What a royal plant it is! The world waits in attendance 

 on its growth; the shower that falls whispering on its 

 leaves is heard around the earth; the sun that shmes on 

 it is tempered by the prayers of all the people; the frost 

 that chills it and the dews that descend from the stars 

 are noted. . . . Its fiber is current in every bank, and 

 when loosing its fleeces to the sun it floats a snowy banner 

 that glorifies the fields of the humblest farmer, that man 

 is marshalled under a flag that will compel the allegiance 

 of the world and wring a subsidy from every nation on 

 earth. Henry W. Grady. 



Cotton is the master of them all, in spring as well as 

 autumn, in winter as in summer. Yellow or white or 

 black, all men in the South are slaves of cotton, subject 

 to its power, prospering as those white fields flourish, 

 and failing as they fail. Dorothy Scarborough. 



