"To ease the ache of anxiety that was swelling her heart, she hummed, then sang softly:
He walks wid me, He talks wid me
He tells me Ahm His own...
Guiltily, she stopped and smiled. "Looks like Ah jus cant seem t fergit them ol songs, mo mattah how hard Ah tries..." She had learned them when she was a little girl living and working on a farm. Every Monday morning from the corn and cotton fields the slow strains had floated filled with gall, she had learned their deep meaning. Long hours of scrubbing floors for a few cents a day had taught her who Jesus was, what a great boon it was to cling to him, to be like Him and suffer without a mumbling word. She had poured the yearning of her life into the songs, feeling buoyed with a faith beyond this world. The figure of the Man nailed in agony to the Cross, His burial in cold grave, His transfigured Resurrection, His being breath and clay, God and Man -- all had focused her feelings upon an imagery which had swept her life into a wondrous vision.
But as she grown older, a cold white mountain, the white folks and their laws, had swum into her vision and shattered her songs and their spell of peace."
But as she grown older, a cold white mountain, the white folks and their laws, had swum into her vision and shattered her songs and their spell of peace."