The Birmingham age-herald., 1909-11-14
Old Black Nanny.
From the Atlanta Georgian.

| from the Atlanta Georgian.
 In the passing of the old black mammy
 one of the most loyal and unique types
 of character which the ante-bellum days produced on the southern plantation has
 commenced to fade in the dim retrospect of the years.
 To the present generation of youngsters this peculiar product of the old south is unknown. So much the worse for them, in some respects at least.
 But the children of the older growth, whose stopped shoulders and silvered locks are beginning to tell of autumn days, knew well the old black nanny;
 and whenever they recall her duslSy im- age to mind there gathers moisture in the eyes and lump is felt in the throat. The stories which she could tell--the
 songs which she could sing-their very names were legion. She was childhoods best friend in the old days which will come no more.s
 But no higher eulogium was ever framed to the old black nanny or to the race which produced her than was framed In the eloquent speech of Henry Grady at the Boston banquet in 1889:
 "The love we feel for that race you can neither measure nor comprehend As l attest it here, the spirit of my old black nanny from her home up there looks down to bless me, and through the tumut of this night steals the sweet music of her croonings as 30 years ago she held me In her black arms and led me smiling ly into sleep.
 This scene vanishes as speak, and I catch a vision of an old southern home, with its lofty pillars and its white pig cons fiuttering down through the golden air. I see women with strained and anx- ious faces and children alert yet helpless. l see night come down with it's dangers and it's apprehensions and in a big lonely home I feel on my tired brow the touch of loving hands, now worn and wrinkled, but fairer to me yet than the hands of mortal woman and stronger yet to lead me than the hands of mortal man; and as they lay a mothers blessing there while at her knees-the truest altar I have ever known--I thank God that she Is safe in her sanctuary, because her slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or guard at
 the chamber door, put black mans loyalty between her and danger.
 ''But catch another vision. The crisis of battle-a soldier struck, staggering, falls. I see a slave, scuffling through the
 smoke, winding his black arms about the | fallen form, reckless of the hurtling | death bending his trusty face to catch | the words that tremble on the stricken
 lips, so wrestling meanwhile with agony | that he would lay down his life in his | masters stead. I see him by the weary l DedSlde mlnlsterlng Wltn uncomplalnlnS
 patience, praying with all his humble heart, until death comes in mercy and in honor to still the soldiers agony and seal 1 the soldiers life. I see him by the open
 grave mute, motionless, uncovered; suf- fering for the death of him who in life fought against his freedom. I see him | when the mound is heaped and the great | drama of life is closed turn away, and i with downcast eyes and uncertain steps, | start out into new and strange fields falt-
 ering, struggling, but moving on until his
 stumbling figure is lost in the light of a
 better and brighter day. And from the
 grave comes a voice saying: Follow him! | Put your arms about him in his need,
 even as he puts his about me. Be his
 friend as he was mine.' and out into this
 new world-strange to me as to him. | dazzling. bewildering both--I follow! And
 may God forget my people when they for | get theseY'