bluuebunny/crossref_metadata_2025_split huggingface dataset:
Interlude Delphi, 1922-24: The Road to the Temple
Authors: Ben-Zvi Linda 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
At 7:30 A.M., March r, 1922, the small, ocean-going passenger vessel the Themistocles left New York harbor bound for Piraeus with Susan and Jig aboard. “Snow blowing canary singing,” Jig noted as his diary entry for the day.1 “The ‘Themistocles’ was less expansive than the man for whom it was named,” Glaspell wryly recalled. Better equipped and far more spacious ships crossed to Greece, but a more comfortable booking would have meant a two-week delay; and Jig did not want to be in New York when The Hairy Ape opened eight days later. Because the ship was small, they were able to become friends with the ship’s captain and at least two of their fellow passengers: Miss Eldridge, an archeologist, who was on her way to work on a dig at Calliphon, and William Rapp, who, like Jig, was a lover of Greek culture and was working on some writing projects in Athens and Istanbul. Susan loved the crossing, despite the wind and snow that followed the boat during the first weeks en route, and she spent much of her time on deck, talking with Eldridge and Rapp. Jig was usually holed up studying his massive Liddell and Scott Greek dictionary, which he had found on Fourth Avenue in New York two days before they sailed, and which he carried under his arm as he moved around the boat and later put in a place of honor in his room in Delphi.
The Federal Theatre Project
Authors: Ben-Zvi Linda 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Like her homes, Susan's friends had been hers, and Norman had gained access to them thanks to her. Several, including the Hapgoods, only tolerated him for her sake. Mary Vorse, alienated from Susan during the Norman years, now, in 1933, picked up the threads of their relationship. Susan's closest confidants during this period were Katie and John Dos Passos, Dorothy Smith, and Stella “Knobby” Roof, a former “Smooley,” who shared Susan’s Provincetown house during the winter and spring of 1933. Susan was now drinking heavily and still unable to write. While she talked about the latter problem, she found it difficult to admit the former. She prided herself that she was able to keep up a good front and that friends assumed “Susan is fine.” In fact news of her situation was well known.
“Old Buck”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Buckner telephoned the day after Christmas; he was on his way to New River, North Carolina, for boot training as a Marine, and he had a short layover. Yes, naturally, he would be right out. I had not seen Buck for fifteen years. When I was teaching at Lincoln University, in Missouri, Buck needed money to get through school and I needed some-body for odd chores. The rambling old house that I had rented was not easy to keep straight, especially since I had started my hobbies of collecting theme papers, books, and phonograph records. Buck liked the records and was a curious reader of whatever books looked interesting. He was probably most indispensable, however, for the yarns he spun and the characters he guided to the front door. The two most startling madmen were Revelations, the garrulous preacher, and an escaped patient from Kankakee, Illinois. The latter told me a pitiful tale of how his foot had been purposely broken in the hospital. He talked so coherently that I had no suspicions of him; later I learned that he had been captured across the river and returned to the asylum as a dangerous lunatic.
“Club Car”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
It was a slow train through Northern Alabama, stopping, as a fellow traveler put it, “at every pig path.” I got on at midnight, and had at least an eight-hour trip to Atlanta. There wasn’t to be any sleeping I discovered: the porter and brakeman saw to that by continually slamming the door between the baggage compartment and the Jim Crow smoker. They had to work; why should anyone sleep? This wasn’t a Pullman anyway. I had the choice seats, the two facing each other on the side with the toilet. The conductor’s “office” was across from the toilet; in the two other seats, one of which had been turned, two fellows sprawled facing each other. I put my feet up on the opposite seat and smoked myself into a semi-daze. I caught a few phrases from the talk of the fellows who were less curious about me than I was about them. One fellow gave his name as Young. His little daughter was asleep in the first seat of the main part of the Jim Crow coach. She came into the smoker once for a drink of water. Ever so often Young and his fellow traveler would get up and go look at her.
“On The Government”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
When Eugene Talmadge campaigned in Greensboro, Georgia, his stock assault on the Rosenwald Fund was peculiarly ironic. Other sections of the state had profited from Rosenwald funds in education, but Greene County had an added debt. A Rosenwald fellowship enabled Arthur Raper to complete Preface to Peasantry, a thorough study of the county’s possibilities and needs. This book attracted the attention of Will W. Alexander, a director of the Rosenwald Fund, and led to his interest in Greene County as Administrator of the Farm Security Administration. Because of this interest, the county has been “on the government” for four years, and all of the demagoguery in the world cannot destroy the facts of its progress. Arthur Raper has written three works on Greene County, his doctor’s thesis (1931), Preface to Peasantry (1936), and Tenants of the Almighty (1943) which traces the county’s social history. Greene County was once fertile and prosperous, but concentrating on cotton after the Civil War, it slowly declined in fertility and wealth. Dairy farming in the early years of this century brought back something of prosperity, but another war, bringing in forty-cent cotton, returned the county to cotton farming and trouble.
“V For Victory”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The first coach of the Dixie Flyer is divided into three parts: a long Jim Crow section; a cubbyhole which is the Jim Crow smoker, consisting of two seats that face each other on each side of the aisle; and a long section for whites. The Dixie Flyer was hurtling through central Georgia. It was late at night, and alone in the smoker, I had snatched a doze when their voices woke me. They were in the khaki of naval cadets. I could tell from their accent that they were from the North. They were criticizing the famed hospitality of the South. They had wanted to sit together, but nobody in the coach behind would move to another seat. A couple of fellows had refused a direct request even though they would have to sit beside a stranger in any case. Maybe the passengers detected that Yankee twang. So the cadets had come up to the Jim Crow smoker. One was dark-haired and short, looking a bit Jewish. The other was a tall blonde. As they scoffed at the local folk-ways, I ventured my question, “Where are you fellows from?” New York and Newark, they told me. I was just through an irritating experience at the Atlanta bus station and was hot and dog-tired. “God’s country,” I said.
“Separate But Equal”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
I had heard some low-pitched talk between him and the conductor, and then he came over to me. “Could I sit here with you?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. “Help yourself.” I slipped my briefcase to the floor. He was a meek looking fellow, probably in his sixties. As he sat beside me, a man and a woman, loaded with suitcases, got in his vacant seat. “Did you hear what the conductor said to me?” He sounded aggrieved. I told him no. “Well, he came and said, ‘I told you to move before.’ I said he did not tell me to move. ‘I told you to git up,’ he said. ‘You didn’t,’ I said. ‘You must have meant to tell me.’ ‘Well, I’m telling you now. You move over there by that man (meaning you) and let these people have this seat. That man (meaning you) ain’t got no right to all that room.’ “ “I didn’t know,” I said. “I don’t want more than my share of room.” “Don’t you bother. Look back there in the coach. See that long seat back there? Ain’t nobody in it. A body could lie down on it if he wanted to. That’s seven seats a person could sit down in. But he did not tell me to move. This crowded train has just got him excited.
“Georgia Nymphs”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Ed and I had been talking to J. C. all morning, and at noon he asked us to have dinner with him. He wanted to put the big pot in the little one for us, but we had agreed beforehand not to take advantage of J. C.’s bounty. It wasn’t only or chiefly that his ailing daughter and her young ones needed the fat meat and the greens in the little pot. It was rather that J. C. didn’t have a well, but filled his old wooden bucket from a spring. And on this side of the track the type of community planning seemed to be: house, pig-sty (where pigs were occasionally owned), privy, and then in the dip at the bottom of the draining slope, the common spring. I had been told in Atlanta to drink no more spring water in the back country than I had to. Ed and I had been guzzling all the various Colas of the brood sired by Papa Coca until we felt natural off the water wagon. We told J. C. that we had messages for Widow Thompkins from her son up in Fulton Tower, and while he was suspicious and jealous, he remained the old Southern gentleman that he truly was.
“And/Or”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
For safety’s sake, though he is a lieutenant in the Army now and may never come back to the South, let us call him Houston. He was short and frail, with a dark brown, sensitive face. I first met him at the FEPC hearings in Birmingham when, on short acquaintance, he revealed to me how he was burned up by conditions in Dixie. To judge from his twang, he was Southern-born, and he was Tuskegee trained, but he had the rather dicty restaurant on edge when he went into his tirades. The brown burghers, some of them a bit jittery anyway at FEPC and especially at the influx of a bunch of young “foreign” and radical Negroes into dynamite-loaded Birmingham, eyed him carefully over their glasses of iced tea. I ran into him again in the small Alabama town where he was teaching. He was still quite a talker, in his high-pitched voice with a quaver in it—though he didn’t quaver in other respects. He was brimming over with facts and consequent bitterness, deeper than I expected in a graduate of Tuskegee. To him, as to so many college men, the Negro’s great need was the ballot. He had made a thoughtful study of the disenfranchising techniques and political shenanigans of Alabama in general. He laughed sardonically at the Negro’s being asked to interpret such “constitutional” questions as “What is non compos mentis when it is applied to a citizen in legal jeopardy?” But he knew also how deeply engraved was the symbol at the head of the Democratic column on the official ballot used in all elections in Alabama: a rooster with the words “White Supremacy” arched over its head, and the words under it: “For the Right.”
“Sister Cities”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
I have not been down to Charleston in Azalea time. Nor on any of my three trips have I climbed to the top of Charleston’s highest building to look down on the historic spots, which, the natives tell me, outnumber those to be seen from any similar vantage in America. But I am acquainted with some of the memorials to Charleston’s past: the long, double-humped Cooper River Bridge, venerable St. Philip’s Church, whose chimes cast into Confederate cannon, were never replaced; St. Michael’s Church, whose four-dialed clock in the steeple tells the time by which old Charlestonians go, regardless of what radio Bulova announces; the Old Exchange, the Dock Theatre, oldest playhouse in America. From East on High Battery, I have seen Fort Sumter, low-lying, surly in the gray distance. I have strolled the entire Battery and those other famed streets: Meeting, Broad, Church, King, Tradd, and Legare, which the natives defiantly pronounce Legree. I remember the “single houses” set flush with the pavement, characteristically shouldering the street, fronting to the side as it were. Charlestonians told me how in this subtropical climate, galleries and piazzas were faced south to catch the winds from the sea. Like New Orleans, Charleston is a city of hidden gardens, walled in from the vulgar street. Sitting on their long piazzas, the aristocrats can revel over their flowers: wisteria, magnolias, azaleas in the spring; crepe myrtles, and oleanders in the summer; daffodils and camellia-japonicas in the fall and winter. I have seen several age-mellowed houses of the great: Miles Brewton’s Georgian masterpiece, the homes of William Rhett, John Rutledge, and Manigault; the Rainbow Row with its houses of varicolored pastel hues. Of the many examples of famous iron tracery, I especially remember “Sword Gates” with their scrolls, spears, swords, and cross, and the Sass Iron Gates, unbelievably delicate. Behind that wrought filigree I imagined Herbert Ravenal Sass, the contemporary author, lost in reveries of what he calls “The Golden Age of a region of romance leisure, culture, in general a high sense of responsibility for a dependent, helpless race.” I thought how much a “helpless race” had brought to this civilization: the wealth came in large part from slave laborers in the indigo, rice, and cotton fields; and the beauty in large part from slave artisans, skillful beyond ordinary imagining in ironwork, bricklaying, carpentry, and gardening.
“Low Cotton”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The plantation was a large one, on a backroad. Sandy, the young teacher, thought it wiser that we go there well after nightfall. He wasn’t exactly sure how Mr. Cluttsby would take our visit. I was glad that he told Ulysses to dim the lights when the road wound around Mr. Cluttsby’s big house. Though it was a hundred yards away, we lowered our voices too, feeling conspiratorial. Sandy said he knew the road as well as the back of his hand, and near the big house that was true. We stopped at the darkened commissary where the numerous families came for “furnish,” and where, beside the watering pond, they exchanged news and kidding and tall tales. Sandy told us how he had gradually been accepted by the people. One of his stories dealt with his Christmas party, when he had introduced the plantation Negroes to Santa Claus. But the party ended nearly tragically. When Santa Claus appeared, in red suit and pink mask and white beard, the smallest children screamed in terror and fled to their mothers and fathers. They must have thought that Santa was old Satan. At any rate he was a strange white man. Even the peppermint canes and gumdrops and all-day suckers could not get the party to the proper Christmas spirit of good will to men, and Sandy did not repeat the experiment. Christmas is just another day to these kids. Sandy did not know the farthest little traveled roads so well. Ulysses finally asked, “Are those weeds or cotton I’m driving over?” and in the headlights we noticed the green bolls. We were heading toward an old log cabin, and were in what should have been a yard, but cotton was growing to the doorstep. The cabin was deserted. Ulysses turned around as well as he could in the gray mire, and drove down what we had thought was a road but what was a stretch of low cotton. “I’ll bet I’ve spoiled a bale of cotton,” Ulysses said ruefully. Sandy’s eyes were better in that pitch darkness than ours. “Stop,” he said to Ulysses. Gathering shape in the darkness we saw him coming, black as the night. I had never heard his type of dialect before; it was a staccato mutter, sounding like a speech defect. But we gathered that the man we searched for: “He gone. He ain’t there.” That was all. Just gone. Nothing else was offered.
“Take Your Coat Off, Gene!”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
They were setting up an apparatus and trying out the loudspeaker when I got to the heart of the town. A steady stream of the inhabitants of that section of south-eastern Georgia was already pouring in. Some had got off the train I rode; more were arriving in mule wagons, buggies, old model Fords, jiggling high above the ground, and other makes of cars, dusty and spattered. They found parking places and strolled the streets, truculent, suspicious, ready for a good time, spoiling for band music, oratory, liquor, and fighting. The only white man I knew in town was an old friend, there on government business. I called briefly at his office. He warned me that an explosion was due, since Talmadge’s chief of constabulary had broadcast his threat against troublemakers and his advice that Southern white women should arm themselves. The time was ripe, my friend told me, and I was quite the guy, obviously a strange Negro in the town, and probably northern. I tried not to appear too scared, and hoped to sound casual. “If I get into trouble,” I said, “do I know you?” “Sure you know me,” he said. “I have some contacts here. The worst that can happen is that you’ll be thrown in jail. They’ll hardly beat you up, or anything like that.”
“The Path To Alcorn”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Alcorn College and its environs were steeped in history too. In July 1830, the trustees of the Presbyterian Church brought some of their slaves to clear a campus out of the thick woodland and to lay the foundations for a college for white young men. Because of the live oaks that they left in beautiful groves, the college was called Oakland, and was intended for general culture and the training of ministers. Its location was in the center of things then, only a few miles on a good road to the flourishing river town of Rodney. Its first president, the Reverend Jeremiah Chamberlain, an eminent Presbyterian minister, engaged in a heated dispute about slavery in the college chapel, and was stabbed with a sword cane in the yard surrounding the president’s home. This assassination was ominous of the later history of Oakland. After the battle at Fort Sumter, the young men of Oakland College left the shady groves for the bivouac. At the close of the Civil War, financially wrecked, the institution was offered for sale.
“The Palmer Case”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Before I got to know Lutrelle F. Palmer well, I had heard an anecdote that did him honor. It also held promise of what has happened to him since. When the white principals of Richmond’s colored high schools were finally displaced by Negroes, Dr. Palmer was offered the principalship of the new Maggie Walker High School. Richmond wanted him badly, but offered him less than the principals of the white high schools were getting. Palmer naturally refused. The dickering continued; larger and larger salaries were offered. Finally Palmer stated his price, which was exactly that being paid white principals. The representative of the Richmond board spoke in aggrieved surprise: “But, Dr. Palmer, you know we can’t pay you that. That’s what we pay white principals.” As the anecdote was told me at Slaughter’s Café in Richmond, “The white folks offered Palmer all the way up to $3,000. ‘Couldn’t you take just $2,998.98, Mr. Palmer? We can’t go a cent higher.’ The white folks were nearly crying. Even called him Mr. Palmer. But Palmer wasn’t coming on that deal. Not for one penny less.” Palmer admitted gravely, a bit stiffly, that the anecdote was to all intents and purposes true. I have known him for many years, having visited his model high school in Newport News, and having served with him on the staff of the Atlanta Summer School where he supervised educational workshops. About the campus he was always earnest, but in the classroom his reserve was shed and a zeal, almost that of a preacher, took its place. Years ago when I was a school kid, around Howard University I had heard him debate for Wilberforce against Howard; I remember him, even after thirty years, quiet but forceful and convincing, a man for Howard to watch. He had grown bald in the meanwhile, but the piercing, almost glaring eyes beneath the heavy rimmed glasses were the same as when he used to say “Honorable Judges, Ladies, and Gentlemen.”
“Colleges: Retreat Or Reconnaissance”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
One of my favorite yarn-spinners in the South told me this one. He was traveling, as faculty director, with the Alabama State College orchestra, to play for a dance in southern Alabama. Their bus was making pretty good time on the dusty clay roads, and they passed an old jalopy filled with whites. Shouts followed them, but looking back all they could see was a cloud of orange dust. Then the jalopy roared by them, and about a hundred yards ahead turned sideways in a narrow cut and waited. “We stopped the bus,” my friend told me, “and wondered what was up. The crackers came back armed with sticks and stones. They ordered us out of the bus, and told us they were going to teach us not to give our dust to white folks. My boys were good men, all of them, but they knew what they were in for, and they didn’t answer back a word. It looked pretty ugly for awhile. I noticed an old white man, just standing by, looking on. I appealed to him. He wouldn’t deal with me directly, never opened his mouth. So I started talking with the loudest young cracker. He was spoiling for trouble, but so far was taking it out in talk. I told him that we had not meant any harm. He wasn’t interested. I told him we were going to play at a dance for white folks and were just trying to make time as we had had to leave our school late.
“Song Hunter”
Authors: Tidwell John Edgar , Sanders Mark A 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The morning after the songfest, Willis James and I sat out on the lawn of President Bond’s home, under a large, shady water oak. Barely a current of air was stirring; it was quiet and drowsy. A farm truck might cough and splutter down the red road beyond the hedge, or a mule wagon might poke along, but there wasn’t much else active. Willis gave out with good talk. He was justly pleased at the showing his boys had made the night before. He wanted me to be sure to tell Kemper Harreld and Tic Tillman, his colleagues at Morehouse, and Florence Read, his boss at Spelman, just what he was doing. “I had made out all right with the fellows,” he said. “They took to you O.K. Probably talking about you now over in Macon.” As we were talking, a couple of men in work clothes yelled at each other across the road. “Ssh,” said Willis. “Listen.” “The bear gonna git you,” said the first. “How come he ain’t got you?” the second snapped back. Willis explained that “the bear” was the sun; the first man had meant, “The sun will get you, grab you, knock you flat.” The second one meant, “How come he gonna get me, if he ain’t got you? I’m as good a man as you.” “Where’s Zack?” the talk went on. “He’s gone with the peaches,” came to us over the hedge. The peaches had all been picked, were gone from this section, which was famous for them. Pickers followed them in both northeasterly and southwesterly directions. Pickers’ wages depended on the market; sometimes they were paid by the bushel, sometimes by the day. “It all depends on the white folks,” said Willis. “They’re so smart they don’t standardize. The more money peaches are bringing, the more leniency they show. Only natural.”