Then the character
of the farms begins to change. Nearly all the lands belong to
Russian Jews; the overseers are white, and the cabins are bare
board-houses scattered here and there. The rents are high, and
day-laborers and "contract" hands abound. It is a keen, hard
struggle for living here, and few have time to talk. Tired with
the long ride, we gladly drive into Gillonsville. It is a silent
cluster of farmhouses standing on the crossroads, with one of
its stores closed and the other kept by a Negro preacher. They
tell great tales of busy times at Gillonsville before all the
railroads came to Albany; now it is chiefly a memory. Riding
down the street, we stop at the preacher's and seat ourselves
before the door. It was one of those scenes one cannot soon
forget:--a wide, low, little house, whose motherly roof reached
over and sheltered a snug little porch. There we sat, after the
long hot drive, drinking cool water,--the talkative little store-
keeper who is my daily companion; the silent old black
woman patching pantaloons and saying never a word; the
ragged picture of helpless misfortune who called in just to see
the preacher; and finally the neat matronly preacher's wife,
plump, yellow, and intelligent.
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