The Souls of Black Folk W. E. B. Du Bois (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) đ
- Author: W. E. B. Du Bois
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At first he was coming at Christmas-timeâ âbut the vacation proved too short; and then, the next summerâ âbut times were hard and schooling costly, and so, instead, he worked in Johnstown. And so it drifted to the next summer, and the nextâ âtill playmates scattered, and mother grew gray, and sister went up to the Judgeâs kitchen to work. And still the legend lingeredâ ââWhen John comes.â
Up at the Judgeâs they rather liked this refrain; for they too had a Johnâ âa fair-haired, smooth-faced boy, who had played many a long summerâs day to its close with his darker namesake. âYes, sir! John is at Princeton, sir,â said the broad-shouldered gray-haired Judge every morning as he marched down to the post-office. âShowing the Yankees what a Southern gentleman can do,â he added; and strode home again with his letters and papers. Up at the great pillared house they lingered long over the Princeton letterâ âthe Judge and his frail wife, his sister and growing daughters. âItâll make a man of him,â said the Judge, âcollege is the place.â And then he asked the shy little waitress, âWell, Jennie, howâs your John?â and added reflectively, âToo bad, too bad your mother sent him offâ âit will spoil him.â And the waitress wondered.
Thus in the faraway Southern village the world lay waiting, half consciously, the coming of two young men, and dreamed in an inarticulate way of new things that would be done and new thoughts that all would think. And yet it was singular that few thought of two Johnsâ âfor the black folk thought of one John, and he was black; and the white folk thought of another John, and he was white. And neither world thought the other worldâs thought, save with a vague unrest.
Up in Johnstown, at the Institute, we were long puzzled at the case of John Jones. For a long time the clay seemed unfit for any sort of moulding. He was loud and boisterous, always laughing and singing, and never able to work consecutively at anything. He did not know how to study; he had no idea of thoroughness; and with his tardiness, carelessness, and appalling good-humor, we were sore perplexed. One night we sat in faculty-meeting, worried and serious; for Jones was in trouble again. This last escapade was too much, and so we solemnly voted âthat Jones, on account of repeated disorder and inattention to work, be suspended for the rest of the term.â
It seemed to us that the first time life ever struck Jones as a really serious thing was when the Dean told him he must leave school. He stared at the gray-haired man blankly, with great eyes. âWhyâ âwhy,â he faltered, âbutâ âI havenât graduated!â Then the Dean slowly and clearly explained, reminding him of the tardiness and the carelessness, of the poor lessons and neglected work, of the noise and disorder, until the fellow hung his head in confusion. Then he said quickly, âBut you wonât tell mammy and sisterâ âyou wonât write mammy, now will you? For if you wonât Iâll go out into the city and work, and come back next term and show you something.â So the Dean promised faithfully, and John shouldered his little trunk, giving neither word nor look to the giggling boys, and walked down Carlisle Street to the great city, with sober eyes and a set and serious face.
Perhaps we imagined it, but someway it seemed to us that the serious look that crept over his boyish face that afternoon never left it again. When he came back to us he went to work with all his rugged strength. It was a hard struggle, for things did not come easily to himâ âfew crowding memories of early life and teaching came to help him on his new way; but all the world toward which he strove was of his own building, and he builded slow and hard. As the light dawned lingeringly on his new creations, he sat rapt and silent before the vision, or wandered alone over the green campus peering through and beyond the world of men into a world of thought. And the thoughts at times puzzled him sorely; he could not see just why the circle was not square, and carried it out fifty-six decimal places one midnightâ âwould have gone further, indeed, had not the matron rapped for lights out. He caught terrible colds lying on his back in the meadows of nights, trying to think out the solar system; he had grave doubts as to the ethics of the Fall of Rome, and strongly suspected the Germans of being thieves and rascals, despite his textbooks; he pondered long over every new Greek word, and wondered why this meant that and why it couldnât mean something else, and how it must have felt to think all things in Greek. So he thought and puzzled along for himselfâ âpausing perplexed where others skipped merrily, and walking steadily through the difficulties where the rest stopped and surrendered.
Thus he grew in body and soul, and with him his clothes seemed to grow and arrange themselves; coat sleeves got longer, cuffs appeared, and collars got less soiled. Now and then his boots shone, and a new dignity crept into his walk. And we who saw daily a new thoughtfulness growing in his eyes began to expect something of this plodding boy. Thus he passed out of the preparatory school into college, and we who watched him felt four more years of change, which almost transformed the tall, grave man who bowed to us commencement morning. He had left his queer thought-world and come back to a world of motion and of men. He looked now for the first time sharply about him, and wondered he had seen so little before. He grew slowly to feel almost for the first
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