wrong to tell stories. These children must be yours; they're just like
you."

He laughed so heartily at the idea, that Beth feared his mouth never
would get into shape again. "Ha, ha, ha. Dem my chillun! Ha, ha, ha.
Law, honey, dem ain't mine. Thank de Lord, I don't have to feed all
dem hungry, sassy, little niggahs."

"Well, Bob, if they're not yours, whose are they?"

"Dem's jes' culled chillun."

A whistle sounded, and the train was soon under way again. Beth ran to
her mother.

"Mamma, there were a lot of little Bobs outside, but he says they are
not his children--that they're just colored children."

Mrs. Davenport had a hard time making her understand that Bob had told
the truth. Beth sat very still for a while by a window. Suddenly, she
cried out:

"What are those little specks of white? They look like little balls of
snow, only they can't be. It's too warm, and then I never saw snow
grow on bushes."

"That is cotton."

Although the bushes were not in their full glory--only having on them a
little of last year's fruitage that was not picked--Beth thought a