So Enoch Joel would lie and drowse and day-dream a little. The heritage of the Gullah negroes was in his body. He knew how to dream and rest. He knew how to be happy. Sometimes he would gaze idly about him. All those fields were growing because of his efforts. He was captain of the earth. Field service he never looked upon as work. He loved it. The smell of fresh-turned sod was sweet to his nostrils. Some day he'd be rich. Then wouldn't he be good to Ma Linda! He'd buy her gloves. Kid gloves. Perhaps they'd even go to Chicago for a few days, to the Palmer House where, he'd read, all the famous Americans used to visit. It never dawned on Enoch that there were places he might not be welcome because of the shade of his skin. Nature in her coloring is not partial to white. The soil is brown, the richest soil is blackest. White soil is sand. It is desert, unproductive, nothing can grow in it. It is cold unless scorched by the sun. Flowers like best the rich warm dark soil because it is friendliest and most comforting.
