The Underground Railroad Read Free Page A

versions of A Christmas Carol, you’ll kind of get an idea of what we’ll be seeing today. And another thing, people spoke very differently in those times, so I have Tuesday Translators for you. While they are speaking the same language, words and phrases they choose are very different.”
    He handed us little objects that looked like ear buds and he told us to put them in our ears. “You will be able to understand everything Mr. Douglass says. And if you would like to say something to Mr. Douglass, it will translate the words you say into words that he will understand.
    â€œCool,” Tamika said.
    We stayed close to the professor as he walked through what looked like a tree-lined park. Before long, we came to a street that was made out of stones pieced together. We saw a horse pulling a cart and driver. The cart bounced down the street as the horse’s hooves made loud sounds on the stones. Clippety-clop, clippety-clop, clippety-clop.
    â€œThese streets look different than those in our day,” the professor noted. “These are called cobblestone streets. People in carriages and carts had very bumpy rides over cobblestone roads. And we should be careful when we walk. There are horse droppings all over the street.”
    â€œWhat are horse droppings?” Tamika whispered to me.
    â€œYou know,” I replied. “Horse poop.”
    â€œOh, yuck,” she said, making a face. From that point on, she was very picky about where she stepped.
    A row of buildings lined either side of the cobblestone street. Smoke rose out of chimneys on each roof, adding to the layer of fog that gathered around us. Everything was covered with gritty ash.
    As we walked, a young boy passed us carrying a huge bundle of rags. On a corner up ahead, a man was selling chickens. He held motionless birds by their feet as he called out to the people walking by his table. I’ve gone to the grocery store several times with my mother, but I’d never seen a chicken being sold with its feathers still on. Right next to the chicken salesman stood an old woman selling vegetables.
    People in long frock coats walked alongside the road. Most of the men wore tall, black hats on their heads, like the kind President Lincoln wore. The shirts that peeked out of their coats had ruffled fronts. Many of the women wore shawls and hats that were close to their heads.
    We walked past several houses and stopped in front of one that stood in the middle of the block. Professor Tuesday dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper. He looked at the paper and then at the address on the tall brick building.
    â€œThis is it,” said the professor excitedly. “This is where Frederick Douglass and his family live. I sure hope he is home today.”
    We walked up the slippery stone steps to the doorway. The professor reached out a fist toward the thick wooden door and knocked loudly. We heard some movement from inside. The sounds seemed to get closer and closer. Suddenly, the big door opened wide. A woman stood in the doorway. She was wearing a black dress with white lace around the collar.
    â€œBegging your pardon, madam,” said the professor as he bowed deeply, “but is this the residence of Mr. Frederick Douglass?”
    â€œIndeed,” the lady answered, “Mr. Douglass and his family live here.”
    The professor and the woman at the door were talking funny. They used different words for things and her accent was strange to us. It was hard to follow what they were saying.
    â€œMy young friends and I do not have an appointment,” the professor said. “However, we were hoping to meet the good gentleman.”
    â€œMr. Douglass is not in at present,” she replied as the door swung shut in our faces.
    The confused look on our faces told Professor Tuesday that he had forgotten to turn on the Tuesday Translators that were in our ears. “Sorry,” the professor said as he