THE HARVEST OF THE WIND.

CHAPTER I.

"As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no
rule over his own spirit."


"My soul! Master Jesus, my soul!
My soul!
Dar's a little thing lays in my heart,
An' de more I dig him de better he spring:
My soul!
Dar's a little thing lays in my heart
An' he sets my soul on fire:
My soul!
Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!"

The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and
he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as
he chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet he
rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his
left hand.

"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble ef
he stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now." He
communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then
threw his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of
growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the
field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way among