Musings of the South 171 



"How much time is a day's work over there?" 

 pointing to the Dallas mill, I inquired of a passing 

 white man. "From six till six-twenty." "They 

 have an hour at noon, I suppose?" "No, sir, a half 

 hour." "Do you mean to say they work those 

 children twelve hours a day?" "No, sir, eleven, 

 and fifty minutes. They have a half hour off, as I 

 told you." "Sundays?" "No, sir, the mills are 

 not run on Sundays." 



John Calvin, wherever you are, do you hear 

 that? You see that wherever God comes in he 

 comes to save. It is only the devil, the overseer, 

 and the absentee proprietor who would damn people 

 for their own glory. 



The next morning when the last bellow was 

 blown I looked out upon the eastern dawn. It was 

 roseate with hope and promise. From the tall 

 stack a long streamer of soot trailed the sky, stain- 

 ing the brow of the day. "And the smoke of their 

 torment ascendeth forages and ages"; not "for- 

 ever and ever," thank God. He did not write it 

 that way. Not forever and ever, because the legis- 

 lature of Alabama may come to the knowledge that 

 "the powers that be are of God," and in his name, 

 and in the interest of his salvation, put a stop to 

 the Yankee overseer. Fifty years ago God was deal- 

 ing with blacks, now it is with whites. The color 

 makes no difference to him. He makes the white 

 children whiter, just as he used to make the black 

 children blacker. It took some blood to wipe him 



