Chillens squallin’ ever’where, an’ mens a-pleadin’ an’ a-cussin’, an’ womens cryin’ ‘Lawd ’a’ Mercy’ wid de whites of dey eyes showin’! . . . Den looked like to me ’bout five hundred white mens took torches an’ started burnin’ wid fiah ever’ last house, an’ hen-house, an’ shack, an’ barn, an’ privy, an’ shed, an’ cow-slant in de place! An’ all de niggers, when de fiah blaze up, was moanin’ in de fields, callin’ on de Lawd fer help! An’ de fiah light up de whole country clean back to de woods! You could smell fiah, an’ you could see it red, an’ taste de smoke, an’ feel it stingin’ yo’ eyes. An’ you could hear de bo’ads a-fallin’ an’ de glass a-poppin’, an’ po’ animals roastin’ an’ fryin’ an’ a-tearin’ at dey halters. An’ one cow run out, fiah all ovah, wid her milk streamin’ down. An’ de smoke roll up, de cotton-fields were red . . . an’ dey ain’t been no mo’ Crowville after dat night. No, sir! De white folks ain’t left nothin’ fer de niggers, not nary bo’ad standin’ one ’bove another, not even a dog-house. . . . When it were done—nothin’ but ashes! . . . De white mens was ever’where wid guns, scarin’ de po’ blacks an’ keepin’ ’em off, an’ one of ’em say: ‘I got good mind to try yo’-all’s hide, see is it bullet proof—gittin’ so prosp’rous, paintin’ yo’ houses an’ runnin ovah white folks wid yo’ damn gasoline buggies! Well, after dis you’ll damn sight have to bend yo’ backs an’ work a little!’ . . . Dat’s what de white man say.... But we didn’t—not yit! ’Cause ever’ last nigger moved from there dat Sunday mawnin’. It were right funny to see ole folks what ain’t never been out o’ de backwoods pickin’ up dey feet an’ goin’. Ma Bailey say: ‘De Lawd done let me live eighty years in one place, but ma next eighty’ll be spent in St. Louis.’ An’ she started out walkin’ wid neither bag nor baggage.... An’ me an’ Tom took Willie-Mae an’ went to Cairo, an’ Tom started railroad-workin’ wid a gang; then we come on up here, been five summers ago dis August. We ain’t had not even a rag o’ clothes when we left Crowville—so don’t tell me ’bout white folks bein’ good, Hager, ’cause I knows ’em. . . . Yes, indeedy, I really knows ’em. . . . Dey done made us leave our home.”

The old woman knocked her pipe against the edge of the porch, emptying its dead ashes into the yard, and for a moment no one spoke. Sandy, trembling, watched a falling star drop behind the trees. Then Jimboy’s deep voice, like a bitter rumble in the dark, broke the silence.

“I know white folks, too,” he said. “I lived in the South.”

“And I ain’t never been South,” added Harriett hoarsely, “but I know ’em right here . . . and I hate ’em!”