriVox.org by Philippa Willits. I Want to Die While You Love Me while yet you hold me fair, while laughter lies upon my lips and lights are in my hair. I Want to Die While You Love Me and bear to that still bed, your kiss is turbulent, unspent, to warm me when I'm dead. I Want to Die While You Love Me, oh, who would care to live till love has nothing more to ask and nothing more to give. I Want to Die While You Love Me and never, never see the glory of this perfect day grow dim or cease to be. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Negro Love Song by Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Read for LibriVox.org by Victoria Grace. Seen my lady home last night. Jump back, honey, jump back. Hear her hand and squeeze it tight. Jump back, honey, jump back. Hear her sigh a little sigh. Seen her lack, lean from her eye. And a smile go flittin' by. Jump back, honey, jump back. Hear the wind blow through the pan. Jump back, honey, jump back. Mockingbird was singin' fine. Jump back, honey, jump back. When my heart was beatin' so, when I reached my lady's doe, did I couldn't bear to go? Jump back, honey, jump back. Put my arm around her waist. Jump back, honey, jump back. Raised her lips and took a taste. Jump back, honey, jump back. Love me, honey, love me true. Love me well as I love you. And she answered, Coast I do. Jump back, honey, jump back. End of a Negro Love Song. This recording is in the public domain. Question by Langston Hughes, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. When the old junk man death comes to gather up our bodies and toss them into a sack of oblivion, I wonder if he will find the corpse of a white multimillionaire worth more pennies of eternity than the black torso of a Negro cotton picker. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet by Alice Dunbar Nelson, read for LibriVox.org by Philippa Willits. I had no thoughts of violets of late, the wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet, in wistful April days when lovers mate, and wander through the fields in rapture's sweet. The thought of violets meant florist shops, and bows and pins and perfumed papers fine, and garish lights and mincing little fobs, and cabarets and songs and deadening wine. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot white fields and clear brown streams. The perfect loveliness that God has made, wild violets shy and heaven-mounting dreams. And now, unwittingly, you've made me dream of violets and my soul's forgotten gleam. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, read for LibriVox.org by Beth Peat at Reading, UK. The river sleeps beneath the sky, and clasps the shadows to its breast. The crescent moon shines dim on high, and in the lately radiant west the gold is fading into gray. Now stills the lark's festive lay, and mourns with me the dying day. While in the south the first faint star lives to the night at silver face, and twinkles to the moon afar across the heavens' graying space. Low murmurs reach me from the town, as day puts on her sombre crown and shakes her mantle darkly down. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I've known rivers. I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo, and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset. I've known rivers. Ancient dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves by William Stanley Braithwaite Read for leverbox.org by Barbara Fauth of Perryville, Missouri, March 2007 Turn me to my yellow leaves. I'm better satisfied. There is something in me grieves that was born and died. Let me be a scarlet flame on windy autumn morn, I who never had a name nor from breathing image born. From the margin let me fall, where the farthest star sinks down, and the void consumes me all is nothingness to drown. Let me dream my dreams entire, withered as an autumn leaf. Let me have my vain desire, vain as it is brief.