“It’s almost like summer,” cried Beth, hastening to dress.

After breakfast, the porter, whose name Beth learned was “Bob,” took her out on the back platform while the engine was taking on water.  To the left of the train were five colored children clustered around a stump.

“Bob, how many children have you?” asked Beth, and her eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“Law, honey,” and Bob’s grin widened, “I ain’t got any chillun.  I’se a bachelor.”

Beth stamped her foot.  She could not bear deceit.  “Bob, it’s very wrong to tell stories.  These children must be yours; they’re just like you.”

He laughed so heartily at the idea, that Beth feared his mouth never would get into shape again.  “Ha, ha, ha.  Dem my chillun!  Ha, ha, ha.  Law, honey, dem ain’t mine.  Thank de Lord, I don’t have to feed all dem hungry, sassy, little niggahs.”

“Well, Bob, if they’re not yours, whose are they?”

“Dem’s jes’ culled chillun.”

A whistle sounded, and the train was soon under way again.  Beth ran to her mother.

“Mamma, there were a lot of little Bobs outside, but he says they are not his children—­that they’re just colored children.”

Mrs. Davenport had a hard time making her understand that Bob had told the truth.  Beth sat very still for a while by a window.  Suddenly, she cried out: 

“What are those little specks of white?  They look like little balls of snow, only they can’t be.  It’s too warm, and then I never saw snow grow on bushes.”

“That is cotton.”

Although the bushes were not in their full glory—­only having on them a little of last year’s fruitage that was not picked—­Beth thought a cotton field a very pretty sight.

[Illustration:  Beth thought a cotton field a very pretty sight.  (Illustration missing from book)]

The pine trees of Georgia prove monotonous to most people, except that their perpetual green is restful to the eye in the midst of white sand and dazzling sunshine.  Beth, however, liked even the pines, being a lover of all trees.  They seemed almost human to her.  She believed that trees could speak if they would.  She often talked to them, and fondled their rough old bark.  Children can have worse companions than trees.  They were a great comfort to Beth all through life.

On the way through Georgia, the train was delayed by a hot box.  While it was being fixed, Bob took Beth for a walk, and she saw a moss-laden oak for the first time.

“Oh, Bob,” she cried, “I never before saw a tree with hair.”

His hearty laugh broke out anew.  “Ha, ha, ha.  I’ll jes’ pull some of dat hair for you, missy,” and he raised his great, black hand to grab the curling, greenish, gray moss.

“Don’t, Bob,” and when he gave her no heed, she added, “I’m afraid it’ll hurt the tree.  I know it hurts me greatly when any one pulls my hair.”