Model: Until I was thirteen and left Arkansas for good, the Store was my favorite place to be. Alone and empty in the mornings, it looked like an unopened present from a stranger. Opening the front doors was pulling the ribbons off the unexpected gift. The light would come in softly (we faced north), easing itself over the shelves of mackerel, salmon, tobacco, thread. It fell flat on the big vat of lard and by noontime during the summer the grease had softened to a thick soup. Whenever I walked into the store in the afternoon, I sensed that it was tired. I alone could hear the slow pulse of its job half done. {Taken from I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou}.
Imitation: Inside the park I walked towards the music, the lawn was the worst location to listen. Lost and stumbling in the crowd, the music sounded like a breath of fresh air. Hearing the opening notes was taking the first fragrant breath from above the stuffy air. The melody would cascade powerfully (we listened in awe), booming out across the stage, amphitheater, lawn, grounds. It stopped briefly on the eager ears of each listener and before moving on to the next melted into a beautiful harmony. Whoever gathered to hear, perceived the music's power. All together we could feel the flowing notes of the concert just beginning. .
Model: I, however, can see very little good resulting from such a course, either to themselves or the slaves escaping; while, upon the other hand, I see and feel assured that those open declarations are a positive evil to the slaves remaining, who are seeking to escape. They do nothing towards enlightening the slave, whilst they do much towards enlightening the master. They stimulate him to greater watchfulness, and enhance his power to capture his slave. We owe something to the slaves south of the line as well as to those north of it; and in aiding the latter on their way to freedom, we should be careful to do nothing which would be likely to hinder the former from escaping from slavery.
