LULA LOWE WEEDEN
Reading edition
Lula Lowe Weeden was born in Lynchburg, Va., Feb. 4, 1918. Her mother, Mrs. Lula L. Weeden, herself a poet of ability, writes of this youngest of Negro singers: “She is a very close observer. Each flower in my garden she knows. Sometimes she counts each bloom, lingering over those she likes most.
“Each one of my children is very distinct in her make up. Lula is quiet, sweet and unselfish, a decided contrast to the second. This gives each a chance for moral development while trying to adjust her little mind to the other. A few nights ago, Iola the second child slapped Mary the baby. Lula said to Iola, ‘You are not being a good citizen when you strike back even if Mary did slap you.’ Another time, Iola was saying what her teacher had said about her. Lula remarked, ‘It is not what she says you do, it is what you do do.’ Neither statement meant much to Iola.
“I have always mixed my night time stories with ‘Home spun ones.’ All seem to like them best. I asked Lula since Christmas why she liked my stories. She said because they seemed to be true, and criticized fairy stories.
“I have emphasized racial stories for this reason—I was born on a big farm. There were many employed by my father, also tenants. With these we were not allowed to mingle. On the edge of the farm there was a white school. There was a barrier also. Those little girls with golden locks looked like little angels to me. How I wished to be like them with their shrill voices and laughter. They seemed so happy. I just thought of them as things apart. It took much to get this false conception out of me. They were just God sent. This I have tried not to have my children to fight. Now neither one wishes to be white or dislikes them. To them, they all seem like people.
“Lula does most of her writing at night. It is a privilege to remain a few minutes after the other children to finish something. Some nights she will write several. She mumbles them to herself before she begins to write and then keeps saying the words softly. She will finish this and will draw figures and flowers or people. This she does very well for a child until she says, ‘I am going to write something else.’ Interruptions don’t seem to bother her very much as the little ones are always saying something to make her laugh. I usually attempt to quiet them, but some of her best things are written with many around.
“When she shows them to me, she watches for a favorable expression. I always try to be pleased, but somehow she knows from my face that that was not so good, then remarks, ‘I am going to write something else.’
“The amusing part about it all is that she feels as she has begun to write at a mature age, but consoles herself with this statement, ‘Stevenson did not begin to write until he was fifteen and wrote very skillful things.’
“Lula is just a little girl and is very talkative if anyone appeals to her and will talk with her. You can’t explain anything too minutely for her—whether it is her Sunday school lesson or a star, it matters little.”
ME ALONE
As I was going to town, I saw a King and a Queen. Such ringing of bells you never heard, The clerks ran out of the stores; You know how it was, Me alone. I was standing as the others were, “Oh! you little girl,” some one said, “The King wants you,” I became frightened Wondering what he had to say, Me alone. Here’s what he wanted: He wanted me to ride in his coach, I felt myself so much riding in a King’s coach, Me alone.
HAVE YOU SEEN IT
Have you ever seen the moon And stars stick together? Have you ever seen it? Have you ever seen bad? Have you ever seen good And bad stick together? Have you ever seen it?
ROBIN RED BREAST
Little Robin red breast, I hear you sing your song. I would love to have you put it into my little cage, Into my little mouth.
THE STREAM
It was running down to the great Atlantic. I called it back to me, But it slyly looked and said, “I have not time to waste,” And just went arunning running on.
THE LITTLE DANDELION
The dandelion stares In the yellow sunlight. How very still it is! When it is old and grey, I blow its white hair away, And leave it with a bald head.
DANCE
Down at the hall at midnight sometimes, You hear them singing rhymes. These girls are dancing with boys. They are too big for toys.