r, and when he
died, two thousand black people followed him to the grave; and now they
preach his funeral sermon each year. His widow lives here,--a
weazened, sharp-featured little woman, who curtsied quaintly as we
greeted her. Further on lives Jack Delson, the most prosperous Negro
farmer in the county. It is a joy to meet him,--a great
broad-shouldered, handsome black man, intelligent and jovial. Six
hundred and fifty acres he owns, and has eleven black tenants. A neat
and tidy home nestled in a flower-garden, and a little store stands
beside it.

We pass the Munson place, where a plucky white widow is renting and
struggling; and the eleven hundred acres of the Sennet plantation, with
its Negro overseer. Then the character of the farms begins to change.
Nearly all the lands belong to Russian Jews; the overseers are white,
and the cabins are bare board-houses scattered here and there. The
rents are high, and day-laborers and "contract" hands abound. It is a
keen, hard struggle for living here, and few have time to talk. Tired
with the long ride, we gladly drive into Gillonsville. It is a silent
cluster of farmhouses standing on the crossroads, with one of its
stores closed and the other kept by a Negro preacher. They tell great
tales of busy times at Gillonsville before all the railroads came to
Albany; now it is chiefly a memory. Riding down the street, we stop at
the preacher's and seat ourselves before the door. It was one of those
scenes one cannot soon forget:--a wide, low, little house, whose
motherly roof reached over and sheltered a snug little porch. There we
sat, after the long hot drive, drinking cool water,--the talkative
little storekeeper who is my daily companion; the silent old black
woman patching pantaloons and saying never a word; the ragged picture
of helpless misfortune who called in just to see the preacher; and
finally the neat matronly preacher's wife, plump, yellow, and
intelligent. "Own land?" said the wife; "well, only this house." Then
she added quietly. "We did buy seven hundred acres across up yonder,
and paid for it; but they cheated us out of it. Sells was the owner."
"Sells!" echoed the ragged misfortune, who was leaning against the
balustrade and listening, "he's a regular cheat. I worked for him
thirty-seven days this spring, and he paid me in cardboard checks which
were to be cashed at the end of the month. But he never cashed
them,--kept putting me off. Then t