Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1930-04-20

silhouette of a mans figure.
who is it?" you call
dis is Henry" the voice answers. II
done come tub TEX yo' to chuch."
But it's the middle of the night" you
protest
"Yassuh, it sho' is-but VEAL starts
long befo' day, an de chuch is long
ways off from heah."
It is Easter morning on the plantation
in Louisiana, and in far-off church in
the woods the Negroes are gathering for
sunrise service. Henry has come to
take you with him. And now, as he adj
vances into the room you see that he
carries steaming coffee pot in his hand.
The hot, black drink drives sleep from
your eyes; you rise by yellow candle light
and begin to dress. Outside you can
hear the stamping of horses.
Ten minutes later you are in the sad
die, following the Negro man who rides
before you. The big house of the plan
tation seems sleeping among its trees,
with moonlight Slanting across its white
columns. Mist hangs low over Cane
River, and the foggy fields are like great
bowls of milk. We gallop down the river
road two ghostly riders. After a mile,
we leave the road and strike out across
cotton field toward the woods beyond.
A cool breeze is blowing, and you can
smell the swamp. In the stiffness an
owl calls, and your horse pricks up his
ears; Henry shivers and turns his hat
backward to ward off bad luck
THE woods loom ahead, dark wall.
FeStoons of Spanish moss are lighter
among the shadows. The moonlight
does not penetrate beneath the trees.
Henry curbS his horse and turns abruptly
into trail which leads into blackneSs.
You can see nothing and ride with your
arm raised to protect your face from
thornS and branches. From time to
time the man ahead calls back a warn
ing of a low limb or of an entangling
vine. The two-mile ride through the
woods seems endless, but it is over at
last. Ahead lies clearing, with moon
light Slanting down on white rectangu-
lar stones. A cemetery. We slide down
from our saddles and tie the horses to
the graveyard fence. The dark spire of
the little church leans crafty against
the lighter sky. 1t is black under the
nothing, but the darkness is alive with
voices:
"Howdy, Mister Henry!"
':Mawnin', Sis Viney!'
"Is de songsters come yet?"
Here and there the burning end of a
cigarette or the wider glow of a pipe
shines for moment and fades again.
There are many Negroes waiting here;
you can feel them all around you, al
though you cannot see them. An old
woman'S voice comes from the dimneSs
at your elbow:
'Mawnin', Mister Sack How you do?"
who is it!" you ask, laughing "I
can't see you"
"LawdGawd!" the voice replies us I
SO black yo' can't see me? Dis is ole
Aunt Patsy"
You greet her warmly, for she is an
old friend She is the Cane River wise
woman and midwife, and her spells and
charms are famous for miles around
Her grandchildren are legion. Now, as
she greets you, she puffs deep on her
pipe, and for moment you can see her
wrinkled face below her white head
handkerchief.
The crowd is moving toward the church
door, and Henry takes your elbow and
pushes you ahead of him into the inky
blackneSs of the building. You feel the
smooth backs of the benches under your
cropping fingers, find an empty pew and
slide in, moving over against the wall.
The windows are open, and the dying
moonlight is pale beyond them. The