Sweet Chariot

Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin' for to take me home,
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin' for to take me home.

The little girl sang softly under a willow tree, holding her dollies in both hands. She walked them along the soft green grass. She was very pale, and she wore a pink dress with yellow fringe.

I looked over Jordan,
And what did I see,
Comin' for to carry me home.
A band of angels comin' after me,
Comin for to carry me home.

It was just a song the slaves sang, but she had taken a liking to it.

Suddenly, the drooping vines of the willow tree parted, and a little black girl entered the willow tree's circle.

"My mama says white folk can't sing. I told her it wasn't true."

The pale girl stopped playing with her dollies. She looked at the other girl, taking note of her bare feet, pale, ragged dress, and her broken English. "Why?" she asked.

"Cause I heard you sing."
From that moment on, they were friends. Whenever they could, they huddled next to the willow tree, hidden by it's drooping vines, and played dollies. Even when the colored girl, Sara, was twelve and she was confined to the house for longer and longer hours, they found time to talk.