an early spring morning, in Alabama, over a leisurely old plantation road and behind a spirited horse, is an event to be enjoyed. Add to this a man bred to be agreeable and outdoing his training, and a pretty girl gay with newfound companionship‚ÅÝ‚Äîall this is apt to make a morning worth remembering.
They turned off the highway and passed through long stretches of ploughed and tumbled fields, and other fields brown with the dead ghosts of past years’ cotton standing straggling and weatherworn. Long, straight, or curling rows of ploughers passed by with steaming, struggling mules, with whips snapping and the yodle of workers or the sharp guttural growl of overseers as a constant accompaniment.
“They’re beginning to plough up the land for the cotton-crop,” he explained.
“What a wonderful crop it is!” Mary had fallen pensive.
‚ÄúYes, indeed‚ÅÝ‚Äîif only we could get decent returns for it.‚Äù
“Why, I thought it was a most valuable crop.” She turned to him inquiringly.
‚ÄúIt is‚ÅÝ‚Äîto Negroes and manufacturers, but not to planters.‚Äù
“But why don’t the planters do something?”
“What can be done with Negroes?” His tone was bitter. “We tried to combine against manufacturers in the Farmers’ League of last winter. My father was president. The pastime cost him fifty thousand dollars.”
Miss Taylor was perplexed, but eager. ‚ÄúYou must correspond with my brother, Mr. ¬ÝCresswell,‚Äù she gravely observed. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure he‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Before she could