clover fields, and have the habit of assailing horses at mowing time. This was the cause of many runaways before tractors came into use. Some cousins of mine, out near Fostoria, Ohio, set wire traps baited with molasses in their clover, caught all the bees and held them in duress until the harvest was gathered, and then set them loose to fertilize the next crop. It struck me as a smart performance.

Cider, as a tribute to Volstead, has to be doctored with a preservative so it will not grow hard and alcoholic. It is usually sold in gallon containers that have a pleasant, refreshing look, which must tempt many to buy. New cider is a wholesome beverage. Hard cider is dreadful stuff. Yet General William Henry

66

"O

Harrison was elected to the Presidency, in 1840, because he was proclaimed as fond of the acidulous compound. That is, the farmers thought here was a man who followed their tastes and had no use for wines or the fancy drinks of the aristocratic city dwellers. He only lived a month after he took office, so, perhaps, the people's tipple did not agree with him. Left to itself long enough, hard cider quiets down into vinegar. "Pure cider vinegar" is much esteemed and might be added to the roadside stocks with advantage. Perhaps no cider is left to pass through the several stages, which may explain its absence.

Honey producers are organized in various parts of the country and hold interesting conventions. In Connecticut

the State collects a tax of 25 cents a hive. The cider-makers do not appear to have reached the dignity of associa tion. It will probably come with the growing importance of the industry, which is furbishing up neglected orchards and giving the "wild" apple a status never enjoyed before. Apple buyers now traverse New England, hunting fruit for. crushing. The amount of money thus distributed is large and all clear gain. "Cider apples" were once a drug. Now they are a very important crop. Some cider mills locate along the highways and do a rushing business with juice fresh from the press. I know of one in Connecticut that squeezed a very pretty penny out of 30,000 gallons in a single month last year.

H, so you're from the South, are you?" an acquaintance of mine in Montclair, New Jersey, asked me. "Then you're one of these Negro haters."

This kind of remark represents fairly a common opinion in the North concerning the Southerner and the Negro. As a matter of fact, the only Southerners who hate the Negro are the densely ignorant, or those whose residence in the South is of recent origin, or those who have hardening of the "hearteries." Through a long period of years, and, I trust, a not undiscriminating acquaintance in the South, I have never known or heard of a single genuine Southerner, of any parts, of any weight of consequence, whose opinion was worth any consideration, who had any hatred in his heart for the Negro. That is a rather large claim; but I make it with the utmost assurance. And yet to a vast multitude of Americans the people of the Southland are the black man's implacable enemies; and the cardinal principle which every white man of the South is supposed to follow in guiding his attitude toward the Negro is, With charity toward none, with malice for all. Than this, as representing the real situation in the South, there could be no more complete reversal of the truth.

While this situation is astonishing, to account for it is not difficult. To begin with, on such so-called problems people who are removed from them usually reason with broad academic vision and with acute fallacy. Southerners, they say, held slaves; they did not wish them freed; and since emancipation the Ne

groes have been regarded in no friendly light. This, I say, is somewhat natural reasoning upon cursory evidence; it is understandable. But it is lamentably false; and I believe that some of the trouble can be traced to the imperfect knowledge that many American historians have had concerning the whole slavery question. I may be in gross error; but I do not see how any man can hope to write a decent American history unless he has lived for a long time in various parts of our country. A man who has never lived north of the MasonDixon Line could never, however good his intentions, write a history of New England that would meet approval in Boston; and no scholar of the North, whatever his equipment and his earnest desire to be impartial, can hope to handle the question of the Negro, either in slavery or in emancipation, without having lived long in the South. Distinctly, it is not a question of reading about or of mere visiting; one must attempt to live the life of the people for a while; for only thus does one enter into that sympathetic understanding which alone affords that penetrant insight which, clarifying the vision from the mists of preconceived ideas, enters the deep-veiled shrine of a people's soul.

TH

HE misconception in question has been partly due to certain temperamentals of the South. When impressionable people of one section of a country (or of one country) visit another section (or another country), one of the matters to which they give most scrupulous attention is the business of being considered

characteristic. They feel that they must be representative. They are very jealous to be typical; and, having thought little of the real things for which people from their region are distinguished, they are. rather hasty to accept opinions which they encounter as their guides. So eager are they to behave in a manner traditionally acceptable that they are sometimes betrayed into the most ludicrous absurdities.

This is a case in point. A schoolboy from Parkersburg, West Virginia, was taken by his mates in a Pennsylvania school to be a "typical Southerner." With a lad's native shrewdness, he discovered what was expected of him, and he determined not to be disappointing. To Negro workmen and Negro workwomen about the place he was insolent to a most curious degree. In their presence he cursed and swore, and he took occasion to let every one know that he was acting just as he always did at home. His fellows of course were diverted, and they felt that they were getting an illuminating lesson on the Southerner and the Negro. As a matter of fact, the boy. did not come from the real South; his people until a few years before had lived in the West, and in all his life he had probably had no dealings with Negroes. The error into which he fell is one against which many a Southerner has to guard; for it is hard not to be accommodating to one's hosts, and it is a fact that a migrant from Dixie is distinctly disappointing if he fails to perform in a regulation, lynch-him-quickly, 'sdeathand-blood fashion,

It seems to me that the whole Negro

question has to be approached as a human problem; indeed, to problems of this nature vain is every other approach. Long, long since it is the road that the better people of both North and South have taken; and if the Negro needs any reassurance during these days of his upward march he may find it in the great fact that the generous, the sane, the forward-looking people of every section of our country are for him. And the Negro knows his friends: he knows that the men and women who respect him as a human being and who give him a fair chance are practically always those who are distinguished by their good works and their sound ways of life. The friends of Cæsar are the great and the good, the brave and the true, the humble and the wise; and in them is the black man's hope, for in them is the hope of the world.

TH

HE Negro, I say, knows his friends; and he will tell you that no one in the world understands him better or accords him fairer treatment than the gentleman of the South; and this has been true from the time of the first slaves' coming.

That man is a friend to the Negro who is a friend to humanity, who recognizes in all men common hopes and fears. Of the stars and of the dust all people are kindred; who, then, will foreshorten the generous hand, who would not wish anhother well?

That the Negro knows his friends readily is the better understood when we consider with what unerring certainty the -Negro can classify people. Once I sent a Negro ducker to guide a very wealthy man; and after the day's sport was over I asked the Negro what he thought of having paddled a millionaire in a dugout cypress canoe.

"He had the money long?" I was asked; and to this salient question I had to return a negative.

"I thought so," was the quiet rejoinder, "'case he ain't ack jes' reg'lar."

A world of meaning lay in those simple words. This humble heart, of which so many are so negligent or so scornful, has a power to rate human character; and the ability to judge men we usually account as one of the last products of culture. The Negro has it by instinct; his sensitiveness of perception in this respect seems to me a native rather than an acquired power.

That the Negro often shows his gratitude toward his friends in the South needs no proof to any one acquainted with the genuine situation. But the following communication, quoted from an issue of the Savannah, Georgia, "Morning News," will illustrate clearly

what I mean. It is headed "A Tribute to Frank W. Comer."

Mr. Frank W. Comer, who was part owner, general manager, and Secretary and Treasurer of the E. T. Comer Company, Millhaven, Georgia, died on October 24. As we and the other members of our race at Millhaven were permitted to view the remains, many tears came to our eyes and great sorrow to our hearts. Since that sad date we have reveiwed many great changes which have taken place under his management for the betterment of our race, and for the advancement of his company.

We think of the large debts that we and other members of our race brought to Millhaven with us, many amounting to $500, and others double this amount. But under Mr. Comer's management we are free of all debts, left with mules in our lots, our hogs in our pens, corn in our barns, and many of us have money in the bank.

Our lodges have been completed, our churches are comfortable; and our time was divided: first to our Heavenly Father; second, we rendered honest labor; and third, we slept or frolicked about the plantation as we chose, knowing that we had Mr. Comer's protection as long as we did. the right thing.

But, saddest of all, we march round the office window, and our eyes look in at the old desk chair. It is vacant; yet we feel that perhaps that other trusted leaders are going to do the best they can for us. We are willing to trust them, we are willing to obey them, but our tears are still falling because Mr. Comer's chair is vacant after ten long years of faithful service. (Signed) The Rev. C. H. WEsley.

JOSH WESLEY.

It appears to me that for anything comparable to this in simplicity, in ingenuousness, and in the moving power of elemental sincerity we shall have to search I know not where. It is vastly heartening; and, while I never had the privilege of knowing Mr. Frank Comer, I feel that I understand him, and I honor his memory.

This letter proves several things: First, that the Negro has true friends in the South among the people who count; secondly, the Negro appreciates honest guidance; and again, we have here manifested that the black man has a capacity for that sudden and serene dilation and utterance of heart which means the presence of unguessed spiritual strength. Had I not the conviction that the Negro (or any other man) possesses this power, little hope could I reasonably entertain of his future. It is the mystic sign and symbol of the indwelling presence of God; and with it, all things are possible.

To illustrate further this especial mat

ter, which is to be considered of the highest importance, I should like to tell of my meeting with Willis White. It happened during the winter just past; and the experience impressed itself upon me poignantly.

A

T dawn on a winter's morning in the wilds of the great coastal belt of the Carolinas the mail automobile in which I was being rocked awake suddenly came to a halt.

"King's Crossroads," said the driver. "How far is it to the coast from here?"

"Oh, about three or four miles, off in that direction," my informant answered, pointing away to the eastward, where the wistful forest glimmered silent and mysterious. In another moment my gun, my suit-case, and I were on the lonely road. On all sides stretched away the fragrant forest, now stirred to faint music by a morning air. Taking up my luggage, I turned into the grass-grown road that led eastward. Incidentally, I may say that I was on a hunting trip, my destination being Bull's Island, off the coast; and I was supposed to meet a boat at an old deserted wharf which was the terminal of the road that I had now taken.

A December morning in the wildwoods of the South is likely to be balmy and delicious. Of those who have their attar of roses I am not envious as long as I can scent the dew on the sweet myrtles and in the rosemary pines, can catch the bosky odors from woodland watercourses, and can break from a wayside vine a saffron spray of the jasmine. All this I could enjoy on the lonely road; and I could hear birds warbling in the kindly sun-towhees, cardinals, and bluebirds. Several times across the road woodcock hurtled in their enigmatic flight. Their wings I envied them; for the road, like most other Southern swamp roads in winter, was deeply under water.

THE long automobile ride and the two

mile wade down this road began to tell on me. But just when I had begun to look with somewhat longing eyes at the far thin line of trees that marked the coast I saw a figure approaching down a forest path. Tall and lithe and Indianlike he looked. It was Willis White, a Negro. I had never seen him or heard of him; but I shall never forget him.

"How far is it to King's old wharf?" I asked. "And am I on the right road?" "Two miles, sir; yes, this is the road. I live right by the wharf. You must let me carry your gun and your suit-case for you."

The man seemed Heaven-sent; for this was a part of the country new to me, and here was a friendly native. As we trudged along through the wine-colored swamp water that not only stood in the

road, but in many places flowed over it with a considerable current, we talked of many things.

"I have charge of this old place for Mr. King," Willis told me; "nobody is left here but me. Some of my friends try to get me to go to the North, where wages are high; but I am happy here, I and my children. We raise our own stock, we grow everything we need for food except flour and sugar and coffee, and we can get from Sewee Bay, right in front of the house, all the fish and oysters we want. Why should I go away?" "How long have you been here?" "Five years," he answered. "I used to live in McClellanville."

"Do you grow any money crops?" I asked.

"Peanuts," he replied, "and a little cotton-and oysters," he added with a laugh; "that's the easy crop. People come out of the woods for miles to buy oysters from us.'

"Have you ever tried any special crops?"

"All the gentlemen from McClellanville to Mount Pleasant are good to me," the Negro answered; "they know that if they give me seed I will attend to the crop. They give me new kinds of seed to try, and I find out for them whether those crops are good for this part of the country. They call me an experimenter."

This was an illuminating thing to me -that white planters should recognize in this man something of an agricultural expert, and that they trusted him to try out new things for them. The idea seemed to me to open tremendous possibilities for the rural South. It is a fact that a Negro who is a good planter is likely to be excitingly good; and he often has the patience to exercise that tedious care which is essential to intensive farming.

It did not seem long ere we came to the seacoast. The last trees were certain patriarch live-oaks and red cedars; there was a shell-strewn beach; and beyond it an ancient wharf staggered out above a salt creek. As the tide was low, I knew that I had some time to wait for my boat. I sat down on some old drifted log to watch the shore birds and to wait. Willis, meanwhile, told me that he had to go up to his house, but that he would see me again before I left.

Accepting readily the invitation of Willis, I went with him to his house-a long, rambling structure beneath huge oaks, sheltered from the sea winds by a dense thicket of sweet myrtle. Entering, I found a cheerful fire burning on the wide hearth; the floor of yellow pine was swept and scoured until it shone; the small dining-table was set humbly but immaculately. On a hunting trip a man hardly expects to see a snowy tablecloth; yet such was what I had. Willis sat by the fire while I ate dinner. His daughter served the meal. It was all that a hungry man could want, and the spirit in which it was offered was all that even the most fastidious could demand.

After dinner I returned to the beach, and Willis shortly thereafter joined me. When I told him how much I had enjoyed dinner, he said:

"My daughter does all that work. Her mother is dead."

"Have you been long alone?" I asked. "We used to have a pretty house in the village," he said, "but my wife died there six years ago. I came down here because I couldn't stand to stay where she had been, and was no more."

I

RECOMMEND that affecting confession to those who would deny to the Negro the fundamental feelings which are common to all races. Wordsworth said that real suffering has the aspect of eternal things; and here on the wild seacoast I found a man so wounded by sorrow that to escape it he had tried the experiment of fleeing from all reminders of it. But he was still darkly attended; for in his eyes I saw the depth of his trouble and in the very quietness of his manner the proof of his grief.

One other thing I discovered. This man was a naturalist. As we sat there on the beach awaiting the coming of my boat he commented on the number and the variety of the shore birds thronging this sheltered haven.

"I come down here often, by myself," he said, "to watch them; they are very tame with me, because I've never harmed them. Some of the big blue herons make me laugh, they are so serious. The oyster-catchers have the brightest plumage, but they are the noisiest-just like people. I think I like the sandpipers the best. They seem to me friendly, just like

life.

The popular magazines, which are so fond of showing us minstrels whenever Negroes are presented, would never publish a story accrediting to a Negro the conversation just quoted. To the monster known as "the reading public" the Negro must needs be a coward, a buffoon, an incorrigibly lazy scamp. Observe the Negroes shown in the moving

pictures. They are counterfeit. They are made to meet an uninformed public's preconceived vague notions. And such presentations are bad for both races; a man may become what his acquaintances or those for whom he works think he is; and the white man, seeing the Negro behave in a traditional manner, has his conviction strengthened that he is capable of no other kind of behavior. But the best people of both South and North, because they know that no race is a minstrel race, know that the Negro is worthy of friendship, of encouragement, of every possible chance to better his condition of life. It seems to me that to accept him as a mountebank is subtly to do irreparable injury to his morale.

On February 10, 1923, there died at Fayetteville, North Carolina, John McAllister, a Negro. He named in his will as his beneficiary Mr. William R. Fuller, of New York, general counsel of the American Tobacco Company. The es tate of which Mr. Fuller became the heir consists of a small cabin and its furnishings. The will reads as follows:

"My wife, now deceased, belonged to Mr. Fuller's father and mother. When in life I needed advice, Mr. Willie never failed me. He may not need my little home, I pray; but he will know better what to do with it than I; and in this way I want to show my appreciation of what he has done for me."

Taking from this touching document the statement, "Mr. Willie never failed me," and understanding, let us say, that Mr. Willie fairly represents the true heart of the South, I am sure that McAllister's declaration can be applied by thousands upon thousands of Negroes to their genuine friends among the good white people of the South.

The following quotation comes from a Barnwell, South Carolina, paper: "Du Bose, the four-year-old son of Mr. and Mrs. E. R. Robinson, of this city, fell into an abandoned well in a neighbor's yard to-day. A passer-by gave the alarm. Leroy McElmore, employed by Mr. Robinson, ran to a hardware store, secured a coil of rope, and lowered himself into the well. Willing helpers who by this time had arrived drew the man up. He had the child in his arms. The boy was near to drowning, but it is The well thought that he will recover. was nearly forty feet deep. McElmore is a Negro."

I mention this incident to show that the real Negro is certainly not always found in actual life in a minstrel rôle.

THE friends of Cæsar-who are they?

They are the men and women who try to understand him; who are willing to give him that respect and considera