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. 
