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The keepers were all colored. Mr. Jones, a young man who had recently served in the cavalry, drilled us every morning in the court in front of the Waifs' Home, and we were taught the manual of arms with wooden guns.

Mr. Alexander taught the boys how to do carpentry, how to garden and how to build camp fires. Mr. Peter Davis taught music and gave vocational training. Each boy had the right to choose the vocation which interested him.

Quite naturally I would make a bee line to Mr. Davis and his music. Music has been in my blood from the day I was born. Unluckily at first I did not get on very well with Mr. Davis because he did not like the neighborhood I came from. He thought that only the toughest kids came from Liberty and Perdido Streets. They were full of honky-tonks, toughs and fancy women. Furthermore, the Fisk School had a bad reputation. Mr. Davis thought that since I had been raised in such bad company I must also be worthless. From the start he gave me a very hard way to go, and I kept my distance. One day I broke an unimportant rule, and he gave me fifteen hard lashes on the hand. After that I was really scared of him for a long time.

Our life was regulated by bugle calls. A kid blew a bugle for us to get up, to go to bed and to come to meals. The last call was the favorite with us all. Whether they were cutting trees a mile away or building a fire under the great kettle in the yard to scald our dirty clothes, the boys would hot foot it back to the Home when they heard the mess call. I envied the bugler because he had more chances to use his instrument than anyone else.

When the orchestra practiced with Mr. Davis, who was a good teacher, I listened very carefully, but I did not dare go near the band though I wanted to in the worst way. I was afraid Mr. Davis would bawl me out or give me a few more lashes. He made me feel he hated the ground I walked on, so I would sit in a corner and listen, enjoying myself immensely.

The little brass band was very good, and Mr. Davis made the boys play a little of every kind of music. I had never tried to play the cornet, but while listening to the band every day I remembered Joe Oliver, Bolden and Bunk Johnson. And I had an awful urge to learn the cornet. But Mr. Davis hated me. Furthermore I did not know how long they were going to keep me at the Home. The judge had condemned me for an indefinite period which meant that I would have to stay there until he set me free or until some important white person vouched for me and for my mother and father. That was my only chance of getting out of the Waifs' Home fast. So I had plenty of time to listen to the band and wish I could learn to play the cornet.

Finally, through Mr. Jones, I got a chance to sing in the school. My first teacher was Miss Spriggins. Then I was sent to Mrs. Vigne, who taught the higher grades.

As the days rolled by, Mr. Davis commenced to lighten up on his hatred of me. Occasionally I would catch his eye meeting with mine. I would turn away, but he would catch them again and give me a slight smile of approval which would make me feel good inside. From then on whenever Mr. Davis spoke to me or smiled I was happy. Gee, what a feeling – that coming from him! I was beginning to adapt myself to the place, and since I had to stay there for a long time I thought I might as well adjust myself. I did.

Six months went by. We were having supper of black molasses and a big hunk of bread which after all that time seemed just as good as a home cooked chicken dinner. Just as we were about to get up from the table Mr. Davis slowly came over and stopped by me.

"Louis Armstrong," he said, "how would you like to join our brass band?"

I was so speechless and so surprised I just could not answer him right away. To make sure that I had understood him he repeated his question.

"Louis Armstrong, I asked if you would like to join our brass band."

"I certainly would, Mr. Davis. I certainly would," I stammered.

He patted me on the back and said:

"Wash up and come to rehearsal,"

While I was washing I could not think of anything but of my good luck in finally getting a chance to play the cornet. I got soap in my eyes but didn't pay any attention to it. I thought of what the gang would say when they saw me pass through the neighborhood blowing a cornet, I already pictured myself playing with all the power and endurance of a Bunk, Joe or Bolden. When I was washed I rushed to the rehearsal.

"Here I am, Mr. Davis."

To my surprise he handed me a tambourine, the little thing you tap with your fingers like a miniature drum. So that was the end of my beautiful dream! But I did not say a word. Taking the tambourine, I started to whip it in rhythm with the band. Mr. Davis was so impressed he immediately changed me to the drums. He must have sensed that I had the beat he was looking for.

They were playing At the Animals' Ball, a tune that was very popular in those days and which had a break right in the channel. When the break came I made it a real good one and a fly one at that. All the boys yelled "Hooray for Louis Armstrong." Mr. Davis nodded with approval which was all I needed. His approval was all important for any boy who wanted a musical career.

"You are very good, Louis," he said. "But I need an alto player. How about trying your luck?"

"Anything you like, Mr. Davis," I answered with all the confidence in the world.

He handed me an alto. I had been singing for a number of years and my instinct told me that an alto takes a part in a band same as a baritone or tenor in a quartet. I played my part on the alto very well.

As soon as the rehearsal was over, the bugle blew for bed. All the boys fell into line and were drilled up to the dormitory by the band. In the dormitory we could talk until nine o'clock when the lights were turned out and everybody had to be quiet and go to sleep. Nevertheless we used to whisper in low voices taking care we did not attract the attention of the keepers who slept downstairs near Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Somebody would catch a licking if we talked too loud and brought one of the keepers upstairs.

In the morning when the bugle blew I Can't Get 'Em Up we jumped out of bed and dressed as quickly as possible because our time was limited. They knew just how long it should take, they'd been in the business so long. If any one was late he had to have a good excuse or he would have to hold out his hand for a lashing.

It was useless to try to run away from the Waifs' Home. Anyone who did was caught in less than a week's time. One night while we were asleep a boy tied about half a dozen sheets together. He greased his body so that he could slip through the wooden bars around the dormitory. He let himself down to the ground and disappeared. None of us understood how he had succeeded in doing it, and we were scared to death that we would be whipped for having helped him. On the con trary, nothing happened. All the keepers said after his disappearance was:

"He'll be back soon."

They were right. He was caught and brought back in less than a week. He was all nasty and dirty from sleeping under old houses and wherever else he could and eating what little he could scrounge. The police had caught him and turned him over to the Juvenile Court.

Not a word was said to him during the first day he was back. We all wondered what they were going to do to him, and we thought that perhaps they were going to give him a break. When the day was over the bugle boy sounded taps, and we all went up to the dormitory. The keepers waited until we were all undressed and ready to put on our pajamas.

At that moment Mr. Jones shouted:

"Hold it, boys."

Then he looked at the kid who had run away.

"I want everyone to put on their pajamas except that young man. He ran away, and he has to pay for it."