CHAPTER I. DREAMS Night fell, the red waters of the swamp grew sinister and sullen. The tall pines lost their slimness and stood in wide blurred blotches all across the way, and a great shadowy bird arose, wheeled and melted, murmuring into the black-green sky. The boy wearily dropped his heavy bundle and stood still, listening as the voice of crickets split the shadows and made the silence audible. The tear wandered down his brown sheet. They were at supper now, he whispered, the father and old mother, away back yonder beyond the night. They were far away, they would never be as near as once they had been, for he had stepped into the world, and the cat and old Billy, ah, but the world was a lonely thing, so wide and tall and empty, and so bare, so bitter, bare. Somehow he had never dreamed of the world as lonely before. He had fared forth to beckoning hands and luring, and to the eager hum of human voices, as of some great swelling music. Yet now he was alone. The empty night was closing all about him here in a strange land, and he was afraid. The bundle, with his earthly treasure, had hung heavy and heavier on his shoulder.  He wondered how far it was. He looked and hearkened, starting at his own heartbeats, and, fearing more and more, the long dark fingers of the night. Then of a sudden, up from the darkness came music. It was human music, but of a wildness and a weirdness that startled the boy, as it fluttered and danced across the dull red waters of the swamp. He hesitated, then impelled by some strange power, left the highway, and slipped into the forest of the swamp, shrinking, yet following the song hungrily and half forgetting his fear. A harsher, shriller note struck in as of many enruder voices. But above it flew the first sweet music, bird-like, abandoned, and the boy crept closer. The cabin crouched ragged and black at the edge of black waters. An old chimney leaned drunkenly against it, raging with fire and smoke, while through the chinks winked red gleams of warmth and wild cheer. With a revel of shouting and noise the music suddenly ceased. Horse staccato cries and peals of laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood there, peering through the black trees, abruptly the door flew open and a flood of light illuminated the wood. Amid this mighty halo, as on clouds of flame a girl was dancing. She was black and lithe and tall and willowy. Her garments twined and flew around the delicate molding of her dark, young, half-naked limbs. A heavy mass of hair clung motionless to her wide forehead. Her arms twirled and flickered, and body and soul seemed quivering and worrying in the poetry of her motion. As she danced she sang. He heard her voice as before, fluttering like a bird in the full sweetness of her utter music. It was no tune nor melody. It was just formless, boundless music. The boy forgot himself and all the world besides. All his darkness was sudden light, dazzled, he crept forward, bewildered, fascinated, until with one last wild whirl the elf girl paused. The crimson light fell upon the warm and velvet bronze of her face. Her midnight eyes were aglow, her full purple lips apart, her half-hid bosom panting, and all the music dead. Involuntarily the boy gave a grasping cry and awoke to swamp and night and fire. While a white face, drawn red-eyed, heard outward from some hidden throng within the cabin. "'Who's that?' a harsh voice cried. "'Where? Who is it?' and pale, crowding faces blurred the light. The boy wheeled blindly and fled in terror, stumbling through the swamp, hearing strange sounds and feeling stealthily 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. There he lay a while trembling, and at last drifted into dreamless sleep. It was morning when he awoke and threw a startled glance upward to the twisted 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 running through the dark. He laughed in the bold courage of day and stretched himself. Then suddenly he bethought him again of that vision of the night, the waving arms and flying limbs of the girl, and her great black eyes looking into the night and calling him. He could hear her now and hear that wondrous savage music. Had it been real? Had he dreamed? Or had it been some which vision of the night come to tempt and lure him to his undoing? Where was that black and flaming cabin? Where was the girl, the soul that had called him? She must have been real. She had to live and dance and sing. He must again look into the mystery of her great eyes. And he sat up in sudden determination, and low, gazed straight into the very eyes of his dreaming. She sat not four feet from him, leaning against the great tree, her eyes now langurously abstracted, now alert and quizzical with mischief. She seemed but half-clothed, and her warm dark flesh peeped furtively through the rent-gown. 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.   Because he hesitated, and his cheeks grew hot. I knows, she said, with impish glee, laughing low music. Why, he challenged sturdily. He was afeard. He bridled. Well, I reckon you'd be afeard if you was caught out in the black dark all alone. Poo! she scoffed, and hugged her knees. Poo! I've stayed out all alone heaps of nights. He looked at her with a curious awe.  Who's afeard of the dark? I love night. Her eyes grew soft. He watched her silently, till, waking from her daydream, she abruptly asked, Where you from? Georgia. Where's that? He looked at her in surprise, but she seemed matter-of-fact. It's a way over yonder, he answered. Behind where the sun comes up? 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, noting its height, announced abruptly, I's is hungry. So I answered the boy, fumbling at his bundle, and then, timidly, will you eat with me? Yes, she said, and watched him with eager eyes. Untying the strips of cloth, he opened his box, and disclosed chicken and biscuits, ham and cornbread. She clapped her hands in glee. Is there any water near, he asked?  Drink she cried, obediently he bent over the little hands that seemed so soft and thin. He took a deep draft, and then, to drain the last drop, his hands touched hers, and the shock of flesh, first meeting flesh, startled them both, while the water reigned through. A moment their eyes looked deep into each other's, a timid, startling gleam in hers, a wander in his. Then she said, dreamily, we's known us all our lives, and before, ain't we? He hesitated. Yes, I reckon, he slowly returned, and then, brightening, he asked gaily, and will be friends always, won't we? Yes, she said at last, slowly and solemnly, and another brief moment they stood still. The mischief danced in her eyes, and a song bubbled on her lips. She hopped to the tree. Come, each she cried, and they nestled together amid the big black roots of the oak, laughing and talking while they ate. What's over there, he asked, pointing northward. Creswell's big house. And yonder to the west, the school. He started joyfully. The school? What school? Oh, Miss School. Miss Smith's school? Yes, the tone was disdainful. Why, that's where I'm going. I was afeard it was a long way off. I must have passed it in the night.  But I'll be so near, he explained. And why do you hate it? Yes, you'll be near, she admitted. That will be nice, but she glanced westward, and the fierce look faded. Soft joy crept to her face again, and she sat once more, dreaming. Yon weighs nicest, she said. Why, what's there? The swamp, she said mysteriously. And what's beyond the swamp? She crouched beside him and whispered in eager, tense tones. Dreams. He looked at her, puzzled. Dreams? Bagley? Dreams? Why, dreams ain't nothing. Oh, yes they is, she insisted, her eyes flaming in misty radiance, as she sat staring beyond the shadows of the swamp. Yes they is. There ain't nothing but dreams, that is, nothing much. And over yonder, behind the swamps, is great fields full of dreams, piled high and burning, and right amongst them the sun. When he's tired of night, whispers and drops red things, sept when devils make him black. The boys stared at her. He knew not whether to jeer or wonder. How do you know, he asked at last, skeptically. You promise you won't tell? Yes he answered. She cuddled into a little heap, nursing her knees and answered slowly. I goes there sometimes. I creeps in amongst the dreams.   But they don't get me. Some devils is big and white, like haunts. Some is long and shiny, like creepy, slippery snakes, and some is little and broad and black, and they yells. The boy was listening in incredulous curiosity, half-minded to laugh, half-minded to edge away from the black red radiance of yonder dusky swamp. He glanced furtively backward, and his heart gave a great bound. Some is little and broad and black, and they yells, chanted the girl, and as she chanted, deep harsh tones came booming through the forest. Zora, Zora, oh Zora! He saw far behind him the shadows of the swamp an old woman, short, broad, black and wrinkled, with fangs and pendulous lips, and red wicked eyes. His heart bounded in sudden fear. He wheeled toward the girl, and caught only the uncertain flash of her garments. The wood was silent, and he was alone. He arose, startled, quickly gathered his bundle, and looked around him. The sun was strong and high, and the morning fresh and vigorous, stamping one foot angrily, he strode jauntily out of the wood toward the big road. But ever in a non he glanced curiously back. Had he seen a haunt, or was the elf girl real? And then he thought of her words. We's known us all our lives. End of chapter 1 CHAPTER II THE SCHOOL The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois Recorded by A. J. Hilton This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Day was breaking above the white buildings of the Negro School and throwing long, low lines of gold in it Miss Sarah Smith's front window. She lay in the stupor of her last morning nap after a night of harrowing worry. Then, even as she partially awoke, she lay still with closed eyes, feeling the shadow of some great burden, yet daring not to rouse herself and recall its exact form. Slowly again she drifted toward unconsciousness. Hard knuckles were beating upon the door below. She heard drowsily and dreamed that it was the nailing of all her doors, but she did not care much and but feebly warded the blows away, for she was very tired. Persisted the hard knuckles. She started up and her eye fell upon a letter lying on her bureau. Then she sank with a sigh and lay staring at the ceiling, a gaunt, flat, sad-eyed creature with wisps of grey hair half covering her baldness and a face furrowed with care and gathering years. It was thirty years ago this day, she recalls, since she first came to this broad land of shade and shine in Alabama to teach black folks. It had been a hard beginning with suspicion and squalor around, with poverty within the first wide walls of the new school home. Yet somehow the struggle then, with all its helplessness and disappointment, had not seemed so bitter as today. Then failure meant but little. Now it seemed to mean everything. 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 seem portentous, big with a destiny, not simply of a county and a state, but of a race, a nation, a world. It was God's own cause and yet again with the hard knuckles down there at the front, myth-smith slowly arose, shivering a bit and wondering who could possibly be rapping at that time in the morning. She sniffed the chilling air and was sure she caught some lingering perfume from Mrs. Vanderpool's gown. She had brought this rich and rare-appearled lady up here yesterday because it was more private and here she had poured forth her needs. She had talked long and indebtly earnest. She had not spoken of the endowment she had hoped so desperately during a quarter of a century. No, only for the five thousand dollars to buy the long-needed new land. It was so little, so little beside what this woman squandered. The insistent knocking was repeated louder than before. "'Sakes alive!' cried Miss Smith, throwing a shawl about her and leaning out the window. "'Who is it and what do you want?   Then she saw his face and hesitated. She felt again the old motherly instinct to be the first to welcome the new pupil, a luxury which in later years the endless push of details had denied her. "'Wait!' she cried shortly and began to dress. "'A new boy,' she mused. "'Yes, every day they straggled in. Every day came the call for more, more, this great-growing thirst to know, to do, to be. And yet that woman had sat right here, aloof, imperturbable, listening only courteously. When Miss Smith finished, she had paused and flickering her glove. "'My dear Miss Smith,' she said softly with a tone that just escaped a draw. "'My dear Miss Smith, your work is interesting and your faith marvelous, but frankly I cannot make myself believe in it.  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 Crestwells, or a clean and faithful maid for myself, for lean-hass faults, or indeed deft, intractable laboring folk for any one. But I'm quite through trying to turn natural servants into masters of me and mine. I hope I'm not too blunt. I hope I make myself clear. "'You know, statistic show.' "'Drat statistics,' Miss Smith had flashed impatiently. "'These are folks.' Mrs. Vanderpool smiled indulgently. "'To be sure,' she murmured. "'But what sort of folks?' "'God sort. Oh, well. But Miss Smith had the bit in her teeth and could not have stopped. She was paying high for the privilege of talking, but it had to be said. "'God sort,' Mrs. Vanderpool. "'Not the sort that think of the world is arranged for their exclusive benefit and comfort.' "'Well, I do want to count,' Miss Smith bent forward. Not a beautiful pose, but earnest. "'I want you to count. And I want to count, too. But I don't want us to be the only ones that count. I want to live in a world where every soul counts. White, black, and yellow, all. "'That's what I'm teaching these children here, "'to count and not to be like dumb-driven cattle. "'If you don't believe in this, of course you cannot help us.' "'Your spirit is admirable, Miss Smith,' she had said very softly. "'I only wish I could feel as you do.' "'Good afternoon.' And she rustled gently down the narrow stairs, leaving an all but imperceptible suggestion of perfume. "'Miss Smith could smell it yet as she went down this morning.' The breakfast bell jangled. "'Five thousand dollars,' she kept repeating to herself, "'Greeting the teachers absently. "'Five thousand dollars.' And then on the porch she was suddenly aware of the awaiting boy. She eyed him critically. "'Black, fifteen, country bread, strong, clear-eyed.' "'Well, sir, I've come to school. "'Hmm, we can't teach boys for nothing.' The boy straightened. "'I can pay my way,' he returned. "'You mean you can pay what we ask?' "'Why, yes, ain't that all?' "'No, the rest is gathered from the crumbs of Dive's table.' Then he saw the twinkle in her eyes. She laid her hand gently upon his shoulder. "'If you don't hurry, you'll be late for breakfast,' she said with an air of confidence. "'See those boys over there? Follow them. "'At noon come to the office.' "'Wait, what's your name?' "'Blessed all when,' he answered, and the passing teacher smiled.' End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Ms. Mary Taylor The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois recorded by A. J. Hilton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ms. Mary Taylor did not take a college course for the purpose of teaching Negroes. Not that she objected to Negroes as human beings, quite the contrary. In the debate between the senior societies, her defense of the Fifteenth Amendment had been not only a notable bit of reasoning, but delivered with real enthusiasm. Nevertheless, when the end of the summer came and the only opening facing her was the teaching of children at Ms. Mitt's Experiment in the Alabama Swamps, it must be frankly confessed that Ms. Taylor was disappointed. Her dream had been a postgraduate course at Bryn Mawr, but that was out of the question until money was earned. She had pictured herself earning this by teaching one or two of her specialties in some private school near New York or 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 probably would have refused it if not of hand had it not been for her queer brother, John. John Taylor, who had supported her through college, was interested in cotton. Having certain schemes in mind, he had been struck by the fact that the Smith School was in the midst of the Alabama Cotton Belt. Better go, he had counseled sententiously, might learn something useful down there. She had been not a little dismayed by the outlook and had protested against his blunt insistence. But John, there's no society, just elementary work. John had met this objection with, hmm, as he left for his office. Next day he had returned to the subject, been looking up Toomes County, find some cruswells there, big plantations, rated at $250,000, some others too, Big Cotton County. You ought to know, John, if I teach Negroes I'll scarcely see much of people in my own class. Nonsense! But in, show off! Give them your Greek and study cotton. At any rate, I say go. And so, howsoever reluctantly, she had gone. The trial was all she had anticipated and possibly a bit more. She was a pretty young woman of 23, fair and rather daintily molded. In favorable surroundings she would have been an aristocrat or an epicure. Here she was teaching dirty children and the smell of confused odors and bodily perspiration was, to her, at times unbearable. Then there was the fact of their color. It was a fact so insistent, so fatal, she almost said at times she could not escape it. Theoretically she had always treated it with disdainful ease. What's the mere color of a human soul's skin? She had cried to a Wellesley audience and the audience had applauded with enthusiasm. But here, in Alabama, brought closely and intimately in touch with these dark-skinned children, their color struck her at first with a sort of terror. It seemed ominous and forbidding. She found herself shrinking away and gripping herself less they should perceive. She could not help but think that in most other things they were as different from her as in color. She groped four new ways to teach colored brains and martial-colored thoughts and the result was puzzling both to teacher and student. With the other teachers she had little commerce. They were, 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 rudder 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 schoolroom with their meals. Miss Taylor was soon starving for human companionship for the lighter touches of life and some of its warmth and laughter. She wanted a glance of the new books and periodicals and talk of great philanthropies and reforms.  As the Negro problem might be as a world problem it looked sordid and small at close range. So for the hundredth time she was thinking today as she walked alone up the lane back of the barn and then slowly down through the bottoms. She paused a moment and nodded to the two boys at work in a young cotton field. Cotton! She paused. She remembered with what interest she had always read of this little thread of the world. She had almost forgotten that it was here within touch and sight. For a moment something of the vision of Cotton was mirrored in her mind. The glimmering sea of delicate leaves whispered and murmured before her stretching away to the northward. She remembered that beyond this little world it stretched on and on. How far she did not know but on and on in a great trembling sea and the foam of its mighty waters would one time flood the ends of the earth. She glimpsed at all this with parted lips and then sighed impatiently. There might be a bit of poetry here and there but most of this place was such desperate prose. She glanced absently at the boys. One was Bless Alwen, a tall black lad. Bless she mused. Now who would think of naming a boy blessed to save these incomprehensible creatures? Her regard shifted to the green stalks and leaves again and she started to move away. Then her New England conscious stepped in. She ought not to pass these students without a word of encouragement or instruction. Cotton is a wonderful thing, is it not, boys? She said rather primly. The boys touched their hats and murmured something indistinctly. Miss Taylor did not know much about Cotton but at least one more remarked seemed called for. How long before the stalks will be ready to cut? She asked carelessly. The father boy coughed and Bless 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 don't know, he faltered. Don't know, well of all things inwardly commented Miss Taylor. Literally born in Cotton and oh well as much as to ask what's the use? She turned again to go. What is planted over there? She asked although she really didn't care. Goobers answered the smaller boy. Goobers, uncomprehendingly. Peanuts, Bless specified. Oh, murmured Miss Taylor. I see there are none on the vines yet. I suppose though it's too early for them. Then came the explosion. The smaller boy just snorted with irrepressible laughter and bolted across the fields. And Bless was Miss Taylor deceived or was he chuckling? She reddened, drew herself up and then dropping her primeness rippled with laughter. What is the matter, Bless? He looked at her with twinkling eyes. Where you see Miss Taylor is like this. Farment don't seem to be your specialty. The word was often on Miss Taylor's lips and she recognized it. Despite herself she laughed again. Oh, of course it isn't. I don't know anything about farming. But what did I say so funny? Bless was now laughing outright. Well, Miss Taylor, I declare, goobers don't grow on the tops of vines but on the ground, on the roots, like yams. Is that so? Yes, and we, we don't pick cotton stalks except for kindling. I must have been thinking of him. But tell me more about cotton. His eyes lighted. For cotton was to him a very real and beautiful thing and a lifelong companion. Not one whose friendship had been coarsened and killed by heavy toil. He leaned against his hoe and talked half-dreamily. Where had he learned so well that dream talk? We turn up the earth and sow soon after Christmas. Then pretty soon there comes a sort of greenness on the black land and it swells and grows and shivers. Then stalks shoot up with three or four leaves. That's 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, all green and billowy.  Flowers like little bells, blue and purple and white. Ah, that must be beautiful. Side, Miss Taylor, wistfully sinking to the ground and clasping her hands about her knees. Yes, ma'am, but it's prettiest when the bowls come and swell and burst and the cotton covers the feel like foam, all misty. She bent wondering over the pale plants. The poetry of the thing began to sing within her, awakening her unpoetic imagination and she murmured, the golden fleece. It's the silver fleece. He hearkened. What's that? he asked. Have you never heard of the golden fleece, bless? No, ma'am, he said eagerly. Then glancing up toward the Creswell Fields he saw two white men watching them. He grasped his hoe and started briskly to work. Sometime you tell me, please, won't you? She glanced at her watch in surprise and arose hastily. Yes, with pleasure, she said moving away, at first very fast, then more and more slowly up the lane with a puzzled look on her face. She began to realize that in this pleasant little chat the fact of the boy's color had quite escaped her and what especially puzzled her was that this had not happened before. She had been here four months and yet every moment up to now she seemed to have been vividly almost painfully conscious that she was a white woman talking to black folk.  No, not even that. She had been talking, just talking. There were no persons in the conversation, just things, one thing, cotton. She started thinking of cotton but at one she pulled herself back to the other aspect. Always before she had been veiled from these folk. Who had put the veil there? Had she herself hung it before her soul or had they hidden timidly behind its other side or was it simply a brute fact regardless of both of them? The longer she thought the more bewildered she grew there seemed no analogy that she knew. Here was a unique thing and she climbed to her bedroom and stared at the stars. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Town The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois Recorded by A. J. Hilton This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. John Taylor had written to a sister. He wanted information, very definite information about Toombs County Cotton, about its stores, its people, especially its people. He propounded a dozen questions, sharp, searching questions and he wanted the answers tomorrow. Impossible, thought Miss Taylor. He had calculated on her getting this letter yesterday forgetting that their mail was fetched once a day from the town four miles away. Then, too, she did not know all these matters and knew no one who did. Did John think she had nothing else to do? And sighing at the thought of tomorrow's drudgery she determined to consult Miss Smith in the morning. Miss Smith suggested a drive to town, bless could take her in the top buggy after school and she could consult some of the merchants and businessmen. She could then write her letter and mail it there. It would be but a day or so late getting to New York. Of course, said Miss Smith, dryly, slowly folding her napkin. Of course the only people here are the Crestwells. Oh yes, said Miss Taylor invitingly. There was an allurement about this all pervasive name. It held her by a growing fascination and she was anxious for the older woman to amplify. Miss Smith, however, remained provokingly silent so Miss Taylor essayed further. What sort of people are the Crestwells? She asked.  The young one a rascal. The girl a ninny. Was Miss Smith's succinct and acid classification of the county's first family? Adding as she rose. But they own us body and soul. She hurried out of the dining room without further remark. Miss Smith was more patient with black folk than with white. The sun was hanging just above the tallest trees of the swamp when Miss Taylor, weary with the day's work, climbed into the buggy beside Bless. They wheeled comfortably down the road leaving the somber swamp with its black green to the right and heading toward the gold green of waving cotton fields. Miss Taylor lay back listlessly and drank the soft warm air of the Langerous Spring. She thought of the golden sheen of the cotton and the cold March winds of New England of her brother who apparently noted nothing of leaves and winds and seasons and of the mighty Crestwells whom Miss Smith so evidently disliked. Suddenly she became aware of her long silence and the silence of the boy. Bless, she began didactically. Where are you from? He glanced across at her and answered shortly, Georgia, ma'am, and was silent. The girl tried again. Georgia is a large state, tentatively. Yes, ma'am, are you going back there when you finish? I don't know. I think you ought to and work for your people. Yes, ma'am. She stopped, puzzled and looked about. The old horse jogged lazily on and Bless switched him unveilingly. Somehow she had missed the way today. The veil hung thick, somber, impenetrable. Well, she had done her duty and slowly she nestled back and watched the far-off green and golden radiance of the cotton. Bless, she said impulsively. Shall I tell you of the golden fleece? He glanced at her again. Yes, ma'am, please, he said. She settled herself almost luxuriously and began the story of Jason and the Argonauts. The boy remained silent and finished, he still sat silent, elbow on knee, absently flicking the jogging horse and staring ahead at the horizon. She looked at him doubtfully with some disappointment that his hearing had apparently shared so little of the joy of her telling and, too, there was mingled a vague sense of having lowered herself to too familiar fellowship with this boy. She straightened herself instinctively and thought of some remark that would restore proper relations. She had not found it before, he said slowly. All yon is Jason's. What? she asked, puzzled. He pointed with one sweep of his long arm to the quivering mass of green-gold foliage that swept from swamp to horizon. All yon golden fleece is Jason's now, he repeated. I thought it was Cresswell's, she said. That's what I mean. She suddenly understood that the story had sunk deeply. I am glad to hear you say that, she said methodically, for Jason was a brave adventurer. I thought he was a thief. Oh, well, those were other times. The Cresswell's are thieves now. Miss Taylor answered sharply, Bless, I'm ashamed to hear you talk so of your neighbors simply because they are white. But Bless continued, this is the black sea, he said, pointing to the dull cabins that crouched here and there upon the earth with the dark twinkling of their black folk darting out to see the strangers ride by. Despite herself, Miss Taylor caught the allegory and half-whispered, lo, the king himself, as a black man almost rose from the tangled earth at their side. He was tall and thin and somber-hued with a carbon face and thick gray hair. Yol serve and mistress, he said with a sweeping bow as he strode toward the swamp. Miss Taylor stopped him, for he looked interesting and might answer some of her brother's questions.  Do you live about here? I've lived here a hundred years. He answered, she did not believe it. He might be seventy, eighty, or even ninety. Indeed, there was about him that indefinable sense of age, some shadow of endless living, but a hundred seemed absurd. You know the people pretty well, then. I know them all. I know most of them better than they know themselves. I know Zaheba things in this world and in the next. This is a great cotton country? They don't raise no cotton now to what they used to when old General Cresswell first come from Carolina. Then it was a bell and a half to the acorn stalks it looked like young brushwood. That was cotton. You know the Cresswells then? Know them. I know them before they was born. They are wealthy people? They rolls the money and they is quality too. No shawty upstarts them, but born the purple lady, born the purple. Old General Cresswell had niggers and acres, no end back there in Carolina. He brought a part of them here, and here son, the father of this Colonel Cresswell, was born the son. I know them well. He had a thousand niggers and ten thousand acres of further wall. Were they kind to their slaves? Oh, yes, yes, ma'am. They was careful with their niggers and wouldn't let the drivers whip them much. And these Cresswells today? Oh, their quality are high-blooded folks. They's lost some landed niggers, but lordy, nothing can buy the Cresswells. They naturally owns the world. Are they honest and kind? Oh, yes, ma'am. They's good white folks. Good white folk? Oh, yes, ma'am. Of course, you know white folks will be white folks. White folks will be white folks. Yo, servant, ma'am. And the swamp swallowed him. The boy's eyes followed him as he whipped up the horse. He's going to Elspeth's. Who is he? We just call him Old Pappy. He's a preacher and some folks say a conjure man, too. And who is Elspeth? She lives in the swamp. She's a kind of witch, I reckon. Like, like, like Medea? Yes, only... I don't know. And he grew thoughtful. The road turned now and far away to the eastward rose the first straggling cabins of the town. Creeping toward them down the road rolled a dark squat figure. It grew and spread slowly on the horizon until it became a fat old black woman hooded in apron with great round hips and massive bosom. Her face was heavy and homely until she looked up and lifted the drooping cheeks and then kindly old eyes beamed on the young teacher as she curtsied and cried. Good evening, honey. Good evening. You sure is pretty this evening. Why, Aunt Rachel, how are you? There was genuine pleasure in the girl's tone. Just tolerable, honey, bless the Lord. Rumor tears is kind of bad. And Aunt Rachel ain't so young as she used to be. And what brings you to town of foot this time of day?  She fumbled with her cane. It's the boys again, honey. She returned solemnly. They's good boys. They is good to their old mammy.  I's been a judge gray. I used to told him on my knee, honey. I's been to him to plead him not to let him go to the gang cause you see, honey. And she stroke the girl's sleeve as if pleading with her too. You see, it done ruins boys to put him on the gang. Miss Taylor tried hard to think of something comforting to say but words seemed inadequate to cheer the old soul. But after a few moments they rode on leaving the kind face again beaming and dimpling. And now the country town of Toomesville lifted itself above the cotton and corn fringed with dirty straggling cabins of black folk. The road swung past the iron watering trough turned sharply and after passing two or three pert cottages and a stately house old and faded opened into the wide square. Here pulsed the very life and being of the land. Yonder great bales of cotton yellow white in its soiled sacking piled in lofty dusty mountains lay listening for the train that twice a day ran out to the greater world. Roundabout tied to the well-nod hitching rails were rolls of mules mules with backcloths mules with saddles mules hitched along wagons buggies and rickety gigs mules munching golden ears of corn and mules drooping their heads in sorrowful memory of better days. Beyond the cotton warehouse smoked the chimneys of the seed mill and the cotton gin. A red livery stable faced them in all about three sides of the square ran stores, big stores and small wide windowed narrow stores. Some had old steps above the worn clay sidewalks and some were flush with the ground. All had a general sense of dilapidation save one the largest and most imposing a three-story brick. This was Caldwell's Emporium and here Bless stopped and Miss Taylor entered. Mr. Caldwell himself hurried forward and the whole store clerks and customers stood at attention for Miss Taylor was yet new to the county. She bought a few trifles and approached her main business. My brother wants some information about the county, Mr. Caldwell, and I am only a teacher and do not know much about conditions here. Ah! Where do you teach? asked Mr. Caldwell. He was certain he knew the teachers of all the white schools in the county. Miss Taylor told him he stiffened slightly but perceptibly like a man clicking the buckles of his ready armor and two townswomen who listened gradually turned their backs but remained near. Yes, yes, he said with uncomfortable haste. Any, uh, information? Of course. Miss Taylor got out her notes. The leading landowners. She began sorting the notes searchingly. I should like to know something about them. Well, Colonel Cresswell is of course our greatest landlord, a high-bred gentleman of the old school. He and his son were the successor to their name, holds some 50,000 acres. They may be considered representative types. Then Mr. Maxwell has 10,000 acres and Mr. Toliver 1,000. Miss Taylor wrote rapidly. And cotton, she asked. We raise considerable cotton but not nearly what we ought to. Nigga labor is too worthless. Oh, the Negroes are not then very efficient. Snowed it, Mr. Caldwell. At last, she had broached a phase of the problem upon which he could dilate with fervor. They are the lowest down. Ownery is big in your pardon. Good for nothing loafers you ever heard of. Why, we just have to carry them and care for them like children. Look yonder. He pointed across the square to the courthouse. It was an old square brick and stucco building, somber and stilted and very dirty.  Courts just out, pursued Mr. Caldwell. And them niggers had just been sent to the gang. Young ones too, educated but good for nothing. They're all that way. Miss Taylor looked up, a little puzzled and became aware of a battery of eyes and ears. Everybody seemed craning and listening and she felt a sudden embarrassment and a sense of half-veiled hostility in the air. With one or two further perfunctory questions and a hasty expression of thanks, she escaped into the air. The whole square seemed loafing and lolling. The white world perched on stoops and chairs in doorways and windows, the black world filtering down from doorways to sidewalk and curb. The hot, dusty quadrinkles stretched in dreary deadness toward the temple of the town as if doing obeisance to the courthouse.  It's one of the Don's boys, said Bless. He's drunk again and they say he's been stealing. I expect he was hungry. And they wheeled out of the square. Miss Taylor was tired and the hastily scribbled letter which she dropped into the post in passing was not as clearly expressed as she could wish. A great-voiced giant brown and bearded drove past them, roaring at him. He greeted Bless with a comprehensive wave of a hand. I guess Tyler has been paid off, said Bless, but Miss Taylor was too disgusted to answer. Further on they overtook a tall young yellow boy walking awkwardly beside a handsome bold-faced girl. Two white men came riding by. One leered at the girl and she laughed back while the yellow boy stroked sullenly ahead as the two white riders approached the buggy. One said to the other, Who's that nigger with? One of them nigger teaches. Well, stuff is there riding around or they'll hear something. And they rode slowly by. Miss Taylor felt rather than heard their words and she was uncomfortable. The sun fell fast. The long shadows of the swamp swept soft coolness on the red road. Then afar in front a curled cloud of white dust arose and out of it came the sound of galloping horses. Who's this? Asked Miss Taylor. The Cresswells I think. They usually ride to town about this time. But already Miss Taylor had described the brown and tawny sides of the speeding horses. Good gracious! She thought, the Cresswells. And with it came a sudden desire not to meet them just then. She glanced toward the swamp. The sun was sifting blood red lances through the trees. A little wagon road entered the wood and disappeared. Miss Taylor saw it. Let's see the sunset in the swamp. She said suddenly. On came the galloping horses. Blessed looked up in surprise then silently turned into the swamp. The horses flew by their hoof beats dying in the distance. A dark green silence lay about them lit by mighty crimson glories beyond. Miss Taylor leaned back and watched it seemingly till a sense of oppression grew on her. The sun was sinking fast. Where does this road come out? She asked it last. It doesn't come out. Where does it go? It goes to Elspeth's. What? We must turn back immediately. I thought, but bless was already turning. They were approaching the main road again when there came a fluttering as of a great bird beating its wings amid the forest. Then a girl, lith dark brown and tall leaped lightly into the path beatings on her lips for bless.  Miss Taylor was a little startled. Good evening! She said, straightening herself. The girl was still silent and the horse stopped. One tense moment pulsed through all the swamp. Then the girl, still motionless, still looking Miss Taylor through and through said with slow deliberateness.  Teacher in Miss Taylor strove to rebuke this unconventional greeting but the woman in her spoke first and asked almost before she knew it. Why? End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Zora The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois Recorded by A. J. Hilton This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Zora, Child of the Swamp was a heathen hoidon of twelve wayward untrained years. Slight, straight, strong, full-blooded she had dreamed her life away in willful wandering through her dark and somber kingdom until she was one with it in all its moods. Mischievous, secretive, brooding, full of great and awful visions steeped body and soul in woodlore. Her home was out of doors, the cabin of Elspeth her port of call for talking and eating. She had not known she had scarcely seen a child of her own age until bless Alwyn had fled from her dancing in the night and she had searched and found him sleeping in the misty morning light. It was to her a strange new thing to see a fellow of like years with herself as she gripped him to her soul in wild interest and new curiosity. Yet this childish friendship was so new and incomprehensible a thing to her that she did not know how to express it.  Yes, they is devils down yonder beyond the swamp. She would whisper warningly, when after the first meeting he had crept back again and again half-fascinated, half-amused to greet her. I have seen him. I has heard him because my mammy is a witch. The boy would sit and watch her wanderingly as she lay curled along the low branch of the mighty oak clinging with little curved limbs and flying fingers, possessed by the spirit of her vision she would chant low-voiced, tremulous mischievous. One night a devil came to me on blue fire out of a big red flower that grows in the south swamp. He was tall and big and strong as anything. And when he spoke, the trees shook and the stars fell. Even mammy was afeared and it takes a lot to make mammy afeared because she's a witch and can conjure.  Shugs. The boy would say, trying to express scornful disbelief when, in truth, he was awed and doubtful. Always he would glance involuntarily back along the path behind him then her low bird-like laughter would rise and ring through the trees. So passed a year and there came the time when her wayward teasing and the almost painful thrill of her tail-telling netled him and drove him away for long months he did not meet her until one day he saw her deep eyes fixed longingly upon him from a thicket in the swamp he went and greeted her but she said no words sitting nested among the greenwood with passionate proud silence until he had sued long for peace. Then in sudden new friendship she had taken his hand and led him through the swamp showing him all the beauty of her swamp world. Great shadowy oaks and limpid pools lone naked trees and sweet flowers the whispering and flitting of wild things and the winging of furtive birds. She had dropped the impish mischief of her way and up from beneath it rose a wistful visionary tenderness a mighty half-confessed half-concealed striving for unknown things he seemed to have found a new friend. And today after he had taken Miss Taylor home and supp he came out in the twilight under the new moon and whistled the tremulous note that always brought her Why did you speak so to Miss Taylor? He asked reproachfully she considered the matter a moment You don't understand! You can't never understand I can see right through people You can't You never had a witch for a mammy did you? No Well then You see I have to take care of you and see things for you Zora He said thoughtfully You must learn to read What for? So that you can read books and know lots of things Don't white folks make books? Yes Most of the books? Who? I know more than they do now I hate more In some things you do but they know things that give them power and wealth and make them rule No, no They don't really rule They just thinks they rule They just got things heavy, dead things We black folks has got the spirit We's Lyta and Cunninga We fly right through them We go and come again just as we want to White folks is wonderful He did not understand what she meant but he knew what he wanted and he tried again Even if white folks don't know everything they know different things from us and we ought to know what they know This appealed to her somewhat I don't believe they know much She concluded But I'll learn to read and just see It'll be hard work He warned but he had come prepared for acquiescence He took a primer from his pocket Lighting a match showed her the alphabet Learn those He said What, Pa? She asked looking at the letters disdainfully Because that's the way He said as the light flared and went out I don't believe it She disputed disappearing in the wood and returning with a pine knot They lighted it and its smoky flame through wavering shadows about She turned the leaves till she came to a picture which she studied intently Is this about this? She asked Reading and picture Yes And if you learn Read it She commanded He read the page Again She said making him point out each word Then she read it after him accurately with more perfect expression He stared at her She took the book and with a nod was gone It was Saturday and dark She never asked bless to her home to that mysterious black cabin in the mid-swamp He thought her ashamed of it and delicately refrained from going So tonight she slipped away stopped and listened till she heard his footsteps on the pike and then flew homeward Presently the old black cabin loomed before her with its wide-flapping door The old woman was bending over the fire stirring some savory mess and a yellow girl with a white baby on one arm was placing dishes on a rickety wooden table when Zora suddenly and noiselessly entered the door Cool, Missy I love bitches with fetchy Grumbled the hag but Zora dained no answer She walked placidly to the table where she took up a handful of cold cornbread and meat and then went over and curled up by the fire Elspeth and the girl talked and laughed coarsely and the night wore on By and by loud laughter and tramping came from the road a sound of numerous footsteps Zora listened leapt to her feet and started to the door The old crone threw an epithet after her but she flashed through the lighted doorway and was gone followed by the oath and shouts from the approaching men In the hut night fled with wild song and revel and day dawned again Out from some fastness of the wood crept Zora she stopped and bathed in a pool and combed her closed clung hair then entered silently to breakfast Thus began in the dark swamp that primal battle with the word she hated it and despised it but her pride was in arms and her one great life friendship in the balance She farred her way with a dogged persistence that brought word after word of praise and interest from bless Then once well begun her busy eager mind flew with a rapidity that startled the stories especially she devoured tales of strange things and countries and men gripped her imagination and clung to her memory Didn't I tell you there was lots to learn? he asked once I knew it all she retorted Every bit I thought it all before only the little things is different and I like the little strange things Spring ripe into summer she was reading well and writing some Zora he announced one morning under their forest oak You must go to school She eyed him surprised Why you found some things worth knowing in this world haven't you Zora Yes She admitted but there are more many many more worlds on worlds of things you have not dreamed of She stared at him open eyed his face battling with the old assurance then she looked down at her bare brown feet and torn gown I've got a little money Zora He said quickly but she lifted her head I'll earn mine She said How? He asked doubtfully I'll pick cotton Can you? Of course I can It's hard work She hesitated I don't like to work She mused You see Mammy's papi was a king's son and kings don't work I don't work Mostly I dreams but I can't work and I will for the wonder things and for you So the summer yellowed and silvered into fall all the vacation days bless worked on the farm and Zora read and dreamed and studied in the wood until the land lay white with harvest Then without warning she appeared in the cotton field beside bless and picked It was hot Zora work the sun blaze her bent and untrained back and the soft little hands bled but no complaint past her lips her hands never wavered and her eyes met his steadily and gravely She bade him good night cheerily and then stole away to the wood crouching beneath the great oak and biting back the groans that trembled on her lips Often she fell supperless to sleep with two great tears creeping down her tired cheeks When school time came there was not yet money enough for cotton picking was not far advanced yet Zora would take no money from bless and worked earnestly away Meantime there occurred to the boy the momentous question of clothes had Zora thought of them he feared not she knew little of clothes and cared less So one day in town he dropped into Caldwell's Emporium and glanced hesitantly at certain ready-made dresses One caught his eye It came from the great easterly mills of New England and was red a vivid red The glowing warmth of this cloth of cotton caught the eye brought the gown for a dollar and a half He carried it to Zora in the wood and unrolled it before her eyes that danced with glad tears Of course it was long and wide but he fetched needle and thread and scissors too It was a full month after school had begun when they together back in the swamp shadowed by the foliage began to fashion the wonderful garment At the same time she laid ten dollars of her first hard-earned money in his hands You can finish the first year of your money Bless assured her delighted And the next year you must come in to board because you see when you're educated you don't want to live in the swamp I want to live here always But not at Elspeth's No Not there Not there And a troubled questioning trembled in her eyes but brought no answering thought in his for he was busy with his plans Then you see Zora learned how to make it beautiful Yes a beautiful great castle here in the swamp She dreamed But And her face fell I can't get money enough to board in I don't want to board in I want to be free He looked at her curled down so earnestly in her puzzling task and a pity for the more than motherless child swept over him He bent over her nervously eagerly and she laid eyes Zora he said I want you to do this all for me I will if you want me to She said quietly but with something in her voice that made him look half startled into her beautiful eyes and feel a queer flushing in his face He stretched his hand out and taking her as held it lightly till she quivered and drew away that land What is it?  She asked dubiously No she wouldn't give her own girl and then she paused still intently watching him She was troubled and again a question eagerly hovered on her lips but he continued Then we must escape her He said gaily See yonder lies the golden fleece spread across the brown back of the world Let's get a bit of it and hide it here in the swamp and comb it forward turning the picture in her mind suddenly forgetting her trouble she bubbled with laughter and leaping up clapped her hands and that knows just the place She cried eagerly looking at him with a flash of the old teasing mischief down in the heart of the swamp where dreams and devils lives Up at the schoolhouse Miss Taylor was musing she had been rude motoring and golf well-groomed men and elegant women she would not have put it in just that way but the vision came very close to spelling heaven to her mind not that she would come to it vacant-minded but rather as a trained woman starved for companionship and wanting something of the beauty and ease of life she sat dreaming of it here with rows of dark faces before her day was warm and languorous and the last pale mist of the silver fleece peeped in at the windows she tried to follow the third reader lesson with her finger but persistently off she went dreaming to some exquisite little parlour with its green and gold the clink of dainty china and hum of low voices and the blue lake in the window she would the door opened softly and upon the threshold stood zora her small feet and slender ankles were black and bare her dark round and broad browed head and strangely beautiful face were poised almost defiantly crowned with a misty mass of waveless hair and lit by the velvet radiance of two wonderful eyes and hanging from shoulder to ankle in form of chapter 5 chapter 6 cotton the quest of the silver fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois recorded by A. J. Hilton this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org the cry of the naked was sweeping the world from the peasant toiling in Russia toiling in London the chieftain burning in Africa and the Eskimo freezing in Alaska from long lines of hungry men from patient sad-eyed women from old folk and creeping children went up the cry clothes clothes far away the wide black land that belts the south where Miss Smith worked and Miss Taylor drudged and bless and Zora dreamed the dense black land sensed the cry and heard the bound of answering life and rest all that dark earth heaved in mighty travail with the bursting bowls of the cotton while black a tint and earth spirits swarmed above sweating and crooning to its birth pains after the miracle of the bursting bowls when the land was brightest with the piled mist of the fleece and when the cry of the naked was loudest in the mouths of men a sudden cloud of workers swarmed between the cotton and the naked spinning and weaving and bringing the silver till the song of service filled the world and the poetry of toil was in the souls of the laborers yet ever and always there were tense silent white faced men moving in that swarm who felt no poetry and heard no song and one of these was John Taylor he was tall thin cold and tireless and he moved among the watchers of this world of trade in the rich and easterly brokers Mr. Taylor as chief and confidential clerk surveyed the world's nakedness and the supply of cotton to clothe it the object of his watching was frankly stated to himself into his world he purposed going into business neither for his own health nor for the healing or clothing of the peoples but to apply his knowledge of the world's nakedness and of black men's toil in such a way teaching of his highest ideal lately deceased Mr. Job Gray Mr. Gray had so successfully manipulated the cotton market that while black men who made the cotton starved in Alabama and white men who bought it froze in Siberia he himself sat high on a throne of royal state that far out shone the wealth of ormuz or of end notwithstanding this he died eventually leaving the burden of his wealth to his bewildered wife and his business to the astute Mr. Easterly not simply to Mr. Easterly but in a sense to his spiritual heir John Taylor to be sure Mr. Taylor had but a modest salary and no financial interest in the business but he had knowledge and business daring effrontery even and the determination was fixed in his mind to be a millionaire no distant date some cautious flyers on the market gave him enough surplus to send his sister Mary to the school of his country home in New Hampshire and afterward through Wellesley college although just why a woman should want to go through college was inexplicable to John Taylor and he was still uncertain as to the wisdom of his charity when she had an offer to teach in the south John Taylor hurried her off for two reasons he was profoundly interested in the cotton belt and there she might be of service to him and secondly as an investment he did not consider Mary a success her letters intimated very strongly her intention not to return to Miss Smith's school but they also brought information disjointed and incomplete to be sure which mightily interested Mr. Taylor and sent him to atlases encyclopedias and census reports when he went to that little lunch with old Mrs. Gray he was not sure he wanted his sister to leave the cotton belt just yet after lunch he was sure he did not want her to leave the rich Mrs. Gray was at the crisis of her fortunes she was an elderly lady in those uncertain years beyond fifty and she had been left suddenly with more millions than she could easily count personally she was inclined to spend her money in bettering the world right off in such ways as might from time to time seem attractive this course but wicked and incidentally distinctly unprofitable to him he had expressed himself strongly to Mrs. Gray last night at dinner and had reinforced his argument by a pointed letter written this morning to John Taylor Mrs. Gray's disposal of the income was unbelievable blasphemy against the memory of a mighty man he did not put this in words to Mrs. Gray he was only head clerk in her late husband's office in silence when she discounted on various benevolent schemes now what do you know she asked finally about Negroes about educating the Mr. Taylor over his fish was about to deny all knowledge of any sort on the subject but all at once he recollected his sister and a sudden gleam of light radiated his soul cried Mrs. Gray joyfully where is she in tombs county alabama in Mr. Taylor consulted a remote mental pocket in Miss Sarah Smith's school why how fortunate I'm so glad I mentioned the matter you see Miss Smith is a sister of a friend of ours congressman Smith my father set great store by blacks and was a leading abolitionist before he died Mr. Taylor was thinking fast yes the name of congressman Peter Smith was quite familiar Mr. Easterly as chairman of the Republican State Committee of New Jersey had been compelled to discipline Mr. Smith pretty severely for certain socialistic votes in the house and consequently his future career was uncertain much to do with Mrs. Gray's philanthropies at least in his present position should like to have you meet and talk with my sister Mrs. Gray she's a Wellesley graduate said Taylor finally Mrs. Gray was delighted it was a combination which she felt she needed here was a college girl who could direct her philanthropies and her etiquette during the process thus it had happened that Ms. Taylor came to Lake George for her vacation after the first year at the Smith school and she and Ms. Smith had silently agreed as she left that it would be better for her not to return but the gods of lower Broadway thought otherwise not that Ms. Taylor did not believe in Ms. Smith's work she was too honest in the world into which black folk fitted she was rather taken back therefore to be regarded as an expert on the problem first her brother attacked her not simply on Cotton but to her great surprise on Negro education and after listening to her halting uncertain remarks he suggested to her certain matters which it would be better for her to believe when though easy suggest a waiting game before she goes in heavy but Ms. Smith needs money the New England conscious prompted John Taylor cut in sharply we all need money and I know people who need Mrs. Gray's more than Ms. Smith does at present Ms. Taylor found the Lake George colony charming it was not ultra fashionable but it had wealth and leisure and some breeding schools of New York and Boston they or rather Mr. Vanderpool's connections were of old Dutch New York stock his father it was who had built the Lake George cottage Mrs. Vanderpool was a wells of Boston and endured Lake George now and then during the summer for her husband's sake although she regarded it better at a miscellaneous dinner and found her interesting she discovered that this young woman knew things that she could talk books and that she was rather pretty to be sure she knew no people but Mrs. Vanderpool knew enough to even things by the by I met some charm in Alabama people last winter in Montgomery herself no of course you could not it is too bad that your work deprives you of the society of people of your class now my ideal is a set of Negro schools where the white teachers could know the Creswells why why yes faltered Miss Taylor but wouldn't that be difficult why should it be I mean would the Creswells approve of educating the word conceals so much now I take it the Creswells would object to instructing them in French and in dinner etiquette and tea gowns and so in fact would I but teach them how to handle a hoe and to sew and cook I have reason to know that people like the Creswells would be delighted and with the teachers of it why not provided of course they were well gentle folk accordingly but one must associate with one's pupils oh certainly certainly just as one must associate with one's maids and chauffeurs and dressmakers cordially and kindly but with a difference but but dear Mrs. Vanderpool you wouldn't want your children train that way would you certainly not my dear but these are not my children they are the children of Negroes we can't quite forget that can we no I suppose not Miss Taylor admitted a little helplessly but it seems to me that's the modern idea of taking culture to the masses frankly then the modern idea is not my idea it is too socialistic and as for culture applied to the masses you are to a paradox masses in work is the truth one must face and culture and work quite incompatible I assure you my dear she stretched her silk and limbs lazily while Miss Taylor sat silently staring at the waters just then Mrs. Gray drove up in her new red motor up to the time of Mary Taylor's arrival the acquaintance of the Vanderpools and Mrs. Gray had been a matter chiefly of smiling bows after Miss Taylor came there had been calls and casual intercourse gratification and Mrs. Vanderpools mingled amusement and annoyance Mrs. Gray announced the arrival of the Easterlies and John Taylor for the weekend as Mrs. Vanderpool could think of nothing less boring she consented to dine the atmosphere of Mrs. Gray's ornate cottage was different from that of the Vanderpools the display of wealth and splendor had a touch of the barbaric Mary Taylor liked it although she found the Vanderpool atmosphere grim power beneath the Gray's mahogany and velvets that thrilled while it appalled precisely that side of the thing appealed to her brother he would have seen little or nothing in the plain elegance yonder while here he saw a Japanese vase that cost no cent less than a thousand dollars he meant to be able to duplicate it some day he knew that Gray was poor and less knowing than he sixty years ago the dead millionaire had begun traveling in the south in reconstruction times and sending his agents in this way he made his thousands then he took a step forward and instead of following the prices induced the prices to follow him two or three small cotton corners brought him his tens of thousands about this time easterly joined him and pointed out a new road the buying and selling of stock in various cotton mills and other industrial enterprises Gray hesitated but easterly pushed him on and made his hundreds of thousands then easterly proposed buying controlling interest in certain large mills and gradually consolidating them the plan grew and succeeded and Gray made his millions then Gray stopped he had money enough and would venture no further he was going to retire and eat peanuts he said with a chuckle easterly was disgusted he too had made millions not as many as Gray but a few it was not simply money that he wanted but power the lust of financial dominion had gripped his soul and he had a vision of a vast trust of cotton manufacturing covering the land he talked this incessantly to Gray but Gray continued to shake his head the thing was too big for his imagination he was bent on retiring and just as he had set the date a year hence he inadvertently died on the whole Mr. easterly was glad of his partners to withdraw since he left his capital behind him until he found his vast plans about to be circumvented by Mrs. Gray withdrawing this capital from his control took care of to the niggers and Chinaman he snorted to John Taylor and strode up and down the veranda John Taylor removed his coat lighted a black cigar and elevated his heels the ladies were the parlor where the female easterlies were prostrating themselves what is your plan? asked Taylor quite as if he did not know why men that transfer by hundred millions of stock would give me control of the cotton mills of America think of it the biggest trust next to steel why not bigger? asked Taylor imperturbably puffing away Mr. easterly eyed him he had regarded Taylor hither too as a very valuable asset to the business had relied on his knowledge of routine his judgment and his honesty he protected tonight a new tone in his clerk something almost authoritative and self-reliant he paused and smiled at him bigger? but John Taylor was dead and earnest he did not smile first there's England and all Europe why not bring them into the trust possibly later but first America of course I've got my eyes on the European situation and feelers out but such matters are more difficult and slower of adjustment over there so damned much law and gospel but there's another side what's that? you are planning to combine and control the manufacture of cotton yes but how about your raw material the steel trust owns its iron mines of course mines could be monopolized and hold the trust up but our raw material is perfectly safe farms growing smaller farms isolated and we fixing the price it's a cinch are you sure Taylor surveyed him with a narrowed look certain I'm not I've been looking up things and there are three points you'd better study first cotton farms are not getting smaller they're getting bigger all mighty fast and there's a big cotton land monopoly in sight second the banks and wholesale houses in the south can control the cotton output if they work together third watch the southern farmer's league of big landlords Mr. Easterly threw away his cigar and sat down Taylor straightened up switched on the porch light and took a bundle of papers from his coat pocket he asked census figures he said commercial reports and let us they poured over them a half hour then easterly arose there's something in it he admitted but what can we do what do you propose monopolize the growth as well as the manufacture of cotton and use the first to club European manufacturers into submission easterly stared at him good lord he ejaculated you're crazy but Taylor smiled a slow thin smile and put away his papers easterly continued to stared his subordinate with a sort of fascination with the awe that one feels when genius unexpectedly reveals itself from a source hitherto regarded as entirely ordinary at last he drew a long breath remarking indefinitely I'll think it over a stir in the parlor indicated departure will you watch the farm as league and know to success and methods counsel John Taylor his tone and manner unchanged then figure what it might do in the hands of let us say friends who's running it a colonel Cresswell is its head and happens also to be the false behind it aristocratic family big planter near where my sister teaches hmm we'll watch him and say as easterly was turning away you know congressman smith I should say I did well Mrs. Gray seems to be depending on him for advice in distributing some of her charity funds easterly appeared startled she is is she he exclaimed but here come the ladies he went forward at once but John Taylor drew back he noted Mrs. Vanderpool and thought her too thin and pale the dashing young Miss easterly was more to his taste he intended to have a wife like that one of these days Mary said he to a sister as he finally rose to go tell me about the Cresswells Mary explained to him at length the impossibility of her knowing much about the local white aristocracy of tombs county and then told him all she had heard Mrs. Gray talk to you much yes about dockey schools yes what does she intend to do I think she will aid Miss Smith first did you suggest anything well I told her about cooperating with the local white people the Cresswells yes you see Mrs. Vanderpool knows the Cresswells does a good say that's a good point you just bear heavy on it cooperate with the Cresswells why yes but you see John I don't just know whether one could cooperate with the Cresswells or not one hears such contradictory stories of them but there must be some other white people stuff it's the Cresswells we want well Mary was very dubious they are the most important end of chapter 6 chapter 7 the place of dreams the quest of the silver fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois recorded by A. J. Hilton this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org when she went south late in September Mary Taylor had two definite but allied objects she was to get all possible business information concerning the Cresswells and she was to induce Miss Smith to prepare for Mrs. Gray's benevolence by interesting the local whites in her work the program attracted Miss Taylor she felt in touch even if dimly and slightly with great industrial movements and she felt too like a discerning pioneer in philanthropy both roles she liked besides they held each certain promises of social prestige and society Miss Taylor argued one must have even in Alabama bless all when met her at the train he was growing to be a big fine bronze giant and Mary was glad to see him she especially tried in the first few weeks of opening school to glean as much information as possible concerning the community and particularly the Cresswells she found the Negro youth quicker sure and more intelligent in his answers than those she questioned elsewhere and she gained real enjoyment from her long talks with him isn't blessed developing splendidly she said to Miss Smith one afternoon there was an unmistakable note of enthusiasm in her voice Miss Smith slowly closed her letter file but did not look up yes she said crisply he's 18 now quite a man and most interesting to talk with her own thoughts and she did not notice the other woman's manner do you know she pursued I'm a little afraid of one thing so am I oh you've noted it too his friendship with that impossible girl Sora Miss Smith gave her a searching look what of it she demanded she is so Bob beneath him how so she's a bold godless thing I don't understand her the two are quite the same of course not but she is unnaturally forward too bright Miss Smith amplified yes she knows quite too much you surely remember that awful scarlet dress well all her clothes have arrived or remained at a simplicity and vividness that is well immodest does she think them immodest what she thinks is a problem they paused a moment then Miss Smith said slowly what I don't understand I don't judge no but you can't always help seeing and meeting it laughed Miss Taylor certainly not I don't try I caught the meeting and seeing it is the only way well perhaps for us but not for a boy like bless and a girl like Sora true men and women must exercise judgment their intercourse and she glanced sharply at Miss Taylor my dear you yourself must not forget that bless allwin is a man far up the road came a low long musical shouting then with creaking and straining of wagons four great black mules dashed into sight with twelve bursting bales of yellowish cotton looming and swaying behind the drivers and helpers were very upright her face had flamed crimson and then went dead white Miss Miss Smith she gasped overwhelmed with dismay a picture of wounded pride in consternation Miss Smith turned around very methodically and took her hand but while she spoke the girl merely stared at her in stony silence now dear don't mean more than I do I'm an old woman and I've seen many things this is but a little corner of the world and yet many people pass here in thirty years the trouble with new teachers who come is that like you they cannot see black folk as human all to them are either impossible zores or else lovable blessings they forget that zores not to be annihilated but studied and understood and that bless is a young man of eighteen not a clod but that he should no thought of you but as a teacher has yet entered his dear simple head but my point is simply this he's a man and a human one and if you keep on making much over him and talking to him and patting him he'll have the right to interpret your manner in his own way the same that any young man would but but he's a a negro to be sure he is and a man in addition now dear don't take this too much to heart this is not a rebuke but a clumsy warning I am simply trying to make clear to you why you should be careful treat poor Zora a little more lovingly and bless a little less warmly they are just human but oh so human Mary Taylor rose up stiffly and mumbled a brief good night she went to her room and sat down in the dark the mere mention of the thing was to her so preposterous loathsome she kept repeating she slowly undressed in the dark and heard the rumbling of the cotton wagons as they swayed toward town the cry of the naked was sweeping the world and yonder in the night black men were answering the call they knew not what or why they answered but obeyed the irresistible call with hearts light and song upon their lips the song of service they lashed their mules and drank their whiskey and all night the piled fleece swept by Mary Taylor's window flying flying to that far cry Miss Taylor turned uneasily in her bed and jerked the bed clothes about her ears Mrs. Vanderpool was right she confided to the night with something of the awe with which one suddenly comprehends a hidden oracle there must be a difference always always the impudent negro all night she dreamed and all day especially when trim and immaculate she sat in her chair and looked down upon fifty dark faces and upon Zora Zora sat thinking she saw neither Miss Taylor nor the long straight rolls of desks and faces she heard neither the drone of the spellers nor did she hear Miss Taylor say Zora she heard and saw none of this she only heard the prattle of the birds in the wood far down where the silver fleece would be planted for the time of cotton planting was coming the gray and drizzle of December was passed in the hesitation of January already a certain warmth entered the air and the swamp was calling its child with low seductive voice she knew where the first leaves were bursting where tiny flowers nestled and where young living things looked upward to the light and cried and crawled a wistful longing was stealing into her heart she wanted to be free she wanted to run and dance and sing but bless wanted Zora this time she heard the call but did not heed it Miss Taylor was very tiresome never doing and saying silly things so Zora paid no attention but sat still and thought yes she would show bless the place that very night she had kept its secret from him until now out of perverseness out of her love of mystery and secrets but tonight after school when he met her on the big road with the clothes she would take him and show him the chosen spot Taylor regarded her in perplexed despair oh these people Mrs. Vanderpool was right culture and some masses at least were not to be linked and too culture and work were they incompatible at any rate culture and this work were now there was Mrs. Vanderpool she toiled not neither did she spin and yet if all these folk were like poor stupid docile Jenny it would be simpler but what earthly sense was there like Zora so stupid in some matters so startlingly bright in others and so stubborn in everything here she was doing some work twice as well and twice as fast as the class and other work she would not touch because she didn't like it her classification in school was nearly as difficult as her classification in the world and Mrs. Taylor reached up impatiently and removed the gold pin from her stock to adjust it more comfortably when Zora was sitting unheating with that curious gliding walk which Mrs. Taylor called stealthy she laid the pin on the desk and on sudden impulse spoke again to the girl as she arranged her neck trimmings Zora she said evenly why didn't you come to class when I called I didn't hear you said Zora looking at her full-eyed and telling the half-truth easily Mrs. Taylor was sure Zora was lying and she knew that she had a lying customary in this community and she had a New England horror of it she looked at Zora disapprovingly while Zora looked at her quite impersonally but steadily then Mrs. Taylor braced herself mentally and took the war into Africa do you ever tell lies Zora yes don't you know that it is a wicked bad habit why because God hates them how did you know he does Zora's tone is evil but why is lies evil because they make us deceive each other is that wrong yes Zora bent forward and looked squarely into Mrs. Taylor's blue eyes Mrs. Taylor looked into the velvet blackness of hers and wondered what they veiled is it wrong asked Zora to make believe you lax people when you don't when you is a fear sometimes don't you Mrs. Taylor stared helplessly at the solemn eyes that seem to look so deeply into her perhaps I do Zora I'm sure I don't mean to and I hope God will forgive me Zora softened oh I reckon he will if he's a good God because he'd know that lies like that are heaps better than babbling the truth right out only she added severely you mustn't pensively and sometimes it don't it depends Mrs. Taylor forgot her collar and fingered the pen on the desk she felt at once a desperate desire to know this girl better and to establish her own authority yet how should she do it she kept toying with the pen and Zora watched her then Mrs. Taylor said absently Zora what do you propose to do when you grow up work oh I shan't work I don't like work do you Mrs. Taylor winced wondering if the girl were lying again she said quickly why yes that is I like some kinds of work what kinds but Mrs. Taylor refused to have the matter made personal as Zora had a disconcerting way of pointing all their discussions everybody likes some kinds of work Zora but Mary Taylor proceeded around her circumscribed circle you might make a good cook or a maid I hate cooking what's a maid why a woman who helps others helps folks that they love I like that it's not a question of affection said Mrs. Taylor firmly one is paid for it I wouldn't work for pay but you'll have to work child you'll have to earn a living same thing I reckon and it ain't true living just comes free like like sunshine stuff Zora your people must learn to work and work steadily and work hard she stopped for she was sure Zora was not listening the far away look was in her eyes and they were shining she was beautiful as she stood there strangely almost uncannily but startlingly beautiful rich dark skin softly molded features and wonderful eyes my people my people she murmured half to herself do you know my people they don't never work they plays they is all little funny dark people they flies and creeps and crawls slippery like and they cries and calls oh my people my poor little people they misses me these days because they are shadowy things saying and smell and bloom and dark and terrible nights Miss Taylor started up Zora I believe you're crazy she cried but Zora was looking at her calmly again we's both crazy ain't we she returned with a simplicity that left the teacher helpless Miss Taylor hurried out forgetting her pen Zora looked it over leisurely and tried it on she decided that she liked it and putting it in her pocket went out too school was out but the sun was still high as bless hurried from the barn up the big road beside the soft shadows of the swamp his head was busy with new thoughts and his lips were whistling merrily for today Zora was to show him the long dreamed up spot for the planting of the silver fleece he hastened toward the Creswell mansion and glanced anxiously up the road at last he saw her coming swinging down the road lith and dark with the big white basket of clothes poised on her head Zora he yodeled as she waved her apron he eased her burden to the ground and they sat down together he nervous and eager she silent passive but her eyes restless bless was full of his plans Zora he said we'll make it the finest bell ever raised in tombs we'll just work it to the inch just love it into life she considered the matter intently but presently how can we sell it just take it to them and give them half like the other tenants but the swamp is mortal thick and hard to clear we can do it Zora had sat still listening but now suddenly she leapt to her feet come she said I'll take the clothes home then we'll go she glanced at him down where the dreams are and laughing they hurried on Elspeth stood in the path that wound down to the cottage and without a word Zora dropped the basket at her feet she turned back struck by a thought paused the old woman was short broad black and wrinkled with yellow fangs red hanging lips and wicked eyes she leered at them the boy shrank before it but stood his ground on Elspeth he began Zora and I are going to plant and tend some cotton to pay for his schooling just the best cotton we can find and I heard he hesitated I heard you had some wonderful seed yes I got the seed I got it wonderful seed sowed with the three spells of Obi and the old land ten thousand moons ago but you couldn't plant it with a sudden shrillness it would kill you but blessed tried to object but she waved him away get the ground get the ground dig it pet it and we'll see what we'll see and she disappeared Zora was not sure that it had been wise to tell their secret I was going to steal the seed she said I knows where it is and I don't fear conjure you mustn't steal Zora said bless gravely why Zora quickly asked but before he answered they both forgot for their faces returned toward the wonder of the swamp the golden sun was pouring floods of glory through the slim black trees and the mystic somber pools caught and tossed back the glow and darker duller crimson long echoing silent footsteps crept hither in yonder and the girl's eyes gleamed with a wild new joy the dreams she cried the dreams and leaping ahead she danced along the shadowed path he hastened after her but she flew fast and faster he followed laughing calling pleading he saw her twinkling limbs and dancing as once he saw them dance in a halo of firelight but now the fire was the fire of the world her garments was about the perfect molding of her young and dark half-naked figure her heavy hair had burst its fastenings and lay in stiff and straggling masses bending reluctantly to the breeze like curl's smoke while all about the mad while singing rose and fell and trembled till his head whirled he paused uncertainly at the parting of the paths crying sora sora as for abruptly the music fell there came a long slow-growing silence and then with a flutter she was beside him again laughing in his ears and crying with mocking voice is you a fear, honey? he saw in her eyes young yearnings but could speak nothing he could only clasp her hand tightly and again down they raced through the wood all at once the swamp changed and chilled to a dull greyness tall dull trees started down upon the murky waters and long distant streamings of moss-like tears dripped from tree to earth slowly and warily they threaded their way are you sure of the path, sora? he once inquired anxiously I can find it asleep she answered skipping sure-footed onward he continued to hold her hand tightly and his own pace never slackened around them the grey and death-like wilderness darkened they felt and saw the cold white mist rising slowly from the ground and the waters and last they came to what seemed the end silently and dismally the half-dead forest with its ghostly moss lowered and darkened and the black waters spread into a great silent lake of slimy ooze the dead trunk of a fallen tree lay straight in front torn and twisted its top hidden yonder and mingled with impenetrable undergrowth where now, sora? he cried in a moment she had slipped her hand away and was scrambling up the tree trunk the waters beyond merkily below careful careful he warned struggling after her until she disappeared amid the leaves he followed eagerly but cautiously and all at once found himself confronting a paradise before them lay a long island opening to the south on the black lake but sheltered north and east by the dense undergrowth of the black swamp and the rampart of dead and living trees the soil was virgin and black thickly covered over with a tangle with its vines and smaller growth all brilliant with early leaves and wild flowers a pretty tough proposition for clearing and plowing said bless with practiced eye but sora eagerly surveyed the prospect it's where the drains lives she whispered meantime miss taylor had missed her brooch and searched for it in vain in the mist of this pursuit the truth occurred to her sora she started for elspeth's cabin on the way she met the old woman in the path but got little satisfaction elspeth merely grunted ungraciously while eyeing the white woman with suspicion mary taylor again alone sat down at a turn in the path just out of sight of the house and waited soon she saw with a certain grim satisfaction sora and bless emerging from the swamp engaged her man she rose before them like a spectral vengeance sora I want my pin bless started and stared but sora eyed her calmly with something like disdain what pin she returned unmoved sora don't deny that you took my pin from the desk this afternoon the teacher commanded severely I didn't say I didn't take no pin persons who will lie and steal will do anything why shouldn't I saw you wearing it admitted sora easily then you have stolen it and you are a thief still sora appeared to be unimpressed with the heinousness of her fault did you make that pin she asked no but it is mine why is it yours because it was given to me but you don't need it you've got four of the prettier ones I counted that makes no difference yes it does folks sora and you know it the pin is mine you stole it if you had wanted a pin and asked me I might have given you the girl blazed I don't want your gifts she almost hissed you don't own what you don't need and can't use God owns it and I'm gonna send it back to him with a swift motion she whipped the pin from her pocket and raised her arm to hurl it into the swamp bless caught her hand he caught it lightly and smiled sorrowfully into her eyes she wavered for a moment then the answering light sprang to her face dropping the brooch into his hand she wheeled and fled toward the cabin bless handed it silently to Miss Taylor Mary Taylor was beside herself with impatient anger and anger intensified by a conviction of utter helplessness to cope with any strained or unusual situations between herself and these two all went she said sharply I shall report sorrow for stealing and you may report yourself with disrespect to the teacher End of Chapter 7