The national leader., 1889-02-09
FORTUNEFAVORS THE BRAVE.

EUnl ONE ~ VINO III DINA ' Ia
1t was in the fall of 1873, that l
found myself, one crisp morning, stand
ing on the left bank or the White river,
Arkansas, my sole capital a voracious
appetite. Now, while an appetite is
portable, it IS liable to become lnsup-
portable, and am beeianing to feel the
effects of this truism. However. let
me introduce myself:
My name is James Smith, peculiar
name, too, and if haven't been misin
formed, was born in the city Of New
York u fraction over twenty-five years
ago. at the age of one-and-twenty,
quite snug sum of money passed into
my hands, but it quickly evaporated.
Rather disgusted, I migrated to Ar
kansas, expecting to be made a legis-
lator, at least, in a few months. In
stead of that, l am dining on raw river
air this morning. Don't Taught am
too poor even to afford joke.
'Hellol my esteemed friend and
brother, cried out to solemn visaged
negro, who had been gradually ap-
preaching, lis there any work to be had
around here?'
''Spect dar's plenty OBJ cotton plckln'
ober der rlbber, boss. Use 10 pick
cotton myself, bero' l reti'ed. And
giving his solitary suspender hitch,
this artistic son OF Ham sauntered
majesticallJ away.
After making some further Inquiries
about town, l concluded that it was
either pick cotton or starve, and pre-
ferred the lesser evil.
Crossing the river, followed road
through the rich bottom lands until ]
found cotton to the right Of me, cotton
to the left of me, in fact, the whole
earth seemed dressed in it, and pro-
claimed it king indeed.
l fnaIiy stopped In front Of log
house that was nearly surrounded by
huts and outbuildings. A tall, raw.
boned man was standing in the open
doorway, smoking cob pipe. and in
answer to MY salutation he looked NE
over critically and laconically answered:
'Howdy?'.
DO you want to engage cotton
pickerp' asked.
But, insi cad of answering my ques-
tlon, he commenced catechlslUg me in
turn. 'Yank. amt yerp
=
Thought SO. And you think you
kin pick cotton?'
i would like to try
Il guess not, Yank,' he answered
slowly. Firstly, Yank KANT pick
cotton; secon'ly, you'd be gettin' the
hands to strife for higher wages;
thirdly, you'd fool with the scales to
make 'em weigh heavy; fourthly,
you'd
oh, siIet up, Y ah Banks. you tarnal
old foul shouted shrill voice, and a
rather comely woman came bouncing
out OF the log house. Gum in, stranger.
and If you want to try your hand at
cotton, I'd like to see who's gwine to
hinder you'll MY old daddy cum from
the North. and reckon his money
bought this plantation, hey, 'Ztah
Banks?'
To all of which Mr.. Hanks silently
assented. In fact, 1 soon discovered
that the amiatle Mrs. Banks wore the
breeches' with vengeance, and that it
was largely owing to her thrift and
management that the plantation was
made to pay at all Her tongue cut
like twO-edged sword, at times, but
a kindly heart beat within her bosom,
nevertheless, and more than one poor
wretch III tie time of sore need found
her both staunch and true.
In spite of Mr.. Banks assertion that
Yank couldn't pick cotton, soon
acquired the art, and was cOnsic cred
rather an expert h md, and, strange as
it may seem, some OF the happiest days
of my life were passed in following the
bent of a cotton picker. My co-laborers
were a source of never-faillng amuse-
ment, and, from the ''poor whites"
down to Sambo, whose laugh was the
most human part about him, a vast
field of study opened up before me.
The majority of these people, both
white and black, were unable to read
or write, and their ignorance was only
too frequently taken advantage or by
the planters. But what they lacked in
education they amply made up for by
superstition. They thought me a
strange 'critter' because l had never
seen ghost; and I must confess that
at times their stories. told so earnestly,
caused me to wonder seriously If a
bridge hadn't recently been built over
the river Styx, making travel TO and
from the spirit land matter Of incli-
nation.
Before Christmas the cotton on the
Banks plantation was gathered aud
baled, and was beginning to map out
something to give me employment
during the winter, when an event
occurred that changed the tenor of my
life.
1t was on a Saturday afternoon.
cloudy and misting. rain, that bor'
rowed shot gun and started for a
swamp some three miles distant, IN
quest Of ducks. I knew the route com
paratlvely we'll, but absorbed In thought
wandered from my course, and wher
too late. discovered that l was lost in
vast body of woods that it might take