The white boy, puzzled, accepted the proffered coupons, stood dumbly for a moment wondering what to say to his brown friend, then went on into the park.

“It’s yo’ party, white chile!” a little tan-skin girl called after him, mimicking the way the man at the gate had talked. “Whoa! Stay out! You’s a nigger!” she said to Sandy.

The other children, in spite of themselves, laughed at the accuracy of her burlesque imitation. Then, with the music of the merry-go-round from beyond the high fence and the laughter of happy children following them, the group of dark-skinned ones started down the dusty road together—and to all the colored boys and girls they met on the way they called out, “Ain’t no use, jigaboos! That party’s for white folks!”

When Willie-Mae and Sandy got home and told their story, Sister Johnson was angry as a wet hen.

“Crackers is devils,” she cried. “I ’spected as much! Dey ain’t nary hell hot ’nough to burn ole white folks, ’cause dey’s devils deyselves! De dirty hounds!”

But all Hager said was: “They’s po’ trash owns that park what don’t know no better, hurtin’ chillens’ feelin’s, but we’ll forgive ’em! Don’t fret yo’self, Sister Johnson. What good can frettin’ do? Come on here, let’s we have a party of our own.” She went out in the yard and took a watermelon from a tub of well-water where it had been cooling and cut it into four juicy slices; then they sat down on the grass at the shady side of the house and ate, trying to forget about white folks.

“Don’t you mind, Willie-Mae,” Hager said to the little black girl, who was still crying. “You’s colored, honey, an’ you’s liable to have a hard time in this life—but don’t cry. . . . You Sandy, run round de house an’ see didn’t I heard de mail-man blowin’.”

“Yes’m,” said Sandy when he came back. “Was the mail-man, and I got a letter from mama.” The boy sat on the grass to read it, anxious to see what Annjee said. And later, when the company had gone, he read it aloud to Hager.

Dear little Son: