"Swing low, sweet chariot,
Cum fur ter carry me home;
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Cum fur to carry me home."
Ofttimes as a boy Maurice Dalton had stood on the outer edge of Negro open air camp meetings and had heard, with deep emotion, this chant; and as the music now comes floating into his room his paroxysms cease, a smile plays upon his face which, though wasted, is handsome still.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright in his bed. "Hush!" said he, feebly waving his hand, as he turned his ear in an attitude of listening. "Did they say the chariot had come?" he enquired of the weeping Aunt Catherine. Casting a faint look of recognition on those who stood near him, he fell back upon the bosom of Aunt Catherine—a corpse.
The wild cry of anguish that escaped the lips of Aunt Catherine told its own story to the Negroes in the yard. The singing ceased and they turned to go. Tears were falling from their eyes, and Nature, as if in sympathy, began to weep also. In after days the minds of the Negroes oft reverted to the darkness and gloominess and utter dreariness of the day when Maurice Dalton died.
