“At Thanksgiving time 1894 Paul Laurence Dunbar, the Negro poet, was a guest in my house in Louisville, Ky. Here for the first time in the South he read the Negro dialect poems that afterwards made him famous. September 2nd, 1895, my son, the late Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., was born in the room in which these poems were read. He learned to read and write from his sister, Florence Olivia, who was two years older. Before he entered school at the age of six years he had read about thirty books--these included all the readers in the elementary schools--1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8th grades and parts of the Bible. Mrs. Maria F. Cotter, my wife, and I held both children back. We refused to allow them to be promoted in several instances. Both were graduated from the Louisville Central High School under 16; Florence Olivia won first honor of her class and Joseph the second. He was graduated June 1911. After a year and a half at Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn., Florence Olivia wrote us that Joseph had tuberculosis and must leave school. He returned home and was put under a doctor. The 16th of the following December, Florence Olivia returned from Fisk with tuberculosis, and one year from that day she died. It was grieving over his sister’s death that discovered to Joseph his poetic talent. He died February 3rd, 1919, leaving his published poems,--_The Band of Gideon_ and two other unpublished works--one of poems and one of one-act plays.” _Joseph S. Cotter, Sr._ RAIN MUSIC On the dusty earth-drum Beats the falling rain; Now a whispered murmur, Now a louder strain. Slender, silvery drumsticks. On an ancient drum, Beat the mellow music Bidding life to come. Chords of earth awakened, Notes of greening spring, Rise and fall triumphant Over every thing. Slender, silvery drumsticks Beat the long tattoo-- God, the Great Musician, Calling life anew. SUPPLICATION I am so tired and weary, So tired of the endless fight, So weary of waiting the dawn And finding endless night. That I ask but rest and quiet-- Rest for the days that are gone, And quiet for the little space That I must journey on. AN APRIL DAY On such a day as this I think, On such a day as this, When earth and sky and nature’s whole Are clad in April’s bliss; And balmy zephyrs gently waft Upon your cheek a kiss; Sufficient is it just to live On such a day as this. THE DESERTER I know not why or whence he came Or how he chanced to go; I only know he brought me love And going, left me woe. I do not ask that he turn back, Nor seek where he may rove; For where woe rules can never be The dwelling place of love. For love went out the door of hope, And on and on has fled; Caring no more to dwell within The house where faith is dead. AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY?