A friend of mine tells a Georgia experience of deafness and darkness. Long after dark he reached the small town where he was to spend the night. However black true “pitch” may be, there never was anything darker than that portion of the atmosphere which surrounded the railroad station as this deaf man stepped off the train. Finally a light appeared from behind the station. It proved to be a dim lantern in the hands of a colored man so black that his face seemed to make a shadow in the dark. Conversation with the deaf regarding details is not satisfactory under such conditions. The colored man held his lantern up near to his face and talked, but his mouth was too large and open to make lip-reading easy. The deaf man did finally grasp the fact that this agent of the night represented the leading hotel in town. So, under his guidance my friend found his way to an old closed carriage. The colored man hung his lantern on a spring, roused his sleepy mule, and off they started over a succession of humps and mud holes. Finally, after one tremendous bump, the lonely lantern went out and the carriage halted. The deaf man could distinguish ahead only two luminous spots of light; they were the eyes of the mule, who, instead of running as a horse might have done, merely looked reproachfully at his driver. The colored man had no matches, but he drove on through the blackness, placidly trusting to the mule for guidance. Now there are times in the life of every deaf man when he must either aspire to philosophy or retire into insanity. My friend, inside of that rickety carriage, smiled at the thought which entered his mind. Ages before one of his stone age ancestors had crouched far back on his bed of leaves, shrinking in terror at the evil spirits which the darkness was hiding. Here he was in the silent darkness after all the long ages, but he was serene in soul because hundreds of years of artificial light had brought to him their message of courage and faith. The “hotel” proved to be an old-fashioned Southern mansion, rambling and shaky, fronted by large unpainted columns which sagged a bit, with windows that rattled and big echoing halls in which old memories congregated. My friend was tired, and after a light supper he asked to be taken to his room. The landlord, a grave and dignified man, who limped a little from a wound received at Gettysburg, took up a lighted candle and led the way to a big corner room at the back of the house on the first floor. He put the candle and the matches down on the bureau and then pulled out a revolver, which he placed beside the candle. “We have been having a little trouble with some of our niggers,” he said. “They steal. Keep your windows fastened, and put your watch and money under your pillow. If anyone should get in, fire first and inquire afterward. That is our plan. Good-night.”