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124     The Crisis
 
Will turned away from the angry Jim, whom he had refused the privilege of speaking just one word to his beautiful butterfly Annie. Jim called him a name that my pen would blush to write but joy of Annie caught the words away from Will's ears, and he returned to the seat and sat down beside his fairy and was soon in dreamland holding her hands and listening to those sweet words like music that flowed from her lips. 
Now the young people, standing in large numbers on the porch and in the yard, had about ceased their courting and were moving about chatting freely with friends, as they were now getting ready to go home. Jim Frieson stood on the porch, knowing that in a few minutes all would be over and that he was a defeated "good timer" that night in that Will Lynch had got between him and the angel of his heart. His hand went to his hip pocket just as Will and Annie arose from their seat and started toward the porch. 
"Will," he yelled like a mad man, "I am going to kill you."
As he spoke his hand shot forward holding a glittering revolver pointed at Will's head. Bang! bang! barked the British bulldog. Will's hat flew off and went reeling backwards and fell to his knees. Everybody was thunderstruck by the sudden occurrence. Annie screamed. So did the other girls as each one sought cover behind someone else. Some of the young men who were a little hasty in their their conclusions, actually jumped the fence and went running like jack rabbits down across the stumpy field. Uncle Tom came rushing out of the door directly behind Jim Frieson just as Will, having drawn a small revolver, was taking aim at him. Ping! ping! went the little piece of artillery. Bang! the British bulldog barked again. Uncle Tom caught a sharp pain in his lef side. Annie, who was at that time bending over her will to see if he was hurt, was seen to throw up in her hands suddenly and sink down to the ground dead, with a bullet in her brains. 
At this time the two scrappers were over powered and their guns taken away from them.  "Come and take me up from here, don't you see I am dead as a door nail?" cried Uncle Tom as he lay on the porch where he had fallen.  "You are not dead, Uncle Tom," the young men told him kindly as they picked him up.  "I guess I ought to know," returned Uncle Tom confidently.
"Tom! Tom! is you shot?" screamed Aunt Drusillia.  "Shot all to pieces, honey," groaned Uncle Tom.
 It was the first time he called her honey in twenty-five years.  "Yes, baby," continued Uncle Tom, crying.  "These young devils have killed an old man like me." 
Uncle Tom was right, they had killed him. Before the physician could reach the place the old dancer passed away in the same room where ha had been calling figures and hour before. 
When the officers arrived on the horrible spot, forsaken then by all except Aunt Drusillia, two or three faithful friends and the lifeless bodies of Annie and Uncle Tom, they held the inquest over the dead, handcuffed Jim Frieson and Will Lynch, and drove away toward the county hail, leaving the remains of "poor Annie" resting on the cooling board by that of Uncle Tom. 
In deep sorrow they could hear the solemn words of Aunt Pashie Sutton ringing througth the mournful forest: "The way of the transgressah is hard!" 
A MOTHER'S NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS
Josephine T. Washington
REALIZING, as never before, the magnitude of the mother's mission, and feeling my weakness under the weight of its obligations, herewith, at the dawning of the New Year, in humble and prayerful Resolutions:
I will remember that my children are not playthings, nor puppets, nor personal possessions of any sort whatever; but immortal beings, loaned by God, to be taught and trained and fitted each to fulfill the purpose of his existence.
I will study by vocation, the sacred vocation of motherhood, striving to make myself more proficient, learning from wise men
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and from life how best to deal with the little ones entrusted to my care.
I will live with my children not merely for them; since such companionship is worth more than divergent ways, marked by needless sacrifices on the one side and a growing selfishness on the other.
I will respect the individuality of my children, and not try to change their temperaments, furnish their opinions, nor choose their opinions, nor choose their callings--nor their mates, when the time comes for such selection.
I will do whatever lies in my power to give my children sound bodies, for physical vigor is an asset, the value of which scarcely can be overestimated.
I will provide for my children both work and play, believing as I do that they are equally essential to a full and harmonious development.
I will lead my children not only to love the best in books and art, but, likewise, to rejoice in all the beauty of earth and sea and sky in song of the bird, the glitter of the dewdrop upon the grass, the murmur of the wind among the trees, the quiet tints of the greyest day, as well as the glowing colors of the most brilliant sunset.
I will impart to my children the facts of life, that they may look with reverence upon their bodies; thinking God's thoughts after Hem as they learn of human relations, and, in the years to come, labor for the enlightenment of those who sit in darkness.
I will aim to keep ever before me the great truth that the mother's responsibility begins long before he babe is placed in her arms; and, consecrating myself anew to the glorious calling of motherhood, I will endeavor so to live and grow that should other children come to me, they may be dowered with a richer heredity.
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COWARDS?
Winnipeg, Canada.
TELL me, what have become of the MEN amongst our race? are we forever to be a race of cowards? I am astonished that THE CRISIS, a magazine which I have always read and admired because of its boldness and courage in raising the issue of the white man's (particularly the Southerner) injustice toward our people, advocates the continued loyalty of the Negro in the present crisis that faces the world to-day.  How can the men who are interested in the publication of your magazine plead for a nation that  that shows us little favor? Only to-night I have just read of the further outrages upon my people in East St. Louis.
If I had been one of that number, rather a thousand deaths would I have suffered ere I had turned my back on those white vultures. God! Give the men of my race the courage to fight back, and if they must die, let them die as MEN and not as hunted animals. 
FREDERICK HART WILLIAMS.
In relating the East St. Louis incident to a colored religious gentleman, to get his ideas of the crimes committed, I was told by him that had he been there he would have just prayed to the Lord to save him. Enough said he would have been numbered with the slain.  Fifteen hundred National Guardsmen sent to quell the riot reported