Decided to have a go at the state employment office. Got there at eight,
fellow I knew sitting on the steps. Big sign there: “No loitering
in the doorway.” Janitor or someone came down and asked him to
“Are you going upstairs?” he asked. “If you are, go,
but don’t sit here.” The fellow jumped; not looking at the
janitor, he began a loud bluster about his father paying taxes to support
the place and he could sit on the steps if he wanted to. When the janitor
left, he returned to the steps for a moment. Meanwhile a group of people
had gathered to see what was going on.
Asked the janitor when the manager would be in. He said, “Nine
o’clock.” Decided to come back. When I got back, a line
had formed clear out into the street. I took my place. Officials and
clerks kept coming and had a good cheery word for us as they passed.
But after they had gone, many sarcastic remarks followed them like,
“Gives you a nice smile, but that’s all.”
The manager himself drove up before the office a little past nine—appeared
sore that there was no parking space in front of the office. The fellows
standing outside purposely raised their voices so he could hear and
made remarks such as, “Not much use coming here, they never do
anything but tell you to come back in sixty days”; “What’d
they ever do for me?—Nothing.” : “First it was April
first, then it was the fifteenth, and now it will be God knows when.”
I register, but they say not much chance today; maybe a week from today…
Up at seven, cup of coffee, and off to Sargent’s. Like to be there
when the gang comes to work, the lucky devils. Employment manager not
in. Waited in his outer office…Three others waiting, two reporting
for compensation. Other one laid off two weeks ago and said he called
at office every day. He inquired what I was doing and when I said “looking
for work” he laughed. “You never work here? No? What chance
you think you got when 400 like me who belong here are out?” Employment
manager showed up at 9:30. I had waited two hours. My time has no value.
A pleasant fellow; told me in a kind but snappy way business was very
bad. What about the future; would he take my name? Said he referred
only to the present. Nothing more for me to say, so left. Two more had
drifted into office. Suppose they got the same story. Must be a lot
of men in New Haven that have heard it by now…
Started out at seven for New Haven Clock Shop. No one in employment
office. Lady at information desk asked. “What do you want?”
I told her. She wanted to know if I had worked there before and when
I said, “No” she didn’t even ask if had any experience
in clockmaking (which I have). And when I started to tell her so, she
cut me off with “No use—sorry.” Suppose she gets tired
From Clock Shop to E. Cowells and Co., who make auto equipment. If they
want to have old men, well, I worked here in 1916 and 1917. Didn’t
get to see anyone here because just as you get to the hall there is
a big sign, “No Help Wanted.”
Having heard Seamless Rubber was working quite steady I went down there.
Regular employment office furnished with one bench. Another chap, a
foreigner, waiting also. In about ten minutes a fellow asked is our
business and told us very politely they no jobs even for skilled men,
let alone laborers. No use to tell him I wasn’t always a laborer
for I never had done the skilled jobs on rubber.
Saw a sign hanging out of one place in gilt letters. “No Help
Wanted.” In gilt, mind you, as if to make it more permanent.
Then to Bradley-Smith candy-makers, where I had also worked before.
The first few days I hadn’t the heart for more than a couple tries
a morning. I’m getting hardened to the word “No” now,
though, and can stick it most of the morning. Bradley-Smith has no employment
office. The telephone switchboard operator is apparently instructed
to switch off anyone looking for work, as she made quick work of my
question. I notice no one seems to be instructed to find out if we know
anything about the business or work. Firms might be passing up some
good bets for their force. But apparently that isn’t important
Walking away, met two friends out going the rounds too. They said it
was useless and that they were only looking through force of habit.
That’s going to be me before long. Even if they hadn’t said
so, I’m thinking it is useless to run around like this; you appear
ridiculous, and that gets your goat—or would if you kept it up
too long. Wish I had some drag with someone on the inside of one of
those gates. I expect it’s that everyone knows they have to know
someone that keeps me from having more company at the employment offices.
This is what a former pal of mine who is up at Yale calls “competition
in the labor market,” I guess. Well, it’s a funny competition
and with guys you never see.
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"The Dust Bowl"
Anne Marie Low
addition to the Great Depression, during the 1930s residents of the
Great Plains endured the worst drought recorded in the history of the
United States. Crops failed and livestock died. Huge dust storms turned
day into night covering the area in clouds of dirt, soot, and dust.
Ann Marie Low lived in southeastern North Dakota. Born in 1912, Ann
Marie kept diaries from 1927 to 1937. The diary describes the daily
struggle with the dust storms that invaded North Dakota, and it conveys
the hard work (usually without benefit of electricity) that was the
lot of women on the farm. The last entry in her diary, dated June 4,
1937, when she was twenty-five years old, records her frustration at
her lost youth and the bleak prospects for the future: “This is
a round that will go on forever. At least it will go on until my youth
is gone. Somehow, I’ve got to get out!!”
25, 1934 Wednesday
Last weekend was the worst dust storm we ever had. We’ve been
having quite a bit of blowing dirt every day since the drought started,
not only here, but all over the Great Plains. Many days this spring
the air is just full of dirt coming…for hundreds of miles. It
sifts into everything. After we wash the dishes and put them away, so
much dust sifts into the cupboards we must wash them again before the
next meal. Clothes in the closets are covered with dust.
Last weekend no one was taking an automobile out for fear of ruining
the motor. I rode Roany to Frank’s place to return a gear. To
find my way I had to ride right besides the fence post to the next.
Newspapers say the deaths of many babies and old people are attributed
to breathing in so much dirt.
7, 1934 Monday
The dirt is still blowing. Last weekend Bud (her brother) and I helped
with the cattle and had fun gathering weeds. Weeds give us greens for
salad long before anything in the garden is ready…
Still no job. I’m trying to persuade Dad that I should apply for
rural school #3 out here where we go to school. I don’t see a
chance of getting a job in high school when so many experienced teachers
are out of work.
He argues that the pay is only $60.00 a month out here, while even in
a grade school in time I might get $75.00. Extra expenses in town would
probably eat up that extra $15.00. Miss Eston, the practice teaching
supervisor, told me her salary has been cut to $75.00 after all the
years she has been teaching in Jamestown. She wants to get married.
School boards will not hire married women teachers in these hard times
because they have husbands to support them. Her fiancé is the
sole support of his widowed mother and can’t support a wife, too.
So she is just stuck in her job, hoping she won’t get another
salary cut because she can scarcely love on what she makes and dress
the way she is expected to.
May 21, 1934, Monday
Ethel has been having stomach trouble. Dad has been taking her to doctors
through suspecting her trouble is the fact that she often goes on a
diet that may affect her health. The local doctor said he might be chronic
appendicitis, so Mama took Ethel by train to Valley City last week to
have a surgeon there remove her appendix.
Saturday Dad, Bud, and I planted an acre of potatoes. There was so much
dirt in the air I couldn’t see Bud only a few feet in front of
me. Even the air in the house was just a haze. In the evening the wind
died down, and Cap came to take me to the movie. We joked about how
hard it is to get cleaned up enough to go anywhere.
The newspapers report that on May 10 there was such a strong wind that
experts in Chicago estimated 12,000,000 tons of Plains soil was dumped
on that city. By the next day the sun was obscured in Washington D.C.,
and ships 300 miles out at sea reported dust settling on their decks.
Sunday the dust wasn’t so bad. Dad and I drove cattle to the Big
pasture. Then I churned butter and baked ham, bread, and cookies for
the men, as no telling when mama will be back.
30, 1934, Wednesday
got along fine, so mama left her at the hospital and came to Jamestown
by train Friday. Dad took us both home.
The mess was incredible! Dirt had blown into the house all week and
lay inches deep on everything. Every towel and curtain was just black.
There wasn’t a clean dish or cooking utensil. There was no food.
Oh, there were eggs and milk and on loaf left of the breas I baked the
weekend before. I looked in the cooler box down the well (our refrigerator)
and found a little ham and eggs for the men’s suppoer because
that was all we could fix in a hurry. It turned out they had been living
on ham and eggs for two days.
Mama was very tired. After she had fixed started for bread, I insisted
she go to bed and I’d do all the dishes.
It took until 10 o’clock to wash all the dirty dishes. That’s
not wiping them—just washing them. The cupboards had to be washed
to have a clean place to put them.
Saturday was a busy day. Before starting breakfast I had to sweep and
wash all the dirt off the kitchen and dining room floors, wash the stove,
pancake griddle, and dining room table and chairs. There was cooking,
baking, and churning to be done for those hungry men. Dad is 6 feet
4 inches tall, with a big frame. Bud is 6 feet 3 inches and almost as
big boned as Dad. We say feeding him is like filling a silo.
Mama couldn’t make bread until I carried water to wash the bread
mixer. I couldn’t churn until the churn was washed and scalded.
We just couldn’t do anything until something was washed first.
Every room had to have dirt almost shoveled out of it before we could
wash floors and furniture.
We had no time to wash clothes, but it was necessary. I had to wash
out the boiler, wash tubs, and the washing machine before we could use
them. Then every towel, curtain, piece of bedding, and garment had to
be taken outdoors to have as much dust as possible shaken out before
washing. The cistern is dry, so I had to carry all the water we needed
from the well.
That evening Cap came to take me to the movie, as usual…I’m
sorry I snapped at Cap. It isn’t his fault, or anyone’s
fault, but I was tired and cross. Life is what the newspapers call “the
Dust Bowl” is becoming a gritty nightmare.
Back to top
a White Woman Accused a Black Man”
Scottsboro Boys Stand Trial
Depression exacerbated racial tensions. In Scottsboro, Alabama, nine
African-American youths were accused of raping two white women. Eight
of the “Scottsboro Boys” were sentenced to death, including
Clarence Norris. Their convictions were overturned by the Supreme count
in Powell v. Alabama (1932). In that case, the Court also ruled that
in capital cases, the states were required to appoint counsel for poor
were desperate times in the late 1920s, the beginning of the Great Depression
Make no doubt, the southern Negro was hit the hardest. It was tough
to survive it all. Myself and thousands of others stole rides on freight
trains and rode from city to city and town to town in search of work.
It was against the law to hop those trains but the jails couldn’t
hold all the folks dong it, so the railroad detectives didn’t
pay us no mind . . .
It was March 25, 1931, when I caught a train out of Chattanooga, Tennessee,
headed for Memphis. The train was a main line southern that went from
Tennessee to Georgia and Alabama, then back to Tennessee. As the train
went along, more and more hobos jumped aboard, black men and white men.
I had been riding for some time when the whites started throwing gravel
at the blacks, talking about ”All you niggers unload; get your
asses offa here.”
They had to be crazy. We were out in the middle of nowhere, all of us
stealing a ride, and these crackers start acting like they owned the
train. I wasn’t getting off and some of the other black guys must
have felt the same way. We fought the white boys, and it was a bloody
battle too. We beat the hell out of them and made ‘em get off
the train. The ones that didn’t want to go we throwed off. We
were moving pretty fast, so when they hit the ground they would tumble
quite a ways. We let one guy stay because the train started moving too
fast for him to make a safe landing. We had really put it to them but
they had brought it on themselves. After the fight I went back to where
I had been sitting on a crosstie car.
Every now and then the train had to stop and take on water. I didn’t
think nothing of it when we stopped a little lace, a flag station, Pain
Rock, Alabama. But when I looked up, the tracks were lined with a mob
of men. They had sticks, pistols, rifles, shotguns; everything you need
to murder, they had it. The fellas we had throwed off the train were
there too. The mob circled the train and made us all get off. They pushed
and shoved us until we were lined up in front of a building. We were
surrounded by a sea of white faces, screaming, “Let’s hand
these black sons of bitches. Where’s the rope for these niggers?”
Two men had on uniforms. I don’t know if they were police, firemen,
or soldiers, but they saved our lives. They asked the white boys who
it was had been in the fight. The white boys answered we were all in
it. The men in uniform said, “Let’s take them to jail.”
Somebody drove up in a school bus. They put handcuffs on us nine Negroes
that had been taken off and ran a rope through the handcuffs so we were
connected. They put us on the bus and all the whites that could get
on packed in too. We were taken to the nearest jail, in Scottsboro,
Alabama. That’s why we are called the Scottsboro Boys today.
They put the nine of us in a large cage by ourselves, and they locked
those white hobos up somewhere in there too. This is where I made the
acquaintance of the rest of the Scottsboro Boys. There were four out
of Chattanooga that were friends – two brothers. Roy and Andy
Wright, and Eugene Williams and Haywood Patterson, Ozie Powell, Olen
Montgomery, Charlie Weems, Willie Roberson, and myself were all from
different parts of Georgia . . .
All of us were scared to death, quite natural, and we didn’t know
what was going to happen next. Ate that evening crackers were outside
the jail, hollering and screaming and cursing us. They told the sheriff
to “bring those niggers out.” They said they would come
in and get us if we weren’t released. When they crowded into the
doorway the sheriff pulled his gun. He said, “If you come in here
I will blow your brains out. Get away from here.” You never heard
such a racket then. That made them mad as hell. The sheriff turned off
the lights: he wanted to move us but it was too late. The jail was surrounded.
The deputies kept telling the sheriff to move us but he knew we didn’t
stand a chance on the street. The crowd was howling like dogs, throwing
rocks and threatening to burn us out.
The sheriff called governor Ben Miller and asked him to send in the
National Guard. The governor didn’t waste any time. It wasn’t
long before I heard the Guard outside. They had to put something on
those crackers; they cracked some heads because they wouldn’t
leave peaceable. After the Guard cleared the streets, they stationed
themselves outside the jail and all over town. But I didn’t get
any sleep that night.
Next day we were taken from the cage and put in a line. The sheriff
brought two women over to us. He said, “Miss Price, which one
of these niggers had you?” She went down the line and pointing
her finger: “This one, this one, this one”. . . until she
had picked out six, including me. They asked the other woman, Ruby Bates,
the same question but she did not part her lips. A guard said, “Well,
if those six had Miss Price, it stands no reason the others had Miss
Bates.” We all started talking at once: “We never did any
such thing”; “No, sheriff, we didn’t do that.”
I blurted out that it was a lie. Before I could blink, that guard struck
out at me with his bayonet. I threw up my hands and he slashed my right
hand open to the bone. He screamed, “Nigger, you known damn well
how to talk about white women.”
They shoved us back into the cage. I was scared before, but it wasn’t
nothing to how I felt now. I knew if a white woman accused a black man
of rape, he was as good as dead. My hand was bleeding like I don’t
know what: my blood was running out of me like water. I tore my shirt
and wrapped the rag around my hand real tight. I bled for a long time
before it stopped that day, but I didn’t even think about it.
All I could think was that I was going to die for something I had not
done. I had never seen those two women before in my life . . .
We went to trial on April 6, 1931. The interdenominational Ministers
Alliance, a group of black preachers in Chattanooga, raised $50 to hire
us a lawyer. He came to see us about half an hour before the trial.
He was a white man named Stephen Roddy. He looked us over and asked
us which ones did the raping. He said, “Now if you boys will tell
the truth, I might be able to save some of your lives.” I didn’t
know what a lawyer was supposed to be but I knew this one was no good
for us. He had liquor on his breath, and he was as scared as we were.
When we got into the courtroom and the judge asked him if he was our
lawyer, the man said, “Not exactly.” . . .
The trials lasted for three days. There were four trials for nine men
. . .
I truly can’t remember much of those trials. The judge was Alfred
E. Hawkins. He let it be known he thought we were guilty and a trial
was a waste of time and money “for niggers.” I was nervous,
confused, and scared. Outside, the crowd were whooping it up, and inside
the courtroom they were jumping up and down, waving guns and laughing.
I know those women took the stand and testified under oath. They put
their hands on the Bible and lied and lied. They said we raped them
on a bed of gravel in an open freight car. They said we used knives
and hit them up side the head with guns to make them have sex. But the
law never found no knives or guns on us because we didn’t have
any . . .
All of us got the death penalty except Roy Wright. He looked so young
the state didn’t ask for the death of him, just life imprisonment.
But his jury was divided on whether to kill him or not. So his was declared
a mistrial. He was never tried again, but they kept him at Birmingham
in the Jefferson County Jail for six years until he was released in
1937. He was thirteen years old.
Judge Hawkins sentenced us to die April 9, 1931 . . . I was eighteen,
also Charlie Weems and Olen Montgomery; Haywood Patterson and Andy Wright
were nineteen; Ozie Powell was fifteen; Willie Roberson was fourteen;
and Eugene Williams was thirteen years old.
I never said so many happy white folks. They went wild. Cheers went
up all over town. They were rejoicing over our fate. There was dancing
in the streets. The bands played, “There’ll be a Hit Time
in the Old Town Tonight.”
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If Our Check Does Not Come?”
Living in Relief
income of American families decreased by more than half from 1929 to
1932. President Herbert Hoover, who blamed the Depression on international
economic problems, advocated a policy of “rugged individualism”
and opposed government intervention to restore economy.
But when Franklin Delano Roosevelt became president in 1933, he instituted
government programs to combat the Depression as part of his New Deal.
Among these were a national relief, or welfare, program that included
both direct payments and public works projects. Ann Rivington, an unemployed
music teacher pregnant with her first child, described the trauma and
humiliation of applying for relief.
When I went to college I studied sociology. I was taught that hunger,
squalor, dirt, and ignorance are the results of environment. Charity,
therefore, is no solution. We must change the environment. In order
to do this we have settlement houses, playgrounds, and social workers
in the slums.
In the past year and a half I have again revised my opinion. I am no
longer one of us. For all my education, my training in thrift, and cleanliness,
I am become one of them. My condition is shared by a larger sector of
the population. From my new place in society I regard the problems and
misery of the poor with new eyes.
Two years ago I was living in comfort and apparent security. My husband
had a good position in a well-known orchestra, and I was teaching a
large and promising class of piano pupils. When the orchestra was disbanded,
we started in a rapid downhill path. My husband was unable to secure
another position. My class gradually dwindled away. We were forced to
live on our savings.
In the early summer of 1933 I was eight months pregnant and we had just
spent our last twelve dollars on one month’s rent for an apartment.
We found that such apartments really exist. They lack the most elementary
comforts. They usually are infested with mice and bedbugs. Ours was.
Quite often the ceilings leak.
What, then, did we do for food when our last money was spent on rent?
In vain we tried to borrow more. So strong was the influence of our
training that my husband kept looking feverishly for work when there
was no work, and blaming himself because he was unable to find it. An
application to the Emergency Home Relief Bureau was the lack of our
We were so completely uniformed about the workings of charitable organizations
that we all thought all we need do was to make clear to the authorities
our grave situation in order to receive immediate attention. My husband
came home with an application blank in his pocket. We filled out the
application with great care. The next morning my husband started early
for the bureau. He returned at about two o’clock, very hungry
and weak from the heat. But he was encouraged.
“Well. I got to talk to somebody this time.” he said. “She
asked me over again all the questions on that paper and more besides.
Then she said to go home and wait. An investigator should be around
tomorrow or day after. On account of your condition she marked the paper
The next day we waited, and all of the two days more. The fourth day,
which was Saturday, my husband went back to the bureau. It was closed
On Sunday morning the Italian grocer reminded me of our bill. “It’s
get too big.” he said. We cut down to one meal a day, and toast.
Monday brought no investigator. Tuesday my husband was at the bureau
again. This time he came home hungry.
“They said the investigator was here Friday and we were out. I
got sore and told them somebody was lying.”
“But you shouldn’t. Now they won’t help us.”
“Now they will help us. So he’ll be here tomorrow.”
Last Wednesday afternoon the investigator arrived. So he questioned
us closely for more than half an hour on our previous and present situation,
our personal lives and relatives. This time we certainly expected the
check. But we were told wait.
“I’m a special investigator. The regular one will be around
Friday wit the check.”
My husband was in a torment of anxiety. “But we can’t wait
till Friday. We have to eat something.”
The investigator looked tired. “I must make my report. And there
are other cases ahead of yours.”
By Monday morning we had nothing for breakfast but oatmeal, without
sugar or milk. We decided we must go together to the bureau and find
out what was wrong. Therefore, as soon as we had finished breakfast,
we borrowed carfare from our kind neighbors and started out.
We reached the relief station a good fifteen minutes before nine, but
the sidewalk was crowded with people. My husband explained to me that
they were waiting to waylay the investigators on their way to work to
pour complaints and problems in their ears.
At last the doors were opened. The line crept forward. Three guards
stood at the entrance, and very person in the crowd had to tell his
business before he was admitted. Many were turned away. For the insistent
there was the inevitable answer.
“I got my orders,” said the policeman within ready call.
By half past nine we made our way to the door.
“Room two,” the guard said, handling us each a slip of paper.
The place was filled with long brown benches crowded with our drab companions
in hunger. Others were standing along the walls. The air was stifling
and rank with the smell of poverty. We sat down at the rear of the bench.
Gradually we were able to slide to the end of our bench, then back along
the next bench.
I watched the people around us. There they sat waiting, my fellow indigents.
Bodies were gaunt or flabby, faces-some stoical, some sullen-all careworn
like my husband’s. What had they done, or left undone, to inherit
hunger? What was this relief we asking for? Certainly it was not charity.
It was dispensed too grudgingly, too harshly, to be that.
When our turn came to talk to one of the women behind the desks, we
were told that the checks had been held up for lack of funds and that
we should go home and wait for an investigator some time this week.
We were not going to be put off in this manner. My husband told her,
“We have to have something more than promises. There’s no
food in the house, and my wife can’t live on air.”
“Well, that’s all I can tell you,” said the woman.
“If that’s all you can tell me, who knows more than you?
We’re not leaving without a better answer. I want the supervisor.”
At last the supervisor was called. “The checks will be out tomorrow
night. You’ll get yours Thursday.”
Sure enough early Thursday afternoon the regular investigator arrived.
He gave us a check for $8.50 to cover two weeks’ food. We had
already spent $2.00 at the grocer’s. And this amount, of course,
was counted off the check. But Pete was not satisfied.
“Gotta take off more. I poor too.”
I shook my head. “Wait,” I said. “We’ll pay
you, but not this time.” I looked around the little shop hungrily.
I was tortured by a great longing for fresh fruit.
“How much are the grapes?” I asked. “No grapes,”
said Pete. “No grapes for you.”
“But why not Pete?”
“Grapes are luxury. Your get beans, potatoes, and onions. Poor
people no eat grapes.”
I was bewildered. But Pete meant what he said. He showed me a bulletin
he had received from the relief bureau listing the things allowed on
the food checks of the jobless. I cannot remember all the regulations,
but I do remember that only dried fruit was listed. The quantities of
eggs, butter, and milk were strictly limited. No meat except salt pork,
unsliced bacon, pig’s liver, and other entrails. Rice, beans,
potatoes, bread, and onions were the main items to be sold. I saw no
mention of fresh vegetables. I was highly indignant.
“Listen Pete, my stomach isn’t leather even if I have no
money.” I picked up a nice juicy cantaloupe and two bunches of
“These are onions and potatoes.” I said and marched out
the door trailing carrot tops….
Gradually the more and more deficient diet began to tell us. We did
not lose much weight-the very poor usually eat plenty of starch-but
we began to suffer form debility, colds, minor infections….
Meanwhile we are still living on the relief. We keep wondering and questioning.
What if our check does not come next week? What when the relief bureau
stops paying rents for the summer? Will we be evicted? Will our family
be broken up, our little girl taken away from us? After a time these
questions reach our beyond our burning personal needs. What is the cause
of our suffering? Wither it is leading us, and the increasing millions
like us? What is wrong with the system, the civilization that brings
with it such wholesale misery? My own voice is one of many that are
asking, more and more insistently.
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A Child’s Letter to the First Lady
I am writing you a little letter this morning. Are you glad it [is]
spring? I am, for so many poor people can raise some more to eat. You
know what I am writing this letter for? Mother said Mrs. Roosevelt is
just a godmother to the world, and I thought maybe you had some old
clothes. You know, Mother is a good sewer, and all the little girls
are getting Easter dresses. And I thought that you had some. You know
Papa could wear Mr. Roosevelt’s shirts and clothes I know.
My Papa likes Mr. Roosevelt, and Mother said Mr. Roosevelt carries his
worries with a smile – you know he is always happy. You know we
are not living on relief – we live on a little far. Papa did have
a job and got lad [off] five years ago, so we saved and go two horses
and two cows and a hog so we can . . .[have] everything to eat. Sometimes
we don’t have anything but we live. But you know it [is] so hard
to get cloth. So I thought maybe you had some. You now what you thought
was no good Mother can make over for me. I am eleven years old. I wish
I could see you. I know I would like you both . . .
We have no car or no phone or radio. Papa, he would like to have a radio
but he said there [are] other things he needs more. Papa is worried
about his seeds oats. And one horse is not very good. But everyone has
to worry. I am sending this letter with the pennies I get to take to
Sunday school. Mother gives me one [each week], so it took three weeks
– ‘cause Mother would think I better not ask for things
from the First Lady. But Mother said you were an angel for doing so
much for the poor. And I thought that [it] would be alright . . .
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