Let us not forget that the Indians for whom we work have been excluded from our civilized communities, until it is difficult to win them to our customs, our language and our religion; that until only about twenty-five years ago, generation after generation of our colored people had been born to bondage, and had groaned its hopeless life away in far greater misery than the same conditions brought in uncivilized Africa—­misery made deeper and keener by contrasts in civilized America.  Is it a wonder that the women of a slave race lost their womanly instincts; that the moral nature was blunted and marred; that the mind became impoverished, the heart a waste place for poisonous weeds to grow?

Let us not forget that the mountain people have been passed by, until shrinking farther and farther into the seclusion of their hills and ravines, and living unto themselves, they have lost the sturdy qualities of their ancestors.

What kind of homes do we find among these people, where the children with their impressible minds are receiving their first instruction?

Our teacher is invited to visit the home of a Kentucky girl, one somewhat above the average.  Beautiful for situation, up a winding road, past cascades and mountain waterfalls, upon a high plateau the home is found—­a box house, one room, no windows, two beds, four chairs, a table, a few dishes, father, mother, seven children, dogs, cats, and chickens.  At retiring hour the teacher is pointed to the corner and is told she is to sleep there.  A pile of dirty, ragged quilts are pulled out from under the beds, some bags and rags rolled for pillows, and the family dispose of themselves for the night, with no change of clothing, scarcely the removal of shoes.  Change the box house to a tent, put the fire in the centre, and with less furniture, but no more smoke or dirt, you have the tepee home of the Indian.  Match the dilapidation and the dirt, the narrow quarters and the large family, and you have the cabin home in the Georgia swamps and the lowlands of Louisiana.  The conditions in the main are the same—­an untutored father and mother, no books, no pictures, no newspapers, no clean clothes, no Sunday, no God.

At first sight our sympathies are aroused by the lack of all ordinary comforts and conveniences of home life, but transplant the family into a neat cottage, suitably furnished for a home, explaining to them its advantages and uses, and let us see if thus we have met the need.  What a disappointment!  Their old habits still cling to them.  They do not know the names or use of the kitchen utensils; they have no proper knowledge of cooking, no orderly habits; there is no family or personal reserve.  There are books and newspapers, but they cannot read them, or cannot read intelligently because of their meagre vocabulary.  Evidently the real degradation of these people does not lie wholly in the poor cabins or tents, the scant furniture, the ragged clothing, the shiftlessness and poverty.  It is deep in the nature, and far harder to overcome than any outward conditions.