His eyes lighted, for cotton was to him a very real and beautiful thing, and a lifelong companion, yet not one whose friendship had been coarsened and killed by heavy toil. He leaned against his hoe and talked half dreamily‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere had he learned so well that dream-talk?
‚ÄúWe turn up the earth and sow it soon after Christmas. Then pretty soon there comes a sort of greenness on the black land and it swells and grows and, and‚ÅÝ‚Äîshivers. Then stalks shoot up with three or four leaves. That‚Äôs the way it is now, see? After that we chop out the weak stalks, and the strong ones grow tall and dark, till I think it must be like the ocean‚ÅÝ‚Äîall green and billowy; then come little flecks here and there and the sea is all filled with flowers‚ÅÝ‚Äîflowers like little bells, blue and purple and white.‚Äù
“Ah! that must be beautiful,” sighed Miss Taylor, wistfully, sinking to the ground and clasping her hands about her knees.
‚ÄúYes, ma‚Äôam. But it‚Äôs prettiest when the bolls come and swell and burst, and the cotton covers the field like foam, all misty‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
She bent wondering over the pale plants. The poetry of the thing began to sing within her, awakening her unpoetic imagination, and she murmured:
‚ÄúThe Golden Fleece‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs the Silver Fleece!‚Äù
He harkened.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Have you never heard of the Golden Fleece, Bles?”
“No, ma’am,” he said eagerly; then glancing up toward the Cresswell fields, he saw two white men watching them. He grasped his hoe and started briskly to work.