A truer picture is found in the stories
of Paul Laurence Dunbar. The following story is from his FOLKS FROM
DIXIE._

THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE

BY

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

"And this is Mt. Hope," said the Rev. Howard Dokesbury to himself as he
descended, bag in hand, from the smoky, dingy coach, or part of a coach,
which was assigned to his people, and stepped upon the rotten planks of
the station platform. The car he had just left was not a palace, nor had
his reception by his fellow-passengers or his intercourse with them been
of such cordial nature as to endear them to him. But he watched the
choky little engine with its three black cars wind out of sight with a
look as regretful as if he were witnessing the departure of his dearest
friend. Then he turned his attention again to his surroundings, and a
sigh welled up from his heart. "And this is Mt. Hope," he repeated. A
note in his voice indicated that he fully appreciated the spirit of keen
irony in which the place had been named.

The color scheme of the picture that met his eyes was in dingy blacks
and grays. The building that held the ticket, telegraph, and train
despatchers' offices was a miserably old ramshackle affair, standing
well in the foreground of this scene of gloom and desolation. Its
windows were so coated with smoke and grime that they seemed to have
been painted over in order to secure secrecy within. Here and there a
lazy cur lay drowsily snapping at the flies, and at the end of the
station, perched on boxes or leaning against the wall, making a living
picture of equal laziness, stood a group of idle Negroes exchanging rude
badinage with their white counterparts across the street.

After a while this bantering interchange would grow more keen and
personal, a free-for-all friendly fight would follow, and the newspaper
correspondent in that section would write it up as a "race war." But
this had not happened yet that day.

"This is Mt. Hope," repeated the new-comer; "this is the field of my
labors."

Rev. Howard Dokesbury, as may already have been inferred, was a
Negro,--there could be no mistake about that. The deep dark brown of his
skin, the rich over-fullness of his lips, and the close curl of his
short black hair were evidences that admitted of no argument. He was a
finely proportioned, stalwart-looking man, with a general air of
self-possession and self-sufficiency in his manner. There was firmness
in the set of his lips. A reade