. And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, And guyed the policemen and laughed them down With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING Read exactly as THROUGH THE BLACK, CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. in first section. A negro fairyland swung into view, A minstrel river Where dreams come true. The ebony palace soared on high Through the blossoming trees to the eve- The inlaid porches and casement shone At the baboon butler in the agate door, That trilled on the bushes of that magic land. A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came flame, Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust dust. Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible. With pomposity. And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call And danced the juba from wall to wall. throng With a great deliberation and With a stern cold glare, and a stern old ghostliness. song: "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes, With overwhelm Came the cake-walk princes in their long ing assurance, red coats, Shoes with a patent leather shine, And tall silk hats that were red as wine. partners there, good cheer, and pomp. With growing Coal-black maidens with pearls in their speed and hair, Knee-skirts trimmed with the jessamine sweet, And bells on their ankles and little black feet. And the couples railed at the chant and the frown Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. (O rare was the revel and well worth while That made those glowering witch-men smile.) The cake-walk royalty then began To walk for a cake that was tall as a man sharply marked dance-rhythm. While the witch-men laughed with a sinister air, With a touch of negro dialect, And sang with the scalawags prancing and there :— "Walk with care, walk with care, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Beware, beware, walk with care, BOOM." as rapidly as possible toward the end. Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth Slow philo while That made those glowering witch-men smile. sophic calm. III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION With a literal A good old negro in the slums of the town Heavy bass. ways, His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. And some had visions, as they stood on And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs, and wrong imitation of camp-meeting trance. And slammed their hymn books till they shook the room With "Glory, glory, glory," THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. In bright white steel they were seated And their fire-eyes watched where the And the twelve apostles, from their thrones Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: "Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; Never again will he hoo-doo you, Never again will he hoo-doo you." Exactly as in the first section. Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.' Then along that river-bank, a thousand With growing miles, The vine-snared trees fell down in files. Pioneer angels cleared the way For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, For sacred capitals, for temples clean. Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. deliberation and joy. There, where the wild ghost-gods had In a rather wailed A million boats of the angels sailed high key-as delicately as possible. With oars of silver, and prows of blue And silken pennants that the sun shone through. 'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation, Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation; And on through the backwoods clearing flew : "Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. Never again will he hoo-doo you. Never again will he hoo-doo you." Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, And only the vulture dared again By the far, lone mountains of the moon To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices." Dying off whisper. John G. Neihardt John Gneisenau Neihardt was born at Sharpsburg, Illinois, January 8, 1881. He completed a scientific course at Nebraska Normal College in 1897 and lived among the Omaha Indians for six years (1901-7), studying their customs, characteristics and legends. Although he had already published two books, A Bundle of Myrrh (1908) was his first volume to attract notice. It was full of spirit, enthusiasm and an insistent virility—qualities which were extended (and overemphasized) in Man-Song (1909). Neihardt found a richer note and a new restraint in The Stranger at the Gate (1911), the best of the lyrics from these three volumes appearing in The Quest (1916). |