The Voice of the People | Page 8

known in the neighbourhood as the Old Stage Road. Passing a
straggling group of negro cabins, it stretched, naked, bleached, and
barren, for a good half-mile, dividing with its sandy length the
low-lying fields, which were sown on the one side in a sparse crop of
grain and on the other in the rich leaves and round pink heads of
ripening clover. At the end of the half-mile the road ascended a slight
elevation, and the character of the soil changed abruptly into clay of
vivid red, which, extending a dozen yards up the rain-washed hillside,
appeared, in a general view of the landscape, like the scarlet tongue
protruding from the silvery body of a serpent.

Far ahead to the right of the highway and beyond the thinly sown wheat
a stretch of pine woodland was darkly limned against the western
horizon, standing a gloomy advance guard of the shadows of the night.
At its foot the newer green of the late spring foliage took a frivolous
aspect, presenting the effect of deep-tinted foam breaking against the
impenetrable mass of darkness.
The boy trudged resolutely along the sandy road, reaching at intervals
to grasp handfuls of sassafras leaves from the bushes beside the way.
From the ditch on the left a brown toad hopped slowly into the dust of
the road. On the worm-eaten rails of the fence, on the other side, a gray
lizard glided swiftly like a stealthy shadow of the leaves of the
poisonous oak.
Nicholas picked up a stone from the roadside and aimed it at the slimy
little body, but his throw erred, and the missile fell harmlessly into the
wheat field beyond, startling a blackbird with scarlet marks, which
soared suddenly above the bearded grain and vanished, with a
tremulous cry and a flame of outstretched wings, into the distant wood.
The sun had gone down behind the pines and a warm mist steamed up
from the cooling earth, condensing into heavy dew on the dusty leaves
of the plants in the ditch. Above the lowering pines the horizon burned
to a deep scarlet, like an inverted brazier at red heat, and one gigantic
tree, rising beyond the jagged line of the forest, was silhouetted sharply
against the enkindled clouds. Suddenly, from the shadows of the long
road, a voice rose plaintively. It was rich and deep and colourific, and it
seemed to hover close to the warmth of the earth, weighed down by its
animal melody. It had mingled so subtly with the stillness that it was as
much a part of nature as the cry of a whip-poor-will beyond the thicket
or the sunset in the pine-guarded west. At first it came faintly, and the
words were lost, but as Nicholas gained upon the singer he caught more
clearly the air and the song.
"_Oh, de Ark hit came ter res' On-de-hill, Oh, de Ark hit came ter res'
On-de-hill, En' dar ole Noah stood, En' spread his han's abroad, Er
sacri-fice ter-Gawd On-de-hill._"

Nicholas quickened his pace into a run and, in a moment, saw the
stooping figure of an old negro toiling up the red clay hillside, a staff in
his hand and a bag of meal on his shoulder. In the vivid light of the
sunset his stature was exaggerated in size, giving him an appearance at
once picturesque and pathetic--softening his rugged outline and
magnifying the distortion of age.
As he ascended the gradual incline he planted his staff firmly in the soil,
shifting his bag from side to side and uttering inaudible grunts in the
pauses of his song.
"_En' dar, mid flame en smoke, De great Jehovah s-poke. En' awful
thunder b-roke, On-de-hill._"
"Uncle Ish!" called the boy sharply. The old man lowered the bag from
his shoulder and turned slowly round.
"Who dat?" he demanded severely. "Ain't I done tell you dar ain' no
ha'nts 'long dis yer road?"
"It's me, Uncle Ish," said the boy. "It's Nick Burr. I heard you singing a
long ways off."
"Den what you want ter go a-hollerin' en a-stealin' up on er ole nigger
fer des' 'bout sundown?"
"But, Uncle Ish, I didn't mean to scare you. I jest heard--"
"Skeer! Who dat you been skeerin'? Ain't I done tole you dar ain' no
ha'nts round dese parts? What I gwine ter be skeered fer uv er little no
'count white trash dat ain' never own er nigger in dere life? Who you
done skeer dis time?"
He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and went on his way,
the boy trotting beside him. For a time the old man muttered angrily
beneath his breath, and then, becoming mollified by the boy's silence,
he looked kindly down on the small red head at his elbow.

"You ain't said