W.E.B. Du Bois: “Is it wet with blood? 'Tis from my brother's hands. (I know; his hands are mine.) It flowed for Thee, O Lord.”

And yet, being a problem is a strange experience,—peculiar even for one who has never been anything else, save perhaps in babyhood and in Europe.

A million black men started with renewed zeal to vote themselves into the kingdom.

With other black boys the strife was not so fiercely sunny: their youth shrunk into tasteless sycophancy, or into silent hatred of the pale world about them and mocking distrust of everything white; or wasted itself in a bitter cry, Why…

Yet even then the hard ruthless rape of the land began to tell.