Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1906-10-02
ILLUSIONS SHATTERED
Some of the Sequences OF
Specials Trip.
COTTON DREAMS IN DIXIE
Press Man Of The Star Train Wakes
Up to Fact.
HONEY IS THE RALEIGH GIRL
No Lost Illusions About Southland's
Youthful Femininity-sweet as
Long Drink Of Milk.
HONEY IS THE RALEIGH GIRL
Special Correspondence Of The Star.

What a pity it is that man cant tra'el
a part of this country of ours, of which ne
has heard much and seen little, without
having an illusion shattered every fifty
miles. So many of mine have been busted
into smithereens since the Greater wash
ington Special started on its tour OF the
southland that I'm positively unhappy. II
it keeps up this way much longer l shall
tie up my typewriter and my other shirt
in a neat package and make running
jump for Washington, where the naked
truth would freeze to death and illusions
are unknown.
For instance, there's this cotton-f1eld
dream I've been carrying around with me
for quite collection of years. 1t isn't all
my fault, though. Part of 1t should be
blamed on the genial fictionist, who-being
something of an idealist or needing the
money-put pen to paper and painted large
a picture Of the southland and its people
their labors and their loves, their pastimes
and their songs
l got hold of the book and-through the
forgetfuness of friend and the lack OF
system in the Washington Public Library
at the timeI kept it. I had never been
south Of Alexandria, and to me that vol
ume represented the south and all that 1t
contained.
One of the chapters had to do with the
cotton fields of Dixie. The brush work OF
my friend, the fictionist was grand. Days
work properly or when the ballast in my
mental hold had shifted under stress OF
weather, 1 used to turn to this chapter
and travel southwark by the Imagination
Limited. The trip was of the quickest, and
before much as half a page of type had
flashed by-scenery wise-1 could see the
cotton fields he never saw them-broad
expanses of waving. fluffy white splashe1
here and there with brilliant green and
bathed in that particular brand of sun
shine that smiles only south of Mason and
Dixon's line. What sincere and compre-
hepsive liar that author was; may his name
wither and his fame be unknown of men!
The Cotton Fields.
For 'tisn't SO at ALL A big cotton field
is pleasing enough to the eye, but COM
pared to that painted chapter of high lights
and mellow colors. It's but an over-the-
mantel daub. Mostly green it is, straggly
and dusty beyond compare. And tits only
around picking time when the iron-hard
bolls have opened to dry their staple treas
by the breath of the sun-warmed air,
that the stretch of dusty green is broken
by spots and splashes of white. 1t was
this comparative invisibilty of King Cotton
that annoyed me l had expected to see
white on green, and instead saw green on
white. Why Sweet Alice Of Bingville,
stroling homeward through the briars in
her Sunday best, leaves as many patches of
white on the scenery as are visible in the
ordinary, reguldtlOn cotton 0elQ.
Then there's another lost Illusion. How
many times. from the vantage of my dream
chair on the Imagination Limited. have l
seen the care-free plantation hands work
ing in the fields. dancing the Boston clog,
cutting pigeon wings and local didoes, sing
ing croOny. southern songs and picking
pound or SO of cotton every now and then
to show their independence.
My ideas of this part of the performance
We're probably helped along a good deal by
show / [ a
bangup affair from scenic point Of view,
and one of the acts depicted cotton field,
with the plantation darkies busy gathering
in the staple. Every one of them--men,
women and children-wore red and yellow
bandana Topped around the forehead and
caught up over the left ear with a fetching
near-diamond sunburst. They didn't pick
much cotton, these stage creations, but
they certainly had good time, and to my
unsophisticated SOUL nourished by the fan>'
cies of my friend, the fctionist. they were
all real What joyous, unbridled liar he
was to be sure!
Typical Farm Hands.
I can think that and say it too, for I've
seen the typical plantation hand at work
during cotton picking time. The other day
the special passed the biggest cotton field
any of us had seen during several days
of travel through the staple belt Nothing
would do but that we must have the train
stopped, tHat we might look tHlnSS over at
close range. And ano,her illusion, this enc
of book and stage, was shattered then and
there. A dozen or 80 of hands-three men,
a couple of women and the rest children
were at work, and more solemn and dis
pirited lot l never hope to see. Gone were
the clogs. the pigeon wings and didoes, the
red-yellow 'bandanas, the near-diRmond
sunbursts and the croony plantation songs.
The burlap bags that swung crossw.se,
shoulder to waist seemed to weigh ton
to every one. Misery in the back and rheu-
mates dwelt in their midst. They worked
with the spirit and enthusiasm of the mo-
tive power on our one-time Belt line. And
they all belonged to Cotton Pickers Local
No. Ii.
Those are just couple of my lost illu-
sions. There are more but tbs not the time
for the telling. I've dethroned my friend.
the tlctionist. and stage versions of life in
the southland will know me no more I'm
from Missouri now, and the showing must
be plain.
A Blessed Bit of Reality.
Just one illusion have 1 kept-the Gods
be praised. And that was no illusion, after
all, but blessed bit of reality. The south
ern girl of fiction is the southern girl of