1 82 Next to the Ground 



upon a round of industrious and far-spread 

 visiting. 



All the white folks sat up to hear the 

 blacks sing, as they watched upon Old Christ- 

 mas Night. The blacks were shy and fur- 

 tive over this watching. White folks who 

 did not believe in witches, nor conjure-work, 

 nor even in ghosts, were unsympathetic with 

 their lively and child-like faith that Christ 

 was born in a cow- shed, cradled warm be- 

 tween two snow-white heifers, and that still 

 upon his proper birth-night, cattle knelt to do 

 him homage. They also believed it was bad 

 luck to watch the kneeling cattle, and still 

 worse luck not to be singing when the cocks 

 crew for midnight. Their singing was weird, 

 a droning, wordless monochord, by turns low 

 or loud, and always in perfect time, no matter 

 how many sang. Although. so simple, it was 

 thrilling. They sang in the log church Major 

 Baker had helped them build for themselves 

 in the corner of the old fields, next to White 

 Oaks. When the singing was at its loudest 

 you could hear it two miles off. The mel- 

 lowing of distance made it indescribably 

 plaintive. 



The January sound in Joe's calendar 

 though was not the Old Christmas chant. 

 In a spell of bitter cold about the second or 

 third night, the house timbers and the trees 



