He watched with a strange sensation of unreality the whirring wooden wheel, the soft falling of the blue thread upon the floor, the dusky smoke-stained rafters of the room, wherefrom hung strings of onions and red peppers in gay festoons; the old negress, wrinkled as to her black face with busy absorption; the moving of the different creatures in the sombre depths of shadow. Now it was the glint of the corn-crake’s flame-like crest as he thrust an inquisitive head from his position on a shelf over the mantle. Now the white gleam of the raccoon’s sharp teeth as he grinned with an amiable persistency upon the room and its inmates. Now the old hounds grumbled uneasily in their sleep, or the Persian cats leaned against his legs with luxurious, undulating appeals to be caressed.
“Why don’ yo’ sing, honey?” said Aunt Tishy; “yo’ know yo’ kyarn’ harf wuk ef yo’ don’ sing.”
“Yes, do sing, Miss Virginia,” said Roden. “A nig—I mean a darky song,” he added, quickly.
“What shall I sing, mammy?” questioned she.
“Dat ’pen’s on whut kinder song de gen’leman wants.”
“Well, what kind do you want?” she asked him.
“Something characteristic,” he replied.
Thus adjured, she sang to him, in a very rich contralto voice, the following ditty:
“Ole ark she reel, ole ark she rock,
Settin’ up on de mountain-top.