ON THE UPPER ST. JOHN'S. 129 



believe it. It was too bad to come away; 

 the stupid town offered no attraction ; but it 

 seemed perilous to remain. Perhaps I could 

 not come away. I would try it and see. It 

 was amazing that I could ; and no sooner 

 was I out in the sunshine than I wished I 

 had stayed where I was; for having once 

 left the place, I was never likely to find it 

 again. The way was plain enough, to be 

 sure, and my feet would no doubt serve 

 me. But the feet cannot do the mind's part, 

 and it is a sad fact, one of the saddest in 

 life, that sensations cannot be repeated. 



With the fascination of the swamp still 

 upon me, I heard somewhere in the distance 

 a musical voice, and soon came in sight of a 

 garden where a middle-aged negro was hoe- 

 ing, hoeing and singing : a wild, minor, 

 endless kind of tune ; a hymn, as seemed 

 likely from a word caught here and there ; 

 a true piece of natural melody, as artless as 

 any bird's. I walked slowly to get more 

 of it, and the happy-sad singer minded me 

 not, but kept on with his hoe and his song. 

 Potatoes or corn, whatever his crop may have 

 been, I did not notice, or, if I did, I have 

 forgotten, it should have prospered under 

 his hand. 



