The quest of the silver fleece

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Title:TheQuestoftheSilverFleece
ANovel
Author:W.E.B.DuBois
ReleaseDate:March5,2005[EBook#15265]
Language:English

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THEQUESTOFTHESILVER
FLEECE
ANovel


W.E.B.DUBOIS
1911
A.C.McClurg&Co.


Contents
NotefromtheAuthor

OneDREAMS
TwoTHESCHOOL
ThreeMISSMARYTAYLOR
FourTOWN
FiveZORA
SixCOTTON
SevenTHEPLACEOFDREAMS
EightMR.HARRYCRESSWELL
NineTHEPLANTING
TenMR.TAYLORCALLS
ElevenTHEFLOWERINGOFTHEFLEECE
TwelveTHEPROMISE
ThirteenMRS.GREYGIVESADINNER
FourteenLOVE
FifteenREVELATION
SixteenTHEGREATREFUSAL
SeventeenTHERAPEOFTHEFLEECE
EighteenTHECOTTONCORNER
NineteenTHEDYINGOFELSPETH
TwentyTHEWEAVINGOFTHESILVERFLEECE
Twenty-oneTHEMARRIAGEMORNING
Twenty-twoMISSCAROLINEWYNN


Twenty-threeTHETRAININGOFZORA
Twenty-fourTHEEDUCATIONOFALWYN
Twenty-fiveTHECAMPAIGN
Twenty-sixCONGRESSMANCRESSWEL
Twenty-sevenTHEVISIONOFZORA
Twenty-eightTHEANNUNCIATION

Twenty-nineAMASTEROFFATE
ThirtyTHERETURNOFZORA
Thirty-oneAPARTINGOFWAYS
Thirty-twoZORA'SWAY
Thirty-threeTHEBUYINGOFTHESWAMP
Thirty-fourTHERETURNOFALWYN
Thirty-fiveTHECOTTONMILL
Thirty-sixTHELAND
Thirty-sevenTHEMOB
Thirty-eightATONEMENT


THEQUESTOFTHESILVERFLEECE
TOONE
whosenamemaynotbewrittenbuttowhosetireless
faiththeshapingofthesecruderthoughtstoforms
morefitlyperfectisdoubtlessdue,this
finishedworkisherewithdedicated


Note
Hewhowouldtellatalemustlooktowardthreeideals:totellitwell,totellit
beautifully,andtotellthetruth.
ThefirstistheGiftofGod,thesecondistheVisionofGenius,butthethirdis
theRewardofHonesty.
InTheQuestoftheSilverFleecethereislittle,Iween,divineoringenious;but,
at least, I have been honest. In no fact or picture have I consciously set down
aught the counterpart of which I have not seen or known; and whatever the
finished picture may lack of completeness, this lack is due now to the storyteller,nowtotheartist,butnevertotheheraldoftheTruth.
NEWYORKCITY

August15,1911
THEAUTHOR


One


DREAMS
Nightfell.Theredwatersoftheswampgrewsinisterandsullen.Thetallpines
losttheirslimnessandstoodinwideblurredblotchesallacrosstheway,anda
greatshadowybirdarose,wheeledandmelted,murmuring,intotheblack-green
sky.
Theboywearilydroppedhisheavybundleandstoodstill,listeningasthevoice
of crickets split the shadows and made the silence audible. A tear wandered
downhisbrowncheek.Theywereatsuppernow,hewhispered—thefatherand
old mother, away back yonder beyond the night. They were far away; they
wouldneverbeasnearasoncetheyhadbeen,forhehadsteppedintotheworld.
AndthecatandOldBilly—ah,buttheworldwasalonelything,sowideandtall
andempty!Andsobare,sobitterbare!Somehowhehadneverdreamedofthe
worldaslonelybefore;hehadfaredforthtobeckoninghandsandluring,andto
theeagerhumofhumanvoices,asofsomegreat,swellingmusic.
Yet now he was alone; the empty night was closing all about him here in a
strangeland,andhewasafraid.Thebundlewithhisearthlytreasurehadhung
heavyandheavieronhisshoulder;hislittlehordeofmoneywastightlywadded
inhissock,andtheschoollayhiddensomewherefarawayintheshadows.He
wonderedhowfaritwas;helookedandharkened,startingathisownheartbeats,
andfearingmoreandmorethelongdarkfingersofthenight.
Thenofasuddenupfromthedarknesscamemusic.Itwashumanmusic,butof
awildnessandaweirdnessthatstartledtheboyasitflutteredanddancedacross
thedullredwatersoftheswamp.Hehesitated,thenimpelledbysomestrange

power,leftthehighwayandslippedintotheforestoftheswamp,shrinking,yet
followingthesonghungrilyandhalfforgettinghisfear.Aharsher,shrillernote
struckin as ofmany and rudervoices;butaboveitflewthefirstsweetmusic,
birdlike,abandoned,andtheboycreptcloser.
The cabin crouched ragged and black at the edge of black waters. An old
chimneyleaneddrunkenlyagainstit,ragingwithfireandsmoke,whilethrough
the chinks winked red gleams of warmth and wild cheer. With a revel of
shoutingandnoise,themusicsuddenlyceased.Hoarsestaccatocriesandpeals
of laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood there peering through the


blacktrees,abruptlythedoorflewopenandafloodoflightilluminedthewood.
Amidthismightyhalo,asoncloudsofflame,agirlwasdancing.Shewasblack,
and lithe, and tall, and willowy. Her garments twined and flew around the
delicate moulding of her dark, young, half-naked limbs. A heavy mass of hair
clungmotionlesstoherwideforehead.Herarmstwirledandflickered,andbody
andsoulseemedquiveringandwhirringinthepoetryofhermotion.
Asshedancedshesang.Heheardhervoiceasbefore,flutteringlikeabird'sin
the full sweetness of her utter music. It was no tune nor melody, it was just
formless,boundlessmusic.Theboyforgothimselfandalltheworldbesides.All
hisdarknesswassuddenlight;dazzledhecreptforward,bewildered,fascinated,
untilwithonelastwildwhirltheelf-girlpaused.Thecrimsonlightfellfullupon
thewarmandvelvetbronzeofherface—hermidnighteyeswereaglow,herfull
purple lips apart, her half hid bosom panting, and all the music dead.
Involuntarilytheboygaveagaspingcryandawoketoswampandnightandfire,
whilea whiteface, drawn,red-eyed,peeredoutwardfromsomehiddenthrong
withinthecabin.
"Who'sthat?"aharshvoicecried.
"Where?""Whoisit?"andpalecrowdingfacesblurredthelight.
The boy wheeled blindly and fled in terror stumbling through the swamp,

hearing strange sounds and feeling stealthy creeping hands and arms and
whispering voices. On he toiled in mad haste, struggling toward the road and
losing it until finally beneath the shadows of a mighty oak he sank exhausted.
Therehelayawhiletremblingandatlastdriftedintodreamlesssleep.
Itwasmorningwhenheawokeandthrewastartledglanceupwardtothetwisted
branches of the oak that bent above, sifting down sunshine on his brown face
and close curled hair. Slowly he remembered the loneliness, the fear and wild
runningthroughthedark.Helaughedintheboldcourageofdayandstretched
himself.
Thensuddenlyhebethoughthimagainofthatvisionofthenight—thewaving
armsandflyinglimbsofthegirl,andhergreatblackeyeslookingintothenight
andcallinghim.Hecouldhearhernow,andhearthatwondroussavagemusic.
Had it been real? Had he dreamed? Or had it been some witch-vision of the
night, come to tempt and lure him to his undoing? Where was that black and
flamingcabin?Wherewasthegirl—thesoulthathadcalledhim?Shemusthave


been real; she had to live and dance and sing; he must again look into the
mysteryofhergreateyes.Andhesatupinsuddendetermination,and,lo!gazed
straightintotheveryeyesofhisdreaming.
She sat not four feet from him, leaning against the great tree, her eyes now
languorouslyabstracted,nowalertandquizzicalwithmischief.Sheseemedbut
half-clothed,andherwarm,darkfleshpeepedfurtivelythroughtherentgown;
her thick, crisp hair was frowsy and rumpled, and the long curves of her bare
young arms gleamed in the morning sunshine, glowing with vigor and life. A
littlemockingsmilecameandsatuponherlips.
"Whatyourunfor?"sheasked,withdancingmischiefinhereyes.
"Because—"hehesitated,andhischeeksgrewhot.
"Iknows,"shesaid,withimpishglee,laughinglowmusic.
"Why?"hechallenged,sturdily.

"Youwasa-feared."
Hebridled."Well,Ireckonyou'dbea-fearedifyouwascaughtoutintheblack
darkallalone."
"Pooh!"shescoffedandhuggedherknees."Pooh!I'vestayedoutallaloneheaps
o'nights."
Helookedatherwithacuriousawe.
"I don't believe you," he asserted; but she tossed her head and her eyes grew
scornful.
"Who'sa-fearedofthedark?Ilovenight."Hereyesgrewsoft.
Hewatchedhersilently,till,wakingfromherdaydream,sheabruptlyasked:
"Whereyoufrom?"
"Georgia."
"Where'sthat?"
Helookedatherinsurprise,butsheseemedmatter-of-fact.
"It'sawayoveryonder,"heanswered.


"Behindwherethesuncomesup?"
"Oh,no!"
"Then it ain't so far," she declared. "I knows where the sun rises, and I knows
where it sets." She looked up at its gleaming splendor glinting through the
leaves,and,notingitsheight,announcedabruptly:
"I'sehungry."
"So'mI,"answeredtheboy,fumblingathisbundle;andthen,timidly:"Willyou
eatwithme?"
"Yes,"shesaid,andwatchedhimwitheagereyes.
Untying the strips of cloth, he opened his box, and disclosed chicken and
biscuits,hamandcorn-bread.Sheclappedherhandsinglee.
"Isthereanywaternear?"heasked.
Withoutaword,sheboundedupandflittedofflikeabrownbird,gleamingdullgoldeninthesun,glancinginandoutamongthetrees,tillshepausedabovea

tiny black pool, and then came tripping and swaying back with hands held
cupwiseanddrippingwithcoolwater.
"Drink,"shecried.Obedientlyhebentoverthelittlehandsthatseemedsosoft
and thin. He took a deep draught; and then to drain the last drop, his hands
touchedhersandtheshockoffleshfirstmeetingfleshstartledthemboth,while
thewaterrainedthrough.Amomenttheireyeslookeddeepintoeachother's—a
timid,startledgleaminhers;awonderinhis.Thenshesaiddreamily:
"We'seknownusallourlives,and—before,ain'twe?"
Hehesitated.
"Ye—es—Ireckon,"heslowlyreturned.Andthen,brightening,heaskedgayly:
"Andwe'llbefriendsalways,won'twe?"
"Yes," she said at last, slowly and solemnly, and another brief moment they
stoodstill.
Then the mischief danced in her eyes, and a song bubbled on her lips. She
hoppedtothetree.


"Come—eat!"shecried.Andtheynestledtogetheramidthebigblackrootsof
theoak,laughingandtalkingwhiletheyate.
"What'soverthere?"heaskedpointingnorthward.
"Cresswell'sbighouse."
"Andyondertothewest?"
"Theschool."
Hestartedjoyfully.
"Theschool!Whatschool?"
"OldMiss'School."
"MissSmith'sschool?"
"Yes."Thetonewasdisdainful.
"Why,that'swhereI'mgoing.Iwasa-feareditwasalongwayoff;Imusthave
passeditinthenight."

"Ihateit!"criedthegirl,herlipstense.
"ButI'llbesonear,"heexplained."Andwhydoyouhateit?"
"Yes—you'll be near," she admitted; "that'll be nice; but—" she glanced
westward,andthefiercelookfaded.Softjoycrepttoherfaceagain,andshesat
oncemoredreaming.
"Yonway'snicest,"shesaid.
"Why,what'sthere?"
"Theswamp,"shesaidmysteriously.
"Andwhat'sbeyondtheswamp?"
Shecrouchedbesidehimandwhisperedineager,tensetones:"Dreams!"
Helookedather,puzzled.
"Dreams?"vaguely—"dreams?Why,dreamsain't—nothing."


"Oh, yes they is!" she insisted, her eyes flaming in misty radiance as she sat
staringbeyondtheshadowsoftheswamp."Yestheyis!Thereain'tnothingbut
dreams—thatis,nothingmuch.
"And over yonder behind the swamps is great fields full of dreams, piled high
andburning;andrightamongstthemthesun,whenhe'stiredo'night,whispers
anddropsredthings,'ceptwhendevilsmake'emblack."
Theboystaredather;heknewnotwhethertojeerorwonder.
"Howyouknow?"heaskedatlast,skeptically.
"Promiseyouwon'ttell?"
"Yes,"heanswered.
Shecuddledintoalittleheap,nursingherknees,andansweredslowly.
"I goes there sometimes. I creeps in 'mongst the dreams; they hangs there like
bigflowers,drippingdewandsugarandblood—red,redblood.Andthere'slittle
fairiestherethathopaboutandsing,anddevils—great,uglydevilsthatgrabsat
youandroastsandeatsyouiftheygitsyou;buttheydon'tgitme.Somedevilsis
bigandwhite,likeha'nts;someislongandshiny,likecreepy,slipperysnakes;

andsomeislittleandbroadandblack,andtheyyells—"
The boy was listening in incredulous curiosity, half minded to laugh, half
mindedtoedgeawayfromtheblack-redradianceofyonderduskyswamp.He
glancedfurtivelybackward,andhisheartgaveagreatbound.
"Someislittleandbroadandblack,andtheyyells—"chantedthegirl.Andas
shechanted,deep,harshtonescameboomingthroughtheforest:
"Zo-ra!Zo-ra!O—o—oh,Zora!"
He saw far behind him, toward the shadows of the swamp, an old woman—
short,broad,blackandwrinkled,withfangsandpendulouslipsandred,wicked
eyes.Hisheartboundedinsuddenfear;hewheeledtowardthegirl,andcaught
onlytheuncertainflashofhergarments—thewoodwassilent,andhewasalone.
Hearose,startled,quicklygatheredhisbundle,andlookedaroundhim.Thesun
wasstrongandhigh,themorningfreshandvigorous.Stampingonefootangrily,
hestrodejauntilyoutofthewoodtowardthebigroad.


Buteverandanonheglancedcuriouslyback.Hadheseenahaunt?Orwasthe
elf-girlreal?Andthenhethoughtofherwords:
"We'seknownusallourlives."


Two


THESCHOOL
DaywasbreakingabovethewhitebuildingsoftheNegroschoolandthrowing
long, low lines of gold in at Miss Sarah Smith's front window. She lay in the
stuporofherlastmorningnap,afteranightofharrowingworry.Then,evenas
she partially awoke,shelaystillwithclosedeyes,feelingtheshadowofsome
great burden, yet daring not to rouse herself and recall its exact form; slowly

againshedriftedtowardunconsciousness.
"Bang!bang!bang!"hardknuckleswerebeatinguponthedoorbelow.
Shehearddrowsily,anddreamedthatitwasthenailingupofallherdoors;but
shedidnotcaremuch,andbutfeeblywardedtheblowsaway,forshewasvery
tired.
"Bang!bang!bang!"persistedthehardknuckles.
Shestartedup,andhereyefelluponaletterlyingonherbureau.Backshesank
withasigh,andlaystaringattheceiling—agaunt,flat,sad-eyedcreature,with
wispsofgrayhairhalf-coveringherbaldness,andafacefurrowedwithcareand
gatheringyears.
Itwasthirtyyearsagothisday,sherecalled,sinceshefirstcametothisbroad
landofshadeandshineinAlabamatoteachblackfolks.
It had been a hard beginning with suspicion and squalor around; with poverty
withinandwithoutthefirstwhitewallsofthenewschoolhome.Yetsomehow
thestrugglethenwithallitshelplessnessanddisappointmenthadnotseemedso
bitterastoday:thenfailuremeantbutlittle,nowitseemedtomeaneverything;
then it meant disappointment to a score of ragged urchins, now it meant two
hundred boys and girls, the spirits of a thousand gone before and the hopes of
thousands to come. In her imagination the significance of these half dozen
gleaming buildings perched aloft seemed portentous—big with the destiny not
simplyofacountyandaState,butofarace—anation—aworld.ItwasGod's
owncause,andyet—
"Bang!bang!bang!"againwentthehardknucklesdownthereatthefront.
MissSmithslowlyarose,shiveringabitandwonderingwhocouldpossiblybe


rappingatthattimeinthemorning.Shesniffedthechillingairandwassureshe
caughtsomelingeringperfumefromMrs.Vanderpool'sgown.Shehadbrought
thisrichandrare-apparelledladyuphereyesterday,becauseitwasmoreprivate,
and here she had poured forth her needs. She had talked long and in deadly

earnest. She had not spoken of the endowment for which she had hoped so
desperatelyduringaquarterofacentury—no,onlyforthefivethousanddollars
to buy the long needed new land. It was so little—so little beside what this
womansquandered—
Theinsistentknockingwasrepeatedlouderthanbefore.
"Sakesalive,"criedMissSmith,throwingashawlaboutherandleaningoutthe
window."Whoisit,andwhatdoyouwant?"
"Please,ma'am.I'vecometoschool,"answeredatallblackboywithabundle.
"Well,whydon'tyougototheoffice?"Thenshesawhisfaceandhesitated.She
felt again the old motherly instinct to be the first to welcome the new pupil; a
luxurywhich,inlateryears,theendlesspushofdetailshaddeniedher.
"Wait!"shecriedshortly,andbegantodress.
Anewboy,shemused.Yes,everydaytheystraggledin;everydaycamethecall
formore,more—thisgreat,growingthirsttoknow—todo—tobe.Andyetthat
womanhadsatrighthere,aloof,imperturbable,listeningonlycourteously.When
MissSmithfinished,shehadpausedand,flickingherglove,—
"My dear Miss Smith," she said softly, with a tone that just escaped a drawl
—"My dear Miss Smith, your work is interesting and your faith—marvellous;
but, frankly, I cannot make myself believe in it. You are trying to treat these
funny little monkeys just as you would your own children—or even mine. It's
quite heroic, of course, but it's sheer madness, and I do not feel I ought to
encourage it. I would not mind a thousand or so to train a good cook for the
Cresswells,or aclean andfaithfulmaidformyself—forHelenehasfaults—or
indeeddeftandtractablelaboring-folkforanyone;butI'mquitethroughtrying
toturnnaturalservantsintomastersofmeandmine.I—hopeI'mnottooblunt;I
hopeImakemyselfclear.Youknow,statisticsshow—"
"Dratstatistics!"MissSmithhadflashedimpatiently."Thesearefolks."
Mrs.Vanderpoolsmiledindulgently."Tobesure,"shemurmured,"butwhatsort
offolks?"

"God'ssort."
"Oh,well—"
But Miss Smith had the bit in her teeth and could not have stopped. She was
payinghighfortheprivilegeoftalking,butithadtobesaid.
"God's sort, Mrs. Vanderpool—not the sort that think of the world as arranged
fortheirexclusivebenefitandcomfort."
"Well,Idowanttocount—"
MissSmithbentforward—notabeautifulpose,butearnest.
"Iwantyoutocount,andIwanttocount,too;butIdon'twantustobetheonly
onesthatcount.Iwanttoliveinaworldwhereeverysoulcounts—white,black,
andyellow—all.That'swhatI'mteachingthesechildrenhere—tocount,andnot
tobelikedumb,drivencattle.Ifyoudon'tbelieveinthis,ofcourseyoucannot
helpus."
"Yourspiritisadmirable,MissSmith,"shehadsaidverysoftly;"IonlywishI
could feel as you do. Good-afternoon," and she had rustled gently down the
narrow stairs, leaving an all but imperceptible suggestion of perfume. Miss
Smithcouldsmellityetasshewentdownthismorning.
Thebreakfastbelljangled."Fivethousanddollars,"shekeptrepeatingtoherself,
greeting theteachersabsently—"fivethousanddollars."Andthenonthe porch
she was suddenly aware of the awaiting boy. She eyed him critically: black,
fifteen,country-bred,strong,clear-eyed.
"Well?" she asked in that brusque manner wherewith her natural timidity was
wonttomaskherkindness."Well,sir?"
"I'vecometoschool."
"Humph—wecan'tteachboysfornothing."
Theboystraightened."Icanpaymyway,"hereturned.
"Youmeanyoucanpaywhatweask?"
"Why,yes.Ain'tthatall?"
"No.TherestisgatheredfromthecrumbsofDives'table."

Thenhesawthetwinkleinhereyes.Shelaidherhandgentlyuponhisshoulder.
"Ifyoudon'thurryyou'llbelatetobreakfast,"shesaidwithanairofconfidence.
"Seethoseboysoverthere?Followthem,andatnooncometotheoffice—wait!
What'syourname?"
"BlessedAlwyn,"heanswered,andthepassingteacherssmiled.


Three


MISSMARYTAYLOR
Miss Mary Taylor did not take a college course for the purpose of teaching
Negroes.NotthatsheobjectedtoNegroesashumanbeings—quitethecontrary.
In the debate between the senior societies her defence of the Fifteenth
Amendmenthadbeennotonlyanotablebitofreasoning,butdeliveredwithreal
enthusiasm. Nevertheless, when the end of the summer came and the only
opening facing her was the teaching of children at Miss Smith's experiment in
the Alabama swamps, it must be frankly confessed that Miss Taylor was
disappointed.
Herdreamhadbeenapost-graduatecourseatBrynMawr;butthatwasoutof
the question until money was earned. She had pictured herself earning this by
teachingoneortwoofher"specialties"insomeprivateschoolnearNewYorkor
Boston, or even in a Western college. The South she had not thought of
seriously; and yet, knowing of its delightful hospitality and mild climate, she
was not averse to Charleston or New Orleans. But from the offer that came to
teach Negroes—country Negroes, and little ones at that—she shrank, and,
indeed,probablywouldhaverefuseditoutofhandhaditnotbeenforherqueer
brother, John. John Taylor, who had supported her through college, was

interestedincotton.Havingcertainschemesinmind,hehadbeenstruckbythe
factthattheSmithSchoolwasinthemidstoftheAlabamacotton-belt.
"Better go," he had counselled, sententiously. "Might learn something useful
downthere."
Shehadbeennotalittledismayedbytheoutlook,andhadprotestedagainsthis
bluntinsistence.
"But,John,there'snosociety—justelementarywork—"
Johnhadmetthisobjectionwith,"Humph!"asheleftforhisoffice.Nextdayhe
hadreturnedtothesubject.
"Been looking up Tooms County. Find some Cresswells there—big plantations
—ratedattwohundredandfiftythousanddollars.Someothers,too;bigcotton
county."


"Yououghttoknow,John,ifIteachNegroesI'llscarcelyseemuchofpeoplein
myownclass."
"Nonsense!Buttin.Showoff.Give'emyourGreek—andstudyCotton.Atany
rate,Isaygo."
Andso,howsoeverreluctantly,shehadgone.
Thetrialwasallshehadanticipated,andpossiblyabitmore.Shewasapretty
young woman of twenty-three, fair and rather daintily moulded. In favorable
surroundings, she would have been an aristocrat and an epicure. Here she was
teachingdirtychildren,andthesmellofconfusedodorsandbodilyperspiration
wastoherattimesunbearable.
Then there was the fact of their color: it was a fact so insistent, so fatal she
almostsaidattimes,thatshecouldnotescapeit.Theoreticallyshehadalways
treateditwithdisdainfulease.
"What's the mere color of a human soul's skin," she had cried to a Wellesley
audienceandtheaudiencehadapplaudedwithenthusiasm.ButhereinAlabama,
brought closely and intimately in touch with these dark skinned children, their

colorstruckheratfirstwithasortofterror—itseemedominousandforbidding.
Shefoundherselfshrinkingawayandgrippingherselflesttheyshouldperceive.
Shecouldnothelpbutthinkthatinmostotherthingstheywereasdifferentfrom
her as in color. She groped for new ways to teach colored brains and marshal
coloredthoughtsandtheresultwaspuzzlingbothtoteacherandstudent.With
the other teachers she had little commerce. They were in no sense her sort of
folk. Miss Smith represented the older New England of her parents—honest,
inscrutable, determined, with a conscience which she worshipped, and utterly
unselfish. She appealed to Miss Taylor's ruddier and daintier vision but dimly
and distantly as some memory of the past. The other teachers were indistinct
personalities, always very busy and very tired, and talking "school-room" with
their meals. Miss Taylor was soon starving for human companionship, for the
lightertouchesoflifeandsomeofitswarmthandlaughter.Shewantedaglance
of the new books and periodicals and talk of great philanthropies and reforms.
She felt out of the world, shut in and mentally anæmic; great as the "Negro
Problem"mightbeasaworldproblem,itlookedsordidandsmallatcloserange.
So for the hundredth time she was thinking today, as she walked alone up the
lanebackofthebarn,andthenslowlydownthroughthebottoms.Shepauseda
momentandnoddedtothetwoboysatworkinayoungcottonfield.


"Cotton!"
Shepaused.Sherememberedwithwhatinterestshehadalwaysreadofthislittle
threadoftheworld.Shehadalmostforgottenthatitwasherewithintouchand
sight.ForamomentsomethingofthevisionofCottonwasmirroredinhermind.
The glimmering sea of delicate leaves whispered and murmured before her,
stretchingawaytotheNorthward.Sherememberedthatbeyondthislittleworld
it stretched on and on—how far she did not know—but on and on in a great
tremblingsea,andthefoamofitsmightywaterswouldonetimefloodtheends
oftheearth.

Sheglimpsedallthiswithpartedlips,andthensighedimpatiently.Theremight
beabitofpoetryhereandthere,butmostofthisplacewassuchdesperateprose.
Sheglancedabsentlyattheboys.
OnewasBlesAlwyn,atallblacklad.(Bles,shemused,—nowwhowouldthink
ofnamingaboy"Blessed,"savetheseincomprehensiblecreatures!)Herregard
shiftedtothegreenstalksandleavesagain,andshestartedtomoveaway.Then
her New England conscience stepped in. She ought not to pass these students
withoutawordofencouragementorinstruction.
"Cottonisawonderfulthing,isitnot,boys?"shesaidratherprimly.Theboys
touched their hats and murmured something indistinctly. Miss Taylor did not
knowmuchaboutcotton,butatleastonemoreremarkseemedcalledfor.
"How long before the stalks will be ready to cut?" she asked carelessly. The
farther boy coughed and Bles raised his eyes and looked at her; then after a
pause he answered slowly. (Oh! these people were so slow—now a New
England boy would have answered and asked a half-dozen questions in the
time.)
"I—Idon'tknow,"hefaltered.
"Don'tknow!Well,ofallthings!"inwardlycommentedMissTaylor—"literally
bornincotton,and—Oh,well,"asmuchastoask,"What'stheuse?"Sheturned
againtogo.
"Whatisplantedoverthere?"sheasked,althoughshereallydidn'tcare.
"Goobers,"answeredthesmallerboy.