But so far as the available records show there was but one white child in our town who bore for its name, bestowed upon it with due knowledge of the fact and with deliberate intent, the name of a person of undoubted African descent. However, at this stage to reveal the circumstances governing this phenomenon would be to run ahead of our tale and to precipitate its climax before the groundwork were laid for its premise. Most stories should start at the beginning. This one must. * * * * * From round the left-hand corner of the house came with a sudden blare the sound of melody--words and music--growing steadily louder as the unseen singer drew nearer. The music was a lusty, deep-volumed camp-meeting air, with long-drawn quavers and cadences in it. The words were as follows: _Had a lovin' mother,_ _Been climbin' up de hill so long;_ _She been hopin' git to heaben in due time_ _Befo' dem heaben do's close!_ And then the chorus, voicing first a passionate entreaty, then rising in the final bars to a great exultant shout: _Den chain dat lion down, Good Lawd!_ _Den chain dat lion down!_ _Oh, please!_ _Good Lawd, done chained dat lion down!_ _Done chained dat deadly lion down!_ _Glor-e-e-e!_ The singer, still singing, issued into view, limping slightly--a wizen woman, coal-black and old, with a white cloth bound about her head, turban fashion, and a man's battered straw hat resting jauntily upon the knotted kerchief. Her calico frock was voluminous, unshapely and starch-clean. Her under lip was shoved forward as though permanently twisted into a spout-shape by the task of holding something against the gums of her lower front teeth, and from one side of her mouth protruded a bit of wood with the slivered bark on it. One versed in the science of forestry might have recognised the little stub of switch as a peach-tree switch; one bred of the soil would have known its purpose. Neither puckered-out lip nor peach-tree twig seemed to interfere in the least with her singing. She flung the song out past them--over the lip, round the twig. With her head thrown away back, her hands resting on her bony hips, and her feet clunking inside a pair of boys' shoes too large for her, she crossed the lawn at an angle. In all things about her--in her gait, despite its limp, in her pose, her figure--there was something masterful, something dominating, something tremendously proud. Considering her sparseness of bulk she had a most astoundingly big strong voice, and in the voice as in the strut was arrogant pride.