but your mother knows full well. If they would only
allow her to go away and work for wages, she would gladly toil and
earn money to buy you. But that your father will not allow. His laws
have settled it that she is his property, "for all purposes
whatsoever," and he will keep her as long as suits his convenience.
The mistress continually insists upon her being sold far away South;
and after a while, she has her will. Your poor mother clings to you
convulsively; but the slave-driver gives you both a cut of his whip,
and tells you to stop your squalling. They drive her off with the
gang, and you never hear of her again; but, for a long time
afterward, it makes you very sad to remember the farewell look of
those large, loving eyes. Your poor mother had handsome eyes; and
that was one reason her mistress hated her.

You also are your father's property; and when he dies, you will be
the property of your whiter brother. You black his shoes, tend upon
him at table, and sleep on the floor in his room, to give him water
if he is thirsty in the night. You see him learning to read, and you
hear your father read wonderful things from the newspapers. Very
naturally, you want to read, too. You ask your brother to teach you
the letters. He gives you a kick, calls you a "damned nig," and
informs his father, who orders you to be flogged for insolence.
Alone on the hard floor at night, still smarting from your blows,
you ponder over the great mystery of knowledge and wonder why it
would do _you_ any more harm than it does your brother. Henceforth,
all scraps of newspapers you can find are carefully laid by.
Helplessly you pore over them, at stolen moments, as if you expected
some miracle would reveal the meaning of those printed signs.
Cunning comes to your aid. It is the only weapon of the weak against
the strong. When you see white boys playing in the street, you trace
a letter in the sand, and say, "My young master calls that B." "That
ain't B, you dammed nigger. That's A"! they shout. Now you know what
shape is A; and diligently you hunt it out wherever it is to be
found on your scraps of newspaper. By slow degrees you toil on, in
similar ways, through all the alphabet. No student of Greek or
Hebrew ever deserved so much praise for ingenuity and diligence. But
the years pass on, and still you cannot read. Your master-brother
now and then gives you a copper. You hoard them, and buy a primer;
screening yourself from suspicion, by tel