In a visit some years ago to a Negro farmers’ institute in the country, I got a lesson from an unlettered coloured farmer which I have never forgotten. I had been invited by one of the Tuskegee graduates to go into the country some miles from Tuskegee to be present at this institute. When I entered the room the members of the institute were holding what they called their farmers’ experience meeting. One coloured farmer was asked to come up to the platform and give his experience. He was an old man, about sixty-five years of age. He had had no education in the book, but the teacher had reached him, as he had others in the community, and showed him how to improve his methods of farming. When this old man came up to the front of the room to tell his experience, he said: “I’se never had no chance to study no science, but since dis teacher has been here I’se been trying to make some science for myself.” Thereupon he laid upon the table by his side six stalks of cotton and began to describe in detail how, during the last ten years, he had gradually enriched his land so as to increase the number of bolls of cotton grown upon each individual stalk. He picked up one stalk and showed it to the audience; before the teacher came to the community, he said, and before he began to improve his land, his cotton produced only two bolls to the stalk. The second year he reached the point where, on the same land, he succeeded in producing four bolls on a stalk. Then he showed the second stalk to the audience. After that he picked up the third and fourth stalks, saying that during the last few years he had reached a point where a stalk produced eight bolls. Finally he picked up the last stalk and said: “This year I made cotton like dis”—and he showed a stalk containing fourteen bolls. Then the old fellow took his seat. Some one in the audience from a distance arose and said: “Uncle, will you tell us your name?” The old fellow arose and said: “Now, as you ask me for my name, I’ll tell you. In de old days, before dis teacher come here, I lived in a little log-cabin on rented land, and had to mortgage my crop every year for food. When I didn’t have nothin’, in dem days, in my community dey used to call me ‘Old Jim Hill.’ But now I’se out o’ debt; I’se de deeds for fifty acres of land; and I lives in a nice house wid four rooms that’s painted inside and outside; I’se got some money in de bank; I’se a taxpayer in my community; I’se edicated my children. And now, in my community, dey calls me ‘Mr. James Hill.’” The old fellow had not only learned to raise cotton during these ten years, but, so far as he was concerned, he had solved the race problem.