And here are no fences. But now and then the
crisscross rails or straight palings break into view, and then
we know a touch of culture is near. Of course Harrison
Gohagen,--a quiet yellow man, young, smooth-faced, and
diligent,--of course he is lord of some hundred acres, and we
expect to see a vision of well-kept rooms and fat beds and
laughing children. For has he not fine fences? And those over
yonder, why should they build fences on the rack-rented
land? It will only increase their rent.
On we wind, through sand and pines and glimpses of old
plantations, till there creeps into sight a cluster of buildings,
--wood and brick, mills and houses, and scattered cabins. It
seemed quite a village. As it came nearer and nearer, how-
ever, the aspect changed: the buildings were rotten, the bricks
were falling out, the mills were silent, and the store was
closed. Only in the cabins appeared now and then a bit of
lazy life. I could imagine the place under some weird spell,
and was half-minded to search out the princess. An old
ragged black man, honest, simple, and improvident, told us
the tale. The Wizard of the North--the Capitalist--had rushed
down in the seventies to woo this coy dark soil.
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