“It’s a heap whiter than mine,” thought Virginia.
“I wish you’d sing,” he said, suddenly. “Will you?”
“A nigger song?” said the girl, with a growing intuition in regard to his wishes. She then sang as follows:
“Bright sunny mornin’ Nigger feel good, Axe on he shoulder Goin’ fur de wood. Little piece er hoe-cake ’Thout any fat; White folks quoil ’Case he eat all o’ dat. Hop ’long, hop ’long, hop ’long, Peter, Hop ’long, Peter’s son! Hoppergrass sittin’ on a sweet-e’ayter vine, Big tuckey-gorbler come up behine, Hop ’long, Peter’s son.
“One bright mornin’ John did go Down in de medder fur ter mow; Ez he mowed acrost de fiel’ Great big sarpint bit him on de heel. He juck it up right in he hand, And back he went tuh Maury Ann; ‘Oh, Maury Ann, oh, don’ you see, One ole sarpint done bit me!’ Hop ’long, hop ’long, hop ’long, Peter, Hop ’long, Peter’s son.”
Roden was delighted with her rich, reed-noted voice. She imitated the negroes’ tones to perfection. The inflection and intonation were without fault.
“How well you do it!” he said. “It’s really awfully pretty. Can’t you give me another?”
She sang him one or two more, and ended by repeating in a singsong fashion a little rhyme which convulsed him:
“Mars’r had a leetle dorg, An’ he was three parts houn’; Ev’y time he strike a trail He bounce up off de groun’.”
“They make up all these things, of course?” he asked her.
“Oh yes,” said Virginia: “they’re awful fond of ‘makin’ hymes,’ as they call it. Here’s another:
“Ef I had a needle an’ thread, Big ez I could sew, I’d stitch my ’Liza to my side, An’ off down de road I’d go.”
He amused himself by trying to sing some of the various ditties after her, but, as they began to ascend the mountain, found that he needed all the breath at his command.
The dead leaves, sodden with the winter rains, closed in masses about the feet of Pokeberry, and of the young Englishman as he tramped untiringly at her muzzle. The shaft of a young pine rose slender and virginal from the lace-work of bare trees, its plumy crest breaking with lucent emerald the sea-blue reach of sky. A cardinal-bird flashed, with unconscious contrast, against the neutral tints of the woody distance, meshed as it were in the multitudinous glittering of sunlit twigs. From the leaf-stirred silence, far in the heart of the forest, came the urgent rat-a-plan of a woodpecker. Dead leaves occasionally, loosened by the fitful wind, fell, turning slowly in their descent, now between the startled ears of Pokeberry, themselves most leaf-like, now upon Virginia’s skirt or hat, as she sat wordless, listlessly supporting the reins upon her knee.