et, is a great convenience.

Of the many contractors and builders who have visited our school-grounds
none have failed to speak in praise of the design, the workmanship, the
strength, and the relative relation to each other of the school
buildings with regard to future additions.

I need not add that this has been very pleasing to me. I was married
December 9, 1904, at Atlanta, Ga., to Miss Mary E. Hobbs.

To me Tuskegee has been all in all, and I still remember with gratitude
the man who, in my hearing, spoke so glowingly of the school as I
weighed my cotton in the little Georgia town away back in December,
1892.

VII

COTTON-GROWING IN AFRICA

BY JOHN W. ROBINSON

As all autobiographical sketches begin, so do I begin this one. I was
born in Bennettsville, S. C., in 1873. Neither of my parents could write
their names; but my father could read a little, and taught me the
alphabet.

My paternal grandfather was a slave of some intelligence. He was a
competent carpenter, had charge of his master's saw- and grist-mills,
and kept the accounts of the two mills. His master, who was a member of
the State Legislature, was very kind to him. He allowed him a portion of
the savings from these industries he was controlling, and even promised
him his freedom. The latter he delayed so long that my grandfather ran
away. He succeeded in reaching Charleston, S. C. He had secured a ticket
and was about to take passage for Canada, when he was captured and
returned to his master's home. His master was attending the General
Assembly of the State of South Carolina, and it became the overseer's
duty to punish the returned fugitive. My grandfather never recovered
from the effects of the brutal punishment meted out to him for daring to
desire freedom in his own right.

My father was the oldest boy and the second child in a family of five.
He was a farmer and a cobbler. At the age of twenty-seven he was married
to my mother.

I suppose the history of my mother's life would be monotonous and dull
to many ears, but I remember that I never grew tired of hearing her
relate its somber happenings. She often told us how her grandmother
could relate the thrilling story of her capture on African soil and of
being brought to America, of the horrors of the passage, and of much
else that I shall always remember.

After their marriage my parents began farming in Bennettsville,
Marlborough County, S. C., the place where I was born. I rem