One man who made his appearance in night-school about the middle of the winter, I shall never forget. His entrance was quite overpowering—a big man, big cane, big hat, and a big shawl thrown over his shoulder, Arab style. I happened to be at leisure, so I went at once to ask him if he intended coming regularly to school. Saying that he did, my next question was, “What’s your name?” “I’m Lucy’s husband, over there.” As I didn’t know Lucy, I was not much the wiser, and had to repeat the question with the emphasis on the _your_. Wishing to classify him, I asked, “What book do you read in?” “The Bible mostly, ma’am.” “Can you read in the First Reader?” “Yes, first, second, third, fourth and all the other elementary books.” Thinking I might gain some information where to assign him, I looked at the books he had brought with him. There were four: a large family Bible; another book of some size, but very fine print, on “Presbyterian Ordination Refuted;” a “Child’s Scripture Question Book,” and a small geography. But if the night-schools were amusing, the afternoon schools for the women were not less so. Old women and young women, many of them in fantastic attire, with hats, caps and dresses that would have been considered prizes by an antiquary; the dark faces peering from under the white or speckled turban; old women wiping their spectacles, vainly endeavoring to get “more light” on the subject, while picking away at the letters in some old Primer, as if they were to be transferred bodily to the head. Aunt Chloe Fisher must have been seventy-five or eighty years old, but still she was bright and original. She came into school one afternoon very anxious to learn to read “de way, de troof, and de life.” Seeing some women in another part of the room reading, she exclaimed, “Jes hear dem niggers read! If dis nig can’t read, too, won’t she fight ’em?” and then she vigorously applied her finger to the pages of the Gospel of John which she had with her, finding the words Lord and God, which were about all she knew. She believed in both faith and works, for she used to pray most earnestly that God would help her know the words, and then get up in the middle of the night and light a pine knot to see if she had a word right. Old Aunt Chloe was always happy. I never saw her otherwise but once, and then she was greatly troubled for fear she should lose her place in the grave-yard. One special place she had chosen, and young people were dying so fast she was afraid she should not die soon enough to lie there. She would get happy over her wash-tub or anywhere else, and her hands and her feet would keep time with some negro hymn in a most amusing manner.