THE FAILURE
OF CUNNINGHAM
By Isabella M. Andrews.
♦♦
Reprinted from The Youth's Companion by permission
granted to the Hampton Institute.
♦♦
ALSO
THE STORY OF GOOD BIRD AND
BAD CAT
An Indian Boy's Composition,
♦♦
Printed by
The Hampton School Press.
THIS STORY
of Cunningham is not a history of any one individual, but is
representative, in character and experience, of many lives which,
though unpromising at first, have wrought success through great
earnestness and steadfastness of purpose.
Many of those who go out from the school with so little that
even their best friends feel that they are not by any means pre¬
pared for the great struggle before them, do, through the grace
of God and the love of their fellows, form little centres of light
and influence in some of the darkest corners—corners into which
less rude and ignorant and simple workers could hardly pene¬
trate. Thus Hampton's "failures" may prove God's successes.
The Failure of Cunningham.
♦♦
Cunningham did not mean to be funny. One look at the
solemnity of his coal-black face and the imperturbable digni¬
ty of his carriage would have assured you of that; but when Cun¬
ningham heard that the government paid the expenses of the
Indians at Hampton Institute, where the colored students had to
work their own way, and came with a bow and arrow over his
shoulder, asking if Indians were not admitted free, we looked at
his unmistakably African personality, and listened to his unmis¬
takably African speech, and thought Cunningham very funny
indeed.
Cunningham stayed ; but he put his bow and arrow away,
and apparently forgot that he had ever been an Indian. At the
same time he gave up his longings for luxurious ease, and chose
the blacksmith's trade. All day long he worked at it, and when
he presented himself at half-past seven o'clock in the night
school there was no other such spotless young person in the
building.
For two years he worked in the night-school. At the end of
this period it became necessary to tell him, for the fifth time
that it would be impossible to promote him this time. Cunning¬
ham sighed.
"I ain't nevah ben p'omoted sence I come to dis yeah school,
miss," he said plaintively, "but ef yo' say it's bes' I reckon it
must be. When does yo' think I kin begin toe instruc' othahs ?
I feel the spirit ob desire possessin' me toe go out an' uplif my
own people."
It was hard to know what to say to Cunningham just then.
To share in the work of elevating his own people had become
his one ambition ; but could we send out the blind to lead the
blind ? We were beginning to consider him one of the hopeless
cases. He was perfectly faithful,patient and eager to learn, but
apparently unable to grasp anything more complicated than the
first four principles in arithmetic and the simplest reading and
writing. It was hard to tell him that it was best for him to take
.up again the old struggle with long division, and trust his career
as a teacher to the future.
He went back into the beginning class with pathetic pa¬
tience. The development of a worthy purpose had greatly
changed him since the time when he first came to Hampton with
the idea of being taken care of by the government. There was
no shirk in Cunningham now.
At the close of the next term when we were deliberating
whether we could stretch a point and promote him, a letter
came to the night school principal, saying that his father had
died, and his mother, with her children, was destitute. Cun¬
ningham must come home and take care of them.
It was a cruel blow to the boy. Education had come to mean
to him everything worth living for. Must he put it aside, and
take up again the wretched life he had outgrown ?
H$ turned his back on Hampton with a heavy heart and
went home. I knew the place, and many others like it through
the South. It was just a cluster of tumble -down Negro cabins a
few miles back from the railroad. The men were too lazy to
work the little farms that would have amply repaid the scantiest
care; the women too shiftless to do anything but smoke and gos¬
sip; the children too numerous to count, growing up in absolute
ignorance and squalor. Poor Cunningham !
Once he wrote to say that he could probably never come
back, and asked for a few books to work with by himself. The
6
books were sent, and then among the cares that every day and
hour brought we lost sight of him for a time.
I think it was a year after that I received this letter from him:
Baptist Hill, N. C., February 15, 1887.
Dear Miss Burt : I hope You has not forgot me. I am very
well and I hope You is the same. I rite You to say that I am get¬
ting along verry well and hope you is the same. I gets jobs at
my trade over to Four Corners an all time I kin I teaches the Pepel
here, ef You has eny books to spare or anything at tall plese ri-
member Me. When I lef Hampton I felt verry bad but I foun I
could do something atter all. The Lord is ben with Me and my
People and show me how to help them rispects to all frens
Yours Truly,
Chas. F. Cunningham.
In his large slow handwriting it covered three pages of the
coarse blue-ruled paper. With what infinite pains it had been
composed and copied I could well guess. Had I not seen Cun¬
ningham, with his big frame bent close to the desk and his fore¬
head beaded with perspiration, toil all through the half-hour's
writing period to make one row of letters on his copy paper ?
So finished a production as this, made while he was at Hampton,
would have created a sensation among his teachers.
Needless to say that I answered at once with encouraging
words, and the more substantial aid of a box of books, magazines!
papers, and such tools of the trade as I could collect and Hamp¬
ton could spare. For it had many such calls. And again Cun¬
ningham was out of our minds for a time.
In the middle of June I was obliged to take a railway journey
farther south. On my return, when within a day's ride of Hamp¬
ton, I missed a connection, and found myself stranded at a deso¬
late junction, with no possibility of getting away until the next
day. Fortunately, I remembered that the junction was the
nearest station to Cunningham's home. After engaging the least
7
objectional room in the squalid hotel over the railroad station,
and eating the most objectionable dinner I ever tasted,I began to
look about for a conveyance to take me to Baptist Hill.
The outlook was not promising. The station, painted a hid¬
eous orange color with white trimmings, stood alone in the
scrubby pine woods where hardly a squirrel track was visible.
The few loungers that always mysteriously appear to watch an
incoming train had disappeared as mysteriously. No one re¬
mained about the place except the telegraph operator, who was
also ticket agent, baggage master and hotel keeper, his wife, a
colored maid-of-all-work, two shepherd dogs, a gray cat, and
myself.
After two hours of this agreeable society, the sight of a
steer-cart plodding through the woods was a most welcome one.
I hurried out to see if the colored driver would take me to Bap¬
tist Hill.
"Ya-as," he said meditatively, '"ef^. yo' kin hang on. I'se
gwine thar."
The cart consisted of a pair of wheels with a single plank
from one hub to another, whereon the proprietor sat and swung
his feet in dangerous neighborhood, I thought, to the heels of
his vicious-looking steer. As there were no accomodations for
freight of any kind, I inferred that this simple vehicle was intend¬
ed for pleasure driving only. With an inward shudder I gath¬
ered my skirts in my hand, and mounted the narrow seat.
There, with the wheel on one side and my charioteer on the
other, I could only swing my feet, clutch the seat firmly with
both hands, and give my whole mind to "hanging on," attending
but slightly to my talkative driver.
1 have a dim conviction that the road, after we left the woods,
was lined with liolly-trees, which even in summer had a peculiar
witchery for me, and that these were aflame with the sturdy
trumpet flower clambering over them at random. I saw here and.
8
there a stately magnolia in belated glory. But for the most paat
that four-mile drive is a blank as regards what I saw and heard.
Like all things good or bad, however, it had an end.
'"Heah yo is," said my friend.
To my inquiries for his name he had grinned broadly and
said, "Dey mos'ly calls me Puhsimmons, miss," and with the
name Persimmons I contented myself, owing to the difficulty of
carrying on a conversation.
"Dat young Cunningham, he made right smart of a change
roun'heah, miss. Dis yeah am de place."
We had driven into a bit of settlement that looked as little
as possible like my notion of what Baptist Hill was. The road
appeared to have been raked with a garden rake, so clean it was.
Every poor little hut, hanging like a bird's nest to its big outside
chimney, was gleaming with whitewash, and surrounded by a
rude whitewashed fence.
The "store" had of course, its group of loungers, but I could
see a man hoeing behind one of the cabins, another mending a
plow near by, and best of all, half-a-dozen women, smoking to
be sure, but washing and hanging out clothes .in the yard
of the largest cabin. One of them answered my inquiry for Cun¬
ningham.
'•Reckon he's right ober yander in de schoolhouse, miss,"
she said grandly, "onless he's ben sen' foh toe Fo' Co'ners. But
dat ain't likely, cos dey ain't no chillun roun'."
I had not noticed any building that seemed to be a school-
house; but following the woman's gesture, I saw one of the
whitewashed cabins distinguished from the rest by a bench hold¬
ing a tin basin on one side of the door, while on the other side
hung an immense brown towel. This was a good beginning.
I stepped across the road and stood at the window, an unseen
listener. The pathetic little room went to my heart. There was
9
not a sign of furniture in it, save a row of upturned boxes and
pails for seats. Even these had given out, and were supple¬
mented with a hugh log rolled in from the woods, whereon were
uncomfortably perched between fifteen and twenty colored chil¬
dren from six to sixteen years old. Every eye was solemnly
fixed on the teacher, and the teacher was Cunningham.
He had tacked upon the wall a large sheet of brown paper,
and with a piece of charcoal in his hand, was equipped as with
blackboard and chalk.
"Thomas Jefferson," he said, "how much am five and three?
Thomas Jefferson rose and began to count with something in
his hands. Then I saw that each child was counting, and using
for counters—what but pine needles ! Thomas finished his cal¬
culations.
"Seben." he said gravely.
There were shocked faces all around at Thomas' failure,and
eager hands went up to correct him.
"Calliny Johnson," said Cunningham, in precisely MissThu-
man's schoolroom manner,
"Eight," answered Calliny, in an agony of delight at being
chosen.
"Toe be sho," said Cunningham,
He set down 5 x 3 = 8 on his paper, and turning to the
abashed Thomas said encouragingly :
"Now coun' 'em out again, Thomas Jefferson, an' then come
an* put it on de boa'd, and yo' won't forgit nex' time."
I entered the doorway just then.
"How do you do, Cunningham," I said.
Cunningham looked as if he saw a ghost, and Calliny began
to cry.
"My Lawd a massy, Miss Burt," said Cunningham, the big
tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. "How evah didyo' git
yeah? My but I'es pow'ful glad to see yo' ! Whar's—"
10
There he broke down, dropped his face into his hands, and
cried aloud. Joy at the sight of a face that was associated with
the best days of his life, a new pang for the old sacrifice, all the
disappointments and discouragments of the last two years were
cried out then and there.
The children cried because they didn't understand, and I
cried because I did. But we all pulled through,and came to clear
weather again. Cunningham dismissed his school and I heard
from him the story of his life since he had left us; how: he had
built and whitewashed his own cabin, and kept it spotlessly
clean as he had been taught to keep his room at Hampton ; how
he had begun his school with only his own four brothers and sis¬
ters, "For yo' know, miss, I nevah thought 1 could do anything
an' I doan reckon anybody did." How the little leaven had
worked I did not need to be told.
After this visit with Cunningham, I stayed to visit the school
when his bell called it together again. I heard the first class add,
multipty, substract and divide with figures below twenty, and
read in words of one syllable. I saw the second class perform
written addition and subtraction with their own brown paper and
charcoal, and heard them read in the first series of the "Nature
Readers" I had sent. I saw the pupils, with the same rude ma¬
terial, write from a copy painfully made by Cunningham and
tacked to the wall, and I saw them make their orderly exit, sing¬
ing as they marched, "Dere were ten virgins when de bride¬
groom comes "
School over, I went home with Cunningham, and shared the
supper of corn-meal mush and molasses which his fond old moth¬
er put before us. I even attended the evening prayer-meeting
he conducted in open air, to which everyone in the neighbor¬
hood seemed to have come. The people gathered around to hear
Cunningham's teacher talk and to talk themselves in praise of him.
11
"He jus' done tnek us white," said one old turbaned mammy.
Then Cunningham borrowed the only horse in the place from
one neighbor, and from another a cart, which, if not luxurious,
was a great improvement upon my conveyance of the morning.
Leaving the meeting in progress we drove away in the fast fall¬
ing twilight—for I could not miss my early morning train.
Cunningham slept at the "hotel" also, in order to say good-
by in the morning; but when I came down ready to leave, I
found that during the night a sick man back in the woods had
sent for him in urgent haste, and he had gone, leaving the fare¬
well unsaid. So ended my visit.
And this was our failure—our hopeless case ! It was all poor
and plain and mean and sordid, but I went back to Hampton and
told my story in humbleness of heart. I did not need to point
the moral there. Perhaps I need not here.
Isabella M. Andrews.
12
M INDIAN BOYS COMPOSITION,
So many friends of Hampton have been amused and interest¬
ed by the unconscious humor, and the illustration of the practi-
cle relation of many an Indian to his white neighbors, in the fol¬
lowing, that it is printed herewith as a fitting pendant to the pre¬
ceding narrative :
"Story of Good Bird and Bad Cat."
One day, bright day, a little bird happy and stood on a log
and sang all day long. That bird doesn't know anything about
cat. She thinks nobody is near to her. But behind the near log
one sly old cat is watching. She want to eat for supper, and she
thinks about stealing all the time. The old cat came very slow,
and by and by she go after the little bird, but she does not see
him and sang loud again. She sang just like this, "I am
always try to do what is right; when I ever die I go to Heaven,"
that bird said these all words, and I shall not forget the little
bird what it said, and these all words it said and after two or
three minutes go died; the cat jumped and catch and kill, eat all
up except little things from bird, wings, legs or skin, and that
bird is glad to die because she is very good bird. The little bird
has last time sang and very happy was the little bird after that.
I think the old cat have good dinner and happy just same as
the bird was at first time.
13
THE HAMPTON INSTITUTE
Was established by General Armstrong in 1868 for the freedmen
©f the South. Ten years latter it opened its doors to the Indian.
Now it teaches yearly 500 Negro students, 140 Indians, and a
primary school of 300 colored children.
It gives its boys and girls over twenty different trades and
industries, preparing them for self-support and better living.
A trade school for the technical training of young men was
opened in 1896, and a building for domestic science for young
women, and for scientific agriculture is to be opened in 1898.
Its normal department has over 900 graduates, 90 per cent of
whom have taught.
Its Indian department has returned to the West 500 students,
not all graduates,87 per cent of whom have done well in schools
missions, shops, or on their own farms.
To keep up this work $80,000 must be raised each year out¬
side the regular sources of supply.
Any sum, no matter how small, is welcome, and may be sent
to the Principal,
H. B. Frissell,
Hampton, Va.
14
The School publishes a monthly paper, the
"Southern Workman and Hampton
School Record/'
Subscription $1.00. Sample copies sent free upon request.
♦♦
The Indians publish a small monthly called
"Talks and Thoughts,"
Subscription, 25 cents
♦♦
THE HAMPTON INSTITUTE,
$100,000 will endow the library.
500,000 will endow an industrial shop.
10,000 will yield the salary of a teacher.
5,000 will endow an alcove in the library.
1,500 will endow a scholarship.
1,000 will endow a forge or a lathe, or a carpenter's bench.
600 will pay the salary of a teacher for one year.
70 will educate a student for one year.
30 will give a student one year's industrial training.
1?