so grave a message? He was right among them now. One of the negroes jostled him by striking around his body at another negro. Peter stopped. His heart beat, and he had a queer sensation of being operated by some power outside himself. Next moment he heard himself saying in fairly normal tones:
“Fellows, do you think we ought to be idling on the street corners like this? We ought to be at work, don't you think?”
The horse-play stopped at this amazing sentiment.
“Whuffo, Peter?” asked a voice.
“Because the whole object of our race nowadays is to gain the respect of other races, and more particularly our own self-respect. We haven't it now. The only way to get it is to work, work, work.”
“Ef you feel lak you'd ought to go to wuck,” suggested one astonished hearer, “you done got my p'mission, black boy, to hit yo' natchel gait to de fust job in sight.”
Peter was hardly less surprised than his hearers at what he was saying. He paid no attention to the interruption.
“Fellows, it's the only way our colored people can get on and make the most out of life. Persistent labor is the very breath of the soul, men; it—it is.” Here Peter caught an intimation of the whole flow of energy through the universe, focusing in man and being transformed into mental and moral values. And it suddenly occurred to him that the real worth of any people
