She heard the cattle come down to the creek to drink; heard them slopping in the water and pulling at the locust sprouts beyond the fence. The warmth of the bed shut around her and after a while the sounds of night became remote in their setting of stillness. The well-being of sleep stole over her limbs and she could see white clovers in a pattern, designed against dark threads of cloth. "I'm lovely now," this well-being said. "It's unknowen how lovely I am. It runs up through my sides and into my shoulders, warm, and ne'er thing else is any matter. I saw some mountains standen up in a dream, a dream that went down Tennessee. I will tell somebody what I saw, everything I saw. It's unknowen how lovely I am, unknowen."
They heard the voice of the preacher as it broke and parted among the corners of the room and flattened against the ceiling-- Rehoboam and Jeroboam, kings, and the kingdom divided, never again to unite. Rehoboam and Jeroboam, great words striking the wall, great words with jagged fringes of echoes hanging from each syllable, and the lonely kingdoms, divided and apart forever, the great sadness of the lonely kingdoms settling upon them as they sat.
Interest in Negro literature continues apace, and some of the manifestations of that literature have been duly noted in this column. None, however, seem ar this moment so striking to me as the novel Black April, by Julia Peterkin, a white woman who for many years has lived on Lung Syne Plantation, in the low country of South Carolina. And here it is necessary to distinguish between three kinds of Negro literature--I use the term in a very broad sense. There is the folk literature of the Negroes, which is not in a sense litera-