“When I was young, I useter to wait
Behine ole marster, han’ he plate,
An’ pass de bottle when he dry,
An’ bresh away dat blue-tail fly.�
The men’s voices rolled this out sonorously and melodiously. Then came the chorus, in which the high sweet voices of the women soared like the larks and the thrushes:
“Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer,
Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer,
Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer.
Ole—marster’s—gone—away!�
The last line was a wail; but the first lines were full of a devil-may-care music, which made some of the women drop their bundles of wheat, and, picking up their striped cotton skirts, they danced a breakdown nimbly. A dozen little negro boys carried buckets of water about the field to refresh the thirsty harvesters, and one negro girl, with her arms folded and a great pail on her head of whisky and water with mint floating around in it, was vociferously greeted whenever she appeared, and a drink from the gourd in the pail invariably caused a fresh outburst of song.