170 Musings by Camp-Fire a7id Wayside 



I went out at that side door and into the huge 

 building with my wrath submerged in scientific en- 

 thusiasm. Acres of looms — about eight hundred of 

 them, they tell me. Every one driven at the top 

 of its speed. The shuttles flew like shot. Thirty 

 per cent per annum, net, on the capital, was what 

 they were going for and getting. The air was full 

 of roar and of cotton fibers. Little boys and girls, 

 young women and men, were hovering and flitting 

 about in the din and dust like ghosts — which the 

 children soon will be. 



After looking over the various processes I went 

 to the power-house. There was a bright, gentle- 

 manly young man in charge, plainly a well-bred 

 young man. I took his name, Mr. Messer, possibly 

 a relative of Wilbur Messer, head of our Y. M. C. A. 

 His engine was ten hundred horse-power, he had to 

 make it pull for twelve hundred; but a new fifteen 

 hundred was going in which would take on another 

 eight hundred looms. 



Returning along the dusty road, a negro came 

 over the hill on a galloping mule. He was licking 

 the mule to make it go faster. Coming opposite 

 me he reined up strongly with a "Whoa!" "Say, 

 Mister, did ye see anything of a plow-pint as ye 

 come along?" I had not seen any plow-point. 

 "How did you happen to lose it?" "Dat mule," 

 he answered, looking down fiercely at the long ears, 

 and hitting him a cut he was galloping again. 



Just so. It is always "dat mule." 



