Of conjurers, and ghosts, and devils,
That in the smoke-house hold their revels;
Each drowsy baby droops his head,
Yet scorns the very thought of bed:—
So wears the night, and wears so fast,
All wonder when they find it past,
And hear the signal sound to go
From what few cocks are left to crow.”
In the wee sma’ hours near daylight Uncle Booker sings the story of the first banjo.
“‘Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,’ said Noah, lookin’ solemn—