It was a glorious moment. He knew that he was soloist supreme; that the song was his individual possession, and nobody would venture to sing it with him. He had them in his power. He would make Felo listen, whether or no. Almost rapturously he went on: “Go ’long, moon, I want you to th’ow yo’ light behin’ de ’simmon tree. P’int de road So her w’ats comin’ hyuh to meet me’ll see. Th’ow yo’ shadders kind o’ fancy, Des for me an’ my Nancy, Her w’at you hyeah come singin’ yonder in de lane.” Having reached the end of the verse, his eyes skimmed the room for looks of approval. Several of the listeners were smiling appreciatively. Drawing a deep breath, he extended his chest imposingly, and went on with the chorus: “W’en I hyeahs dat black gal sing, ’Tain no use to try an’ do another blessed thing; Feel like my foots done clean tuck wing, An’ my buzzum feel so strong. Umph-umph, people, you kin b’lieve my word, Her kind o’ singin’ you ain’ never, never, never heard. She des de same as a natchal wil’ mawkin’-bird, Bustin’ wid song!” When Dink finished his happy serenade, Nat called to him: “Boy, come over hyuh an’ tell me how ole you is.” Dink looked appealingly at his aunt, and as he crossed over to Nat’s chair, Soongy answered for him: “He be fifteen years ole nex’ June, Unc’ Nat.” “Boy, you sho got a gif’ straight from Gawd, quiv’in’ in dat th’oat o’ yone,” Nat said to him, patting him on the head patronizingly. “A gif’ straight from de devil,” muttered Felo, looking at Nat and batting his eyelids with impatience. Nat reflected a while on the difference of opinion, then asked drily: “Since w’en you got to be so frien’ly wid de devil, he done showed you how to make ’videnashun ’twix w’at b’lonks to him an’ w’at b’lonks to Gawd?” “Is Gawd give people gif’s to th’ow ’way, tellin’ ’bout devilment,—goin’ ’round singin’ all kind o’ sinful random; ’stid o’ raisin’ up dey voice to give praise to de things Gawd done sanctify?” “W’at things de boy tol’ about in de song you cunsider Gawd ain’ sanctify?” Nat asked solemnly. “Can’t be de man watchin’ for de moon to come up behin’ de ’simmon tree. Dat ain’ natchal? Gawd ain’ sen’ de moon to shine, an’ make de water move, an’ help de plants to grow in de groun’, an’ give light so people kin know de right road from de wrong?—Dat ain’ natchal?... An’ Gawd ain’ make de sap rise in de young ooman an’ de young man, stirrin’ ’um up like de sap stirrin’ in de ’simmon tree, till dey feels somh’n curuss drawin’ ’um to’ads one-’nother?” He went on. “Dat ain’ natchal? “An’ Gawd ain’ make de mawkin’-bird sing, settin’ in de aw’inge tree in de moonlight whah ’is ole lady kin ketch de a-ko ’is voice, w’en she settin’ lonely on top de aigs in de nes’?—Dat ain’ natchal?...