former schoolteacher, and within ten seconds it felt positively refreshing. By New England standards it had given people a renewed feeling of spring fever, since, with the exception of one or two days in October, it had been unseasonably warm.
Mr. Nichols was enjoying the sudden change in climate so much that he decided to break with tradition and read his paper on the porch. His front door still being open, he called to his wife in the kitchen, “Hey, Mabel. Bring me out another cup o’ coffee. The heat’s broke. I’m gonna sit and enjoy it a spell.” He sat down in his porch swing, opened the paper to the front page, sank back into the cushion, and began to rock.
Before his eyes could scan the paper, they caught sight of something strange. It was a boy walking past the Nichols’ picket fence with his hands deep in the pockets of his overalls. Arthur Nichols reckoned this boy to be about ten or eleven, which made him immediately wonder why the boy was not on his way to school, since he wasn’t carrying a lunch bucket or a single book.
Nichols’ suspicion that the boy was not enrolled in Wheelwright Academy was further validated by two more details: first, the boy was headed in the opposite direction of the school and seemed to be hesitating in walking to wherever it was that he was going; and, second, he was colored. Mr. Nichols presumed this boy to be new in town, since he knew of no Negro families residing in Holly. What’s more, as of June 1929 the total population of Wheelwright Academy was 100% white.
Arthur Nichols wasn’t one to separate people according to their race or religion. He was, after all, liberal to the core and believed in equal rights for Negroes. Still, as a lifelong resident in a completely homogenous town, Arthur Nichols could not but be struck by seeing a child of color walking down the street.
“Hello there!” Mr. Nichols shouted in an excited voice, and then recoiled once he saw the boy jump back a step.
The Negro, dressed in a brown shirt with dark blue overalls, studied Nichols. He gave an impression of a boy frightened. The child quickly looked in the direction he was walking, then back to the side of the street from which he had come. To Arthur Nichols it appeared that the boy was getting ready to run, so the man acted quickly.
He got up from the porch swing, tucked the newspaper under his right arm, extended his left hand, and called out in a much milder tone than before, “Wait, son! Don’t leave.”
The boy stopped, a look of skepticism on his dark brow. He allowed the former schoolteacher to open his front gate and come out onto the street and approach him.
“Hello, son,” Nichols said cordially.
The boy said nothing. He just stood there, having nothing to say in response to the kind man.
“You must be new in town.”
Still the boy said nothing. Arthur Nichols continued, a bit at a loss for words, sensing that the boy didn’t trust him.
“I teach school here. Actually I used to teach. I’m retired.” The boy still gazed up at him, expressionless and mouth closed tight. “What’s your name, son? How old are you?”
Again no response.
At this point Arthur Nichols knew that, if he were going to get anywhere with this child, he’d have to do all the talking and perhaps even entice him. Nichols remembered the piece of chocolate candy he had put into his pocket as he left the kitchen. He reached in and pulled it out. The silver foil, on which stuck some gray lint from Nichols’ pocket, shone in the sun as he showed it to the boy. This got the child’s attention. Paying Mr. Nichols no mind, he was now completely captivated by the candy, and began licking his lips.
“Would you like this?” Mr. Nichols asked him.
The boy stared hungrily for a few more seconds at the candy and then turned to Arthur Nichols as if seeking approval. He nodded at Nichols, who then handed it to him slowly so as not to scare him again. The boy took the candy with both hands as if
Mr. Nichols was enjoying the sudden change in climate so much that he decided to break with tradition and read his paper on the porch. His front door still being open, he called to his wife in the kitchen, “Hey, Mabel. Bring me out another cup o’ coffee. The heat’s broke. I’m gonna sit and enjoy it a spell.” He sat down in his porch swing, opened the paper to the front page, sank back into the cushion, and began to rock.
Before his eyes could scan the paper, they caught sight of something strange. It was a boy walking past the Nichols’ picket fence with his hands deep in the pockets of his overalls. Arthur Nichols reckoned this boy to be about ten or eleven, which made him immediately wonder why the boy was not on his way to school, since he wasn’t carrying a lunch bucket or a single book.
Nichols’ suspicion that the boy was not enrolled in Wheelwright Academy was further validated by two more details: first, the boy was headed in the opposite direction of the school and seemed to be hesitating in walking to wherever it was that he was going; and, second, he was colored. Mr. Nichols presumed this boy to be new in town, since he knew of no Negro families residing in Holly. What’s more, as of June 1929 the total population of Wheelwright Academy was 100% white.
Arthur Nichols wasn’t one to separate people according to their race or religion. He was, after all, liberal to the core and believed in equal rights for Negroes. Still, as a lifelong resident in a completely homogenous town, Arthur Nichols could not but be struck by seeing a child of color walking down the street.
“Hello there!” Mr. Nichols shouted in an excited voice, and then recoiled once he saw the boy jump back a step.
The Negro, dressed in a brown shirt with dark blue overalls, studied Nichols. He gave an impression of a boy frightened. The child quickly looked in the direction he was walking, then back to the side of the street from which he had come. To Arthur Nichols it appeared that the boy was getting ready to run, so the man acted quickly.
He got up from the porch swing, tucked the newspaper under his right arm, extended his left hand, and called out in a much milder tone than before, “Wait, son! Don’t leave.”
The boy stopped, a look of skepticism on his dark brow. He allowed the former schoolteacher to open his front gate and come out onto the street and approach him.
“Hello, son,” Nichols said cordially.
The boy said nothing. He just stood there, having nothing to say in response to the kind man.
“You must be new in town.”
Still the boy said nothing. Arthur Nichols continued, a bit at a loss for words, sensing that the boy didn’t trust him.
“I teach school here. Actually I used to teach. I’m retired.” The boy still gazed up at him, expressionless and mouth closed tight. “What’s your name, son? How old are you?”
Again no response.
At this point Arthur Nichols knew that, if he were going to get anywhere with this child, he’d have to do all the talking and perhaps even entice him. Nichols remembered the piece of chocolate candy he had put into his pocket as he left the kitchen. He reached in and pulled it out. The silver foil, on which stuck some gray lint from Nichols’ pocket, shone in the sun as he showed it to the boy. This got the child’s attention. Paying Mr. Nichols no mind, he was now completely captivated by the candy, and began licking his lips.
“Would you like this?” Mr. Nichols asked him.
The boy stared hungrily for a few more seconds at the candy and then turned to Arthur Nichols as if seeking approval. He nodded at Nichols, who then handed it to him slowly so as not to scare him again. The boy took the candy with both hands as if
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