"Did you frighten any cooks out of their witses?" Peebles asked the
last contemptuously. The other retorted unintelligibly in his
appropriately hoarse voice. "Dake knocks on back doors," Peebles
explained to Harry Baggs, "and then fixes to scare a nickel or grub
from the women who open."
Quiet settled over the camp; the blue smoke of pipes and cigarettes
merged imperceptibly into the dusk of evening. Harry Baggs was
enveloped by a momentary contentment, born of the satisfaction of food,
relaxation after toil; and, leaning his head back on clasped hands, he
sang:
_"I changed my name when I got free
To Mister, like the res'.
But now ... Ol' Master's voice I hears
Across de river: 'Rome,
You damn ol' nigger, come and bring
Dat boat an' row me home!'"_
His voice rolled out without effort, continuous as a flowing stream,
grave and round as the deep tone of a temple bell. It increased in
volume until the hollow vibrated; the sound, rather than coming from a
single throat, seemed to dwell in the air, to be the harmony of evening
made audible. The simple melody rose and fell; the simple words became
portentous, burdened with the tragedy of vain longing, lost felicity.
The dead past rose again like a colored mist over the sordid reality of
the present; it drifted desirable and near across the hill; it soothed
and mocked the heart--and dissolved.
The silence that followed the song was sharply broken by a thin
querulous question; a tenuous bent figure stumbled across the open.
Pages:
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273