.

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-
ning sky.

The inlaid porches and casement shone
With gold and ivory and elephant-bone.
And the black crowd laughed till their
sides were sore

At the baboon butler in the agate door,
And the well-known tunes of the parrot
band

That trilled on the bushes of that magic

land.

A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came
Through the agate doorway in suits of

flame,

Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust
And hats that were covered with diamond-

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.
But the witch-men suddenly stilled the

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.
And they pranced with their butterfly

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
To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, Booм,"

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,
And all of the other

Gods of the Congo,

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.

Beware, beware, walk with care,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,

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.
Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.
Howled at a brother for his low-down racket, and

ways,

His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.
Beat on the Bible till he wore it out,
Starting the jubilee revival shout.

And some had visions, as they stood on
chairs,

And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs,
And they all repented, a thousand strong,
From their stupor and savagery and sin

and wrong

imitation of

camp-meeting

trance.

And slammed their hymn books till they

shook the room

With "Glory, glory, glory,"
And "Boom, boom, Booм."

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
round

And their fire-eyes watched where the
Congo wound.

And the twelve apostles, from their thrones
on high,

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 cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:-
"Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,

To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices."

Dying off
into a pene-
trating,
terrified

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).