Not since the poor, pitiful, dissipated author of that sweet folk-song stumbled over the ragged carpet in his miserable room in the Bowery, struck his head against his broken water-pitcher, bled to death upon the floor, and was carried to his grave while his friends sang his favorite song, had these words and their music been associated with so dramatic an event.
“Fer Gawd’s sake, Pap!” Mustard sobbed. “Come here an’ he’p me play dis toon! Don’t you see Marse Tom standin’ on dat cornder? Play, nigger, play! Say yo’ prayers in dat hawn when you toot it!”
All up and down de whole creation
Sadly I roam,
Still longing for de old plantation
And for de old folks at home!
Up the street the white-haired man listened, then took off his hat and scratched his head in a quandary.
“A mob set to music!” he smiled to himself. “This is something new to me. I wonder what that fool Mustard Prophet is doing here?”
He walked quietly down the street and stopped in front of the jail, taking his position by the side of Sheriff Ulloa. With a graceful gesture he removed his hat and thus fronted the mob, serene, powerful, his fine face glowing like an alabaster vase with a lamp in it, the wind tossing his snow-white hair and beard—the most striking and impressive figure one beholds in a lifetime. He stood with bowed head listening to the music:
Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home!
The music ended and the intense silence was broken by a voice in the mob:
“Aw, hell! I move we adjourn—back’ards!”
With a concerted movement like a piece of oiled machinery, the mob turned and tramped up the street like a drove of mules, leaving four lengthy coils of rope, a broken hatchet, a hoe-handle, and a corncob pipe in the middle of the road.