Musmg's of the South 169 



mill I came to, and applied at the office. An 

 elderly man sitting at a desk said I would have to 

 apply to the superintendent, and pointed him out 

 to me. "Who invited you here?" he growled. 

 "He ought to have asked me. But go," and he 

 waved his hand toward a side door. I hesitated, 

 not knowing exactly whether he was putting me in 

 or putting me out. "There!" he said, roughly, 

 pointing to the side door. 



My first impulse was to express my personal 

 opinion of him and retire — but there came a gleam 

 of recognition. I knew him of old — that is, I knew 

 the breed. One does not need to know each indi- 

 vidual specimen when he knows the breed. "Oh!" 

 I thought, "so you are the Yankee overseer!" and 

 I looked him over. Yes, there was no mistaking his 

 class identity. Fifty years ago I noticed that any 

 two of them were as alike in disposition, and nearly 

 as much in looks, as two bears. Now I wanted to 

 see whether any change had come in two genera- 

 tions, for better or worse, over the Yankee over- 

 seer. The "negro," I knew, had improved. Had 

 the Yankee? That was the sociological problem 

 before me. 



I had noticed the bellowing of the steam bull at 

 4:30 A. M. At first I thought it a fire-alarm. 

 Then it woke the echoes again at 5 a. m., then at 

 5 : 40, and once more at 6 a. m. I was curious 

 to know what all this threatening was about. A 

 hungry lion could not have been more impatient. 



