merica's one of her biggest sources o' wealth. Those that don' own the
land lease it on a share basis known as the metayer system, but more'n
more o' them are owners every year."

"I hadn't really thought of the negroes as owning land at all," said
Hamilton thoughtfully.

"A stretch o' land three times as big as the British Isles, or equal to
the New England States is owned by the colored race," was the reply,
"makin' in the United States a negro country larger than plenty o'
kingdoms."

"And is that land worth much?"

"Oveh half a billion dollahs, sah, Ah was told at the last census, an'
it's worth a lot mo' now."

"But," said Hamilton, "the negro doesn't seem able to make use of it.
Even if he does own the land and is making money, he still goes on
living in a shiftless way. One would hardly believe the kind of shacks
I've seen in the last couple of days."

"Ah'm ashamed to say you're right, sah," the old negro answered, "Ah
reckon one-third of all the negroes in the South still live in
one-roomed cabins, cookin', eatin', and sleepin' in the same room, men,
women, an' children all together. But they're improvin' right along."

"They ought," said the boy, "if they're working on cotton, because, I've
been told, that is always a cash crop. But why does every one leave the
cotton crop to the negro. It isn't a hard crop to raise, is it?"

"Thar's no one else c'n do it but the negro, sah," the preacher
answered. "It's the hardes' kin' of work, an' it has to be done in
summer, an' thar's no shade in a cotton fiel'. Right from the sowin'
until the las' boll is picked, cotton needs tendin', an' yo' don' have
much cool weather down hyar."

"You sow cotton something like corn, don't you?" asked the boy, who had
never seen a cotton plantation and wanted to know something about it.

"Yas, sah, jes' about the same way, only it has to be hilled higher an'
hoed more'n corn. An' weeds jes' spring up in the cotton fiel's oveh
night. The pickin', too, is jes' killin' work. Yo' see a cotton plant
doesn' grow mo'n about fo' feet high an' thar's always a lot of it
that's shorter. The bolls hang low, sometimes, an' yo've got to go
pickin', pickin', stoopin' halfway oveh an' the hot sun beatin' down on
yo' neck an' back. Since the war the planters have tried all sorts o'
labor, but thar's no white man that c'n pick cotton, they get blindin'
headaches an' fall sick. I reckon their skulls are too thin or maybe
it's jes' because the